India, 2017

I was born a child of the world. When I was just 2 months old my parents flew me to India. That was the first of many times. I arrived in the town of Kutch, a tiny, self governing town of Gujarat. The size is inconsequential. The first thing clouding your vision approaching the town were the cows. Tall cows of any and every color. They stood diligently, as if establishing their power, conscious of the importance they had. They covered the dry and arid ground like big hills, standing at the entrance of the town like guardians, welcoming you. Entering the city I remember feeling positively overwhelmed. The old houses with maroon, rusty paint crumbling down the walls, the baby goats running around, and the kids chasing after them with big commercial-worthy smiles on their faces. The old women sitting on their porch sifting through colorful and heavily adorned fabric. I remember thinking how wise they looked, how every perfectly carved wrinkle on their face could have its own astonishing story. 

I kept walking around the town, soon realising I was walking in circles until an explosive sight blinded my vision. On the side of the main road the curbs and two thirds of the road were covered with market vendors. People swarming past each other like busy bees, directing themselves towards  exotic fruits like bees around a honey pot. Rich and colorful spices like blood-red saffron, woody cinnamon and much more covered the stalls like an explosive rainbow. I distinctly remember the almost palpable smell floating in the air, so rich and grandiose, unequivocal to my nose and impossible to recreate. Women, men and children yelling, laughing and begging in a foreign dialect deliriously frenzied through the streets like a tornado. That place stimulated all your senses. As chaotic as it might have looked, there was an organized unity, a collective consciousness where everyone knew where they stood in that particular situation. At times the view resembled a ballet show, everyone with their own role, gracefully interacting with one another creating a magical picture. I bought some coriander, some makhana, which is dried lotus flower seeds, and proceeded to make my way through the market, attempting a way out of the labyrinth. 

After the market we stopped at my great aunt's house, or who I assumed was my great aunt. There were so many relatives, some so far off in the genetic tree, but they all felt and acted like brothers and sisters. When I walked into the two room apartment, that was definitely overcrowded, smiles and hugs greeted my confused self. I’d never seen those faces before, “Who is this? Do I know them?” I would ask my mother after every person greeted me. But my confused expression never got mirrored, they looked at me like they’d seen me grow up from a little girl to the slightly bigger girl I was at the time. The sense of effortless belonging I felt at that time quickly became a high I would be chasing for a long part of my life, ignoring the brutal truth that there’s no other place I could find it in but there. 

After being shoved sweets and savoury treats of all kinds down my throat, a girl about two years younger than me brought me to the backyard and half a dozen kids between the ages of two to eleven were playing. Some played with old barbeie dolls, others ran barefoot on the remains of the dried off grass, which disappeared after last year's drought, chasing each other and singing songs in a dialect only spoken and understood by the couple of thousands people living around the area. They looked so content with themselves and the people around them. They tried talking to me, getting me to chase them and play, but my awkwardness prevailed as I wasn’t used to this situation, where not understanding each other wasn’t seen as a threat, where being together is enough. When I saw them I saw unknown people that I felt like I couldn't fit in with, but when they saw me, they simply saw another kid to play with.

 I soon arrived at the house my grandmother had grown up into. I could tell it used to be white by the remains of paint on the walls. It was quite big, but there was close to no furniture. I always wondered why it was like that. There were two cows, obviously, and an empty well. As soon as I got there I started to look around, carefully studying my surroundings. I remember imagining my grandmother as a little girl, playing hide and seek in that house, stealing food from the kitchen and eating fresh fruits from the trees. A sense of comfort and nostalgia possessed me, it amused me how I longed for something I’d never even experienced. 

I soon made my way up to the terrace that stood in place of the roof. The sun had already descended, the crescent moon was starting to appear, the scorching hot weather turned into a cool breeze. My mother appeared behind my back. “Tonight we are going to sleep here.” She whispered. The night soon arrived and beds had been made on top of the roof. I laid on my soft mattress and covered my body with the heavy quilt bought by my father earlier that day at the market. The sky looked beautiful. Stars filled the sky like white daisies on dark grass, they felt like the promise of light at the end of a tunnel. The only sound rupturing the deafening silence was the one of the singing insects, providing a melodious rhythm to fall asleep to. I laid there awake, admiring the sculpture of the divine hands, realizing how complex yet small I felt.

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