Morning Prayer

"Casey! Your cow is here!" yelled Uncle from down stairs.

"Whaaaaaat?! Louanne is here?" I call back sprinting down the stairs forgetting to turn off the fan in the room I was resting in. I peak out the front door. She is waiting with her massive cow body in front of the gate that protects our property.

I feed Louanne every day. Most days she finds her way to my door step, but I seek her out on the days when the hot sun confines her to her shadowy patch around the corner. I slip on my shoes and go out to her. Squatting down in front of her big bony body, I open my grocery bag where there are five carrots, two beets, and a hunk of green cabbage waiting. She begins sniffing, seeking out my offering. I don't make her wait long. While she munches away I dust the flies away from her face, then stroke her giant snout and scratch between her dark feeling eyes.

When she is done eating she rests her giant head in my lap, and with her chipped yellow horns level with my eyes she completely covers me in her sticky slobber. I rub her cheeks and pet her face lovingly while she burps aways from her feast. This is my morning prayer. A distant moo catches her attention. I leave her be and wander back upstairs to look out over my balcony where I see her licking a younger cow whose horns are but little stubs.

Sunset

The day I am writing this is one of those how-am-I-going-to-make-it-until-june days, and I do have those days. The frustrating thing about the heavy presence of these days is the fear that it will last forever. But I found a place to think. Its my own private terrace. I pleaded with the door and it finally budged, granting my access. I sit on the ladder leading up to the water tank. No one can see me here. I feel safe in my secret spot. I sit with the tops of trees whose fruit is ripening. I love it here. Everyday leads to new understandings, and I am always completely mesmerized, but oh! how I long to be invisible. I'm facing east on accident. I turn around to look out at the pink horizon, balanced by coconut trees and the beautiful Indian architecture. My load is lightening. At this moment I find myself most content sitting atop my neighborhood, the pink sky and fruit trees my company. I could sit here forever.

Parade of Cows

Everyday around 2:30 a pack of cows comes from the slum neighborhood near by and then passes by our bright green house. I hear the commotion from the dogs on the street below. I watch from the balcony. A cow stops to scratch his head on an electrical wire. Three dogs lead the way, being stirred from their special spots under cars and in comfy sand patches in the slums, they come announcing the arrival of these strange beasts, and like a bunch of adolescent girls seeing Taylor Hanson, the dogs go absolutely wild. The cows take their time, and the dogs can hardly handle the intensity. As the cows trudge forward, the dog's barks grow faint in the distance. A woman follows from behind barefoot, collecting all the cow dung, using her arms as a basket. It is the event of the day everyday at 2:30.

Evening Walk

The last hour of sunlight was far too beautiful to spend sitting still. Sweety was falling asleep on the couch, and the rest of the family was resigned to their sleeping spots. I smothered myself in mosquito repellent, slipped on my shoes, and set out on foot to explore my pleasantly quaint neighborhood.

Any time I read or practice my flute, Sweety makes me face East. She says it "maximizes the experience", thus my rationale for heading east on my evening excursion. Immediately after heading out I laid eyes on Louanne who was getting caught trying to snag a Watermelon from the Watermelon Man's cart. Since she was unsuccessful, I bought her 5 rupees worth of melon to appease her hunger. While Louanne was chowing down, I decided to strike up conversation with those at the stand, which involved few words, and lots of head wobbling and hand gestures. There was the Watermelon Man, the Watermelon Man's wife, Louanne's peasant "owner", and a two year old boy standing on the steep side walk wearing nothing but a splotchy brown button down shirt, his feet still dyed pink from Holi.

A fella strolled down the street to join in on the silent head wobbling. He was a lanky twenty something with the brightest smile and the greenest eyes in all of India. I was completely captivated by his dashing appearance and began slowly melting into a puddle of ridiculous girlish fantasies right next to Louanne's pile of spit on the street's dirty pavement. He has to be the most heartbreakingly beautiful boy on this side of the globe. He turned his entrancing eyes my way and with his enrapturing smile said to me "our eyes are so similar, but our skin is so different." Oh me oh my! How I withheld my urge to say "but baby that don't matter" is beyond me. Returning from my delightful fantasy wonderland to the watermelon stand in India in 2009, I regained the use of my legs and bidding my farewell I headed west, unable to handle any more of that eastern intensity.

But wait! The adventure does not end there! I started out heading east, and that eastern energy was determined to stay with me. I walked westward admiring the thick foliage that created a canopy over my path. A patch of light shown sweetly no a two puppies wrestling in the sand. I sat down with them on the outskirts of a slum neighborhood to get some old school puppy loving. Next thing I knew, I was surrounded by fifteen little kids, all with giant pearly white smiles. Normally, I would be concerned for potential muggings, but seeing as how I only had the clothes on my back and a second hand phone in my pocket, I felt little reason to be alarmed. The kids were interested in me and kept asking me questions in Hindi. One ten year old boy wearing a blue jodhpuri was able to speak in English. He asked me if I wanted to take the puppies, and with a smile I said, "I wish." For many minutes I stood surrounded by this delightful little crowd of children, when three women in sari's approached us.

I stood surrounded by beaming faces and questions that I couldn't understand. One of the women was dusting puppy hair off my bosom, a brief contact that I savored since human contact is so few and far between here . Giving up on conversation, the women decided that we didn't need words, and proceeded to teach me a traditional Hindi dance. Next thing I know, I am in a crowd of twenty women and children, we're facing east with one hand up in the air while the other is rotating in a circular motion out by our side, our feet tapping about smoothly.

Are there cameras? Am I on a stage? Are my friends back home watching me tap around on the big screen at Rasoi? No, no, no... I must be dreaming. Could it be? Have I just busted out in random dance with a bunch of my new neighbors? I have?! Now I know I'm in India!

I keep on. Right hand in the air, then left, spin, touch heels together, spin opposite way, all the while our faces gleaming with delight, the eastern air elevating our experience. Then suddenly, I look up mid spin and Heavenly Eyes is strutting down the street, his long legs carrying his beautiful bright smile my way. Plants perk up as he passes. The sewage smell vanishes, and God blesses the slum neighborhood with a sweet lavender scent. It was too much. I had to stop before I danced my way to the marriage hall, with all of Hyderabad dancing alongside Heavenly Eyes who would be riding Louanne to take those most sacred vows. I wouldn't put it passed this eastern energy. I waved goodbye to my new friends and scurried past my green eyed prince, and walked quickly home where I slipped inside to find Sweety was still sleeping, lost in her evening dreams.

Jai Shri Krishna/Good Morning

It's 6:38 am. Another power cut. While the blades of the fan slow down, coming to a halt, the room quickly fills with the hot stillness that makes sleeping impossible. I feel nauseous from the heat. I lay on my back sweating in our bed. Loaded down autorickshaws and high school boys on motorcycles fly passed my window outside. The roosters from the slum next door are making their morning known. The vegetable cart man is trudging along, beginning his morning rounds.

As I brush my teeth with my boiled water, the man next door ferociously hawks up his loogies rousing my nausea. I can feel him struggle with the force of his throat to gather the clinging mucus with repeated "hhawkkk.hawwwkkkkk" swishing of spit, then finally I hear "SPLAT" on the pavement below. Squatting under the faucet, I wash the sweat off my body from the hot night before. I slip my clothes on over my wet skin and tiptoe down the marble laid staircase to have my first morning cup of chai. My loogie hawking specialist starts up again for round two.

Goldy passes me on his way to God's room to give his morning prayers dressed in an undershirt and a towel around his waste. A cat sneaks in through a vent in the kitchen to steal some buttermilk. I keep her secret. I'm sitting on the couch feeling peaceful and listening to the noises from the streets, the clanking of dishes from the kitchen, the ringing of the bell from God's room, the sound of running water from the outside, the everlasting hawks, until my laughter stirs me from my gentle trance, and I am absolutely delighted to be here with myself embracing this solitude, sipping on my chai, and feeling true wholeness waltzing about inside my chest cavity.

Holi: Festival of Colors

I ride though the city to meet Sona and her friends. The day is Holi, the Festival of Colors. Blue, green, yellow, purple, and bright pink all decorate the city streets and people's bodies. I ride in Goldy's van with the window up to avoid being sprayed with a permanent dye. Little kids with a pink tint wander around with carefree expressions on their faces. Four lanky boys coated in various colors squeezed tight on a motorcycle fly passed the car, one holding a cricket bat in his hand. Three stops later I find myself sitting around in a circle of established female architects and interior designers. All of us are colored with powdered dyes and eating delicious food.

Sona turns to me in her pink sparkly salwar kurta with her face splotched with thick pink and purple powder. "Now Casey", she begins in her most proper Indian manner, "we tend to get a little intoxicated on Holi," she says as she passes me a delicious milky drink flavored with almonds and Saffron. "Alright", I thought, "I'll have the Indian equivalent of a glass of wine".

Next thing I know, I'm laying down on the floor, surrounded by the women sitting upright in their chairs, my body is covered in colors and I'm watching the fan blades circulating trying to keep them separate in their quick motion, and I'm going on and on about the weird sensation in my eye balls and how they feel like they are fish bait bobbing in an infinite sea of human consciousness, and about how I wish I could play my teeth like a piano. Then I'm suddenly thinking about how to write this experience before coming to this explosive realization of what writing really is and what it truly means and why it is so necessary, and then I am overcome with the urge to read everything I've ever read all over again, starting with those stapled paper books in Mrs. Nutt's first grade class. Oh! What a truly great understanding I've come to! I wanted to share.

Unable to speak I decided that I would telepathically communicate my new found understanding of the ancient practice of writing that we so mindlessly take for granted to the woman sitting across from me. After some time of my "communicating" an endless list of psychedelic thoughts, the woman catches me sitting "indian style", my body covered in colors, and staring at her wide eyed with intense concentration. She didn't understand my motives to say the least.

All the women gathered around the table to eat ourselves into a deeper trance. Too tired to use words we all invented a language of grunts. We ate and ate and ate. The suddenly, I was in a Wes Anderson film with all these established Hyderabadi professionals, and a whole other world of observations presented themselves. By the end of the afternoon we were all laden with exhaustion, practically drooling on ourselves in our slumber before realizing that we had to get up at that very moment or else we would melt into the cushions of the couch where our colorful particles would remain for all of eternity.

I went home to wash away my colors and sleep. Late into the evening I came down stairs and watched a Hindi soap operah with Sweety, so moved by a scene where a woman gives a man a glass of water, I cried into the thick night air. I then listened to Antony and the Johnson's "Fistful of Love", and teary eyed, sang "yeah, man! yeah. sing it, brother!" at the soulful tune, before reading some philosophy books and going to bed.

Louanne

I first found her eating pieces of a watermelon that were left rotting in a small black plastic bag. She was snorting, digging at the bag with her giant mouth, getting every last bit of nutrients from the street's pathetic offering. She looked up at me standing two feet from her, my body plastered against the bright green wall of our cement fence, my heart watching sullenly. Her big hollow black eyes pierced into me saying, "I know you know how sad this is". I did know. Her black skin clung tight to her bones. Her face was sunken in. I could count her ribs and could have curled up inside one the the deep cavities of her bony rear. She was nothing, but utters, yellow painted horns, and bones. She has a limp and an open wound on her back left leg that the flies swarmed to . I gave her a loaf of bread and a beet, and offered her my arm, but the loyal vegetarian wouldn't partake. After inhaling the alms she placed her large moist nose close to my chest. Smelling my useless grief she turned and began scrounging the streets for more food. Feeling completely helpless, I watched her limp away, each step taking tremendous effort and painfully numbering her days. I went and climbed the marble staircase to my room where I cried and prayed for a better world.