Color in Calcutta

Off To School

Every morning I sit on the verandah, look over my Telugu lessons, and wait for A. to come pick me up in Ram Babu’s auto. If I get to the verandah early enough, I get to watch Sita seeing her children off to school. They look so smart in their blue uniforms, hair neatly combed and braided. Sita walks with them out through the gate. As they stride down the road she follows a few steps and looks on worriedly. She watches until they are out of sight.

Yogini Temple

Just outside the main temple complex at Khajaraho is a Yogini temple. The Yogini tradition is associated with female deities, Shiva, and various taboos such as meat and sex - among many other things that I am not qualified to speak on. They are located outside towns or complexes, and are often ill looked-after because of their sordid nature. After seeing the grand edifices of Khajaraho, so well preserved, the Yogini temple was striking, and some how more real. It was refreshing to see something that had been allowed to decay; it spoke of a different history. Despite its appearance this temple was not abandoned. There were pots, coconuts, flowers, red fabric - someone still worshipped here.

Out of Place

You know you’ve been somewhere for a while when it starts to feel like home. You have a daily routine, and nothing about it strikes you as odd. You feel, comfortable. Despite how boring Vizag is, and how unhappy I’ve been here, I’ve started to feel at home. My auto ride to school, the endless “what are we going to do now?” and P.’s call to dinner all blend in to the fabric of my daily life here. Varun Beach Inox, Café Coffee Day, Tycoon Hotel, A.’s house, the Institute - all have become a part of my landscape.

Last night S. and I went out for dinner. The place was just across the street from my house and unremarkable, despite high praise from local auto drivers. We redeemed ourselves by hopping next door for some ice cream. The attendant was a skinny young man with glasses. He looked like any student working a service job. This afternoon as I was walking home, turning onto my street, I saw him - the ice cream guy. I tried to make eye contact, to say hi, but he never looked my way. I was still thrilled. There was someone, completely out of context, that I recognized. This was MY street corner, and I knew who belonged there and who didn’t. I even knew where the misfits belonged. And to put icing on my cake, the neighbor boy said “Hello!”

Thorn

Khajaraho

Headless