2.17.08

dear india,

i don't thrive on your smells drifting in the air.

i don't crave your tingling spices for my tongue.

sometimes my eyes hurt from seeing your contentment with poverty.

but oh how i love your sounds.

since my very first morning,

i knew that it was different.

it is the most beautiful sound i have ever heard.

your sounds wake me each morning and lull me to sleep at night.

there are always children

running

laughing

shouting

crying.

i hear the gentle sweep of women's brooms.

they vainly sweep the dirt away

only to have it settle right back in.

if i listen closely,

sometimes i think i can even hear the laundry blowing in the dirt filled breeze.

i hear the men arguing.

i hear the car horns blaring.

there is the hammering of brick too.

forever building

but never improving.

there are cows mooing

dogs barking

constant airplanes taking flight

and always birds chirping.

i hear the tiny bells of bikes and rickshaws.

i hear the cotton candy man and his creepy sales chant.

or maybe he is actually selling sponges? who can be sure...

late nights bring random fireworks.

early mornings bring the sound of vomiting.

in my home there is

chatter

laughter

coughing

clanging of pots and pans

the grumbling of our stomachs

and love.

love has a sound every time we say yes

when we feel like saying  no.

every time we pray for each other

and sing to our father

and laugh about boys

                     or poop

                     or rickshaw adventures

love sounds like the swallowing of pride

avoiding anger by forgiveness

when strangers live together in harmony because they love [the father].

and ice cream from the mother of all dairies.