Firecrackers and fruit salad

Moving my travels from one continent to the next, Europe to Asia, has been a leap I'm struggling to describe at this early, virgin stage. "Intense" lingers for the meantime when trying to pinpoint India. Intensity of the incense, the spices, the sewers, the litter, the thin stray animals, the stares, the tumour-causing car horns, the insistent beggars, the holy cow pats, the quick-buck crooks, the dirt, the poverty. Then you slowly notice more. Then come the curious smiles, the temples, the handshakes, the saris, the autographs (yes, a group of school children asked for my autograph), the festivals, the flower garlands, the blessings, the third eye on foreheads, the vegetarian cuisine, the hand-painted trucks, the fruit vendors, the ohm, the wish-wrapped trees, the tooth-rotting sweets, the warm colours, the tradition, the loveliness. The immediacy of life and death each day. The observation that all is one and the fire of each blessing sent along the Ganges river is a lesson to notice how rich, pure and bright the light of India is. Especially during Diwali. So I'm looking and learning as I go, humility through observation.