our busy little bodies

I'm back at the Ganatra's, which is truly is a different experience. The lack of familial interaction makes for a highly internal condition, sometimes sickeningly so. This sweet, solitary family displays their affection through offering prasat and rose water, and is a stark comparison to the Chatwani's, whose emotionally charged character creates intense interactions, which include, but are not limited to massive family giggle fests and teary passion-filled arguments that sometimes continue for days without ceasing. That being said, I appreciate both houses for what they are, and this semi-emotional quarantine and occasional waves of fear it brings about is more than beneficial for me.

I spend evenings here in Barkatpura as I have spent most my evenings in India, sitting high up on the terrace, accompanying the sun as she sets. For some unconscious, surely instinctive reason, I've always preferred to be seated at the pillar at the SE portion of the building, and between the hours of 8 and 10 am Texas time, that is where you will find me, sitting atop a concrete column, looking out at the seemingly endless expanse of temple tops and occasional green blurs, thinking that a day is just beginning somewhere else and wondering about what all questions are circulating through all the alert and snoozing minds across the globe. Incidentally, does anyone know why one can't sneeze with their eyes open?

Sitting above the city, I go through my seemingly uneventful day to make sure that it was not a wasted one. Like every other day here, this day has its own treasures. Out of ideas, I found myself standing for an hour outside Koti Garden on the busy street's intersection leading into Sultan Bazaar, vowing to leave when my water supply was used up. I watched a group of fifteen police officers dressed in their khaki uniforms and berets, stopping cars and two wheelers to do their no nonsense duty. I stood in front of the piles of books circling the perimeter of the park and stared at the backs of boys waiting for the bus, their long fingers intertwined and their bodies leaning on each other in natural, affectionate form. When a bus would pass, a mass of beautiful lanky bodies would run for the doors, jumping on as it sped around the curve of the street. A boy's feet missed and he hung onto the railing with one hand as his feet violently scraped the pavement before he was pulled aboard, though the bus was so packed that three bodies were sticking out of the door, barely hanging on.

I soaked in the chaotic scene of the street's noisy ongoings and the aggressive bartering taking place behind me. I spotted a monkey on top of a building across the way, and with its bare pink bottom shining in all its ancestral glory, it was mooning us, distracted, rushing creatures. There was a delightful absurdity to it all.