Friday Aug 31'2012
11:58pm
The nights have started to cool off now that September is here. The days have too I supposed, but really that just means I can wear my hair down without it instantly shellacking to the nape of my neck. It's almost cool tonight, as I sit for the first time on the floor of my balcony, comfortable under the starless night sky. It's amazing that it's taken me two months to realize there are no stars in the Indian sky. How little we pay attention to such big things. The power has gone out again, this time for most of the night. I have drained the battery on both forms of entertainment, my phone and laptop, so I sit under the navy sheeted sky and write, by the dim light of my Indian cell phone flashlight, god bless 90's technology. I am pleasant. Content. I could just sit here all night long, but I have just been rudely bitten on the ankle by a mosquito who has graciously reminded me that regardless of how beautiful the night is, Malaria is a chronic illness and I have sweet tasting blood. How can a night this calm and gentle (minus the incessant biting) belong to such a chaotic and loud city? This is India, in all its bipolar glory. Today was spent weaving in and out of hordes of traffic, deafened from honks and yelling, and now this. Crickets. I went to an underground market today, literally underground. Like a gofer, tunnelling through the even more chaotic underworld of an already over crowded country. Barely lit hallways leading this way and that, severely pushy and aggressive salesmen shouting at you everywhere you look. It was surreal.
There is a tea place I read about before coming here (in my Woman's travel guide to India book) that I've been determined to find. We finally did today. I swear it was like some creepy side street, dark alley, invite only, secret password, kind of place. I was surprised there wasn't some giant fat guy in a fedora at the front door to pat us down. It could have been the Darjeeling black market for all I knew. Then you enter to find the sweetest, kindest man behind the counter, ready to help in any way he can. This is India. The strangest of things, the most opposite of things, all rolled up into one big metaphorical roti.
11:58pm
The nights have started to cool off now that September is here. The days have too I supposed, but really that just means I can wear my hair down without it instantly shellacking to the nape of my neck. It's almost cool tonight, as I sit for the first time on the floor of my balcony, comfortable under the starless night sky. It's amazing that it's taken me two months to realize there are no stars in the Indian sky. How little we pay attention to such big things. The power has gone out again, this time for most of the night. I have drained the battery on both forms of entertainment, my phone and laptop, so I sit under the navy sheeted sky and write, by the dim light of my Indian cell phone flashlight, god bless 90's technology. I am pleasant. Content. I could just sit here all night long, but I have just been rudely bitten on the ankle by a mosquito who has graciously reminded me that regardless of how beautiful the night is, Malaria is a chronic illness and I have sweet tasting blood. How can a night this calm and gentle (minus the incessant biting) belong to such a chaotic and loud city? This is India, in all its bipolar glory. Today was spent weaving in and out of hordes of traffic, deafened from honks and yelling, and now this. Crickets. I went to an underground market today, literally underground. Like a gofer, tunnelling through the even more chaotic underworld of an already over crowded country. Barely lit hallways leading this way and that, severely pushy and aggressive salesmen shouting at you everywhere you look. It was surreal.
There is a tea place I read about before coming here (in my Woman's travel guide to India book) that I've been determined to find. We finally did today. I swear it was like some creepy side street, dark alley, invite only, secret password, kind of place. I was surprised there wasn't some giant fat guy in a fedora at the front door to pat us down. It could have been the Darjeeling black market for all I knew. Then you enter to find the sweetest, kindest man behind the counter, ready to help in any way he can. This is India. The strangest of things, the most opposite of things, all rolled up into one big metaphorical roti.
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