While I was walking back to my room along the ghats the other day this poem came to me in a whirl of street dust and sacred smoke. Red, I see the bindis, between every mothers hair line and each holy mans brow, I see it in every grisly spit of pan and every lolling tongue of a starving street dog. Orange, I see gurus and I see beggars, both dressed in the sacred colors of their Gods, I see the sunrise over the Ganga, as bright and as shapely as the tangerine I ate for lunch. Yellow, I see the dusty gold of a monkeys coat in the harsh light of the sun, I see tobacco stained teeth and I see the peaks of sacred temples. Green, I see women's saris which are the freshness of a blade of new grass, or the deep entrancing depths of an emerald, I see the peacock feathers in a Sadu's tent, and I see the climbing resilience of new ivy. Blue, I see the cloudless brilliance that is the sky, and I see its sister reflection in the dancing water cleansing the bathers Purple, I see street art and I see mandalas peak out at me from both mediums of warship. White, I see the holy men walking, I see the horns of the cows, I see the ash from the bodies, I see the smiles of children and I see the souls of this city.

My senses are assaulted daily with this beautiful explosion of color and life, smells and sights, feelings and sounds. It's as beautiful as it is overwhelming!

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