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| Morning Dust- Taken with a disposable Kodak camera- Photos by Grace |
The sound rises up, instead of the sun. It fills the air with its strange warmth. I can't tell what direction it is coming from. I open the double doors from our bedroom, and step out onto the balcony. Just a wet dark mist, and the sound, but I still can't tell from what direction it is coming. The corner that our balcony overlooks is still sleeping, as I should be. It's is 6am on New Years' Eve, and all the trees are filled with the sound of singing. It is a choir of chanting, praying perhaps, and no other sound in this strange busy city has yet to compete with this melodic enterprise.
It is often there are sounds emulating from some corner of New Delhi, and I can not tell what it means, or the direction it came. We are living in an orchestra pit, and I am newly blind musician, never sure when those around me will play, and I am still unable to play along.
I took a walk the other day, my first real exploration outside by myself. I am feeling nearly well, but TG is slower on the recovery side. The air smelt of fire, and the dust was exceptionally thick. I walked my soled feet down the dirt streets, my eyes pointed straight ahead, my head low, as not to interact too much with those around me. I have found I have a habit of looking too much at people, and they in turn try to sell me the world. "Rickshaw, Rickshaw! Food, Food! Sarees, flowers, pots and pans...! " and it goes on. The thumbing drive of any great city, consumerism, and it is strong and alive here, but I am not buying into it.
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| http://chanderifilm.com/blog/seeyousomewhere/index.php/somewhere/055b-lajpat-nagar-delhi-jpg |
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| Fruit Stand- Taken with a disposable Kodak camera- Photo by Grace |
The central market is one of the oldest markets in New Delhi. Found in Lajpat Nagar, it is just a stone's throw from where we are staying. The day I visit, it is busting at the seams from all the feverish Holiday activity. Overflowing with women in heavy shawls, dark veils, bright sarees, and western jeans, they each stop, pause, then walk, and chatter. Each telling the other of their lovers and problems, while discovering some trinket along the way. There are men, some with heavy full beards and turbans, some barefoot, some wearing suits, and they are much more casual then the women, with their hands in their pockets and their comfortable western dress. If they have found a bargain, you can not tell by reading their faces. Families and couples, and teenagers, all funnel about examining the Holiday wares. It is like the street traffic, and we all find our own way, through the close crowds and the sparkling valuables.
I step into a couple dress shops, in an effort to find something that might help me blend in, but after several examinations of the same heavy brocade and silvery intricate threads, and price tags that do not seem so reasonable, I relinquish my search for local attire. I am not taking part in the busy consumption, not finding exactly what I am looking for, whatever that may be. I meander a while longer, but un-accostomed to the crowds and the aggressive manner of the locals, I trudge myself back home. I do buy a couple of bowls of noodle soup from the chinese restaurant down the street, for the ill one still in bed, and I fill my colored cloth sack with the hot salty goods. The light is beginning to fade. It becomes dark quite early here.
On the way home, I encounter something lovely; a small boy, half my height. It is hard to tell how old he is, for he is so tiny, and his features so delicate, but he carries on down the road with his back straight and his head high, and he seems older for it. His feet are bare and muddy, and in his small hand he grasps a silver pail, which I assume is filled with some edible treat, and the other hand, he holds a bag of milk. The hood of his sweatshirt is up, hiding most of his face, but it does not muffle the sound. He is singing. Bright and loudly, a simple melody I don't know, and using words I don't understand, he sings, happily, as he makes his way back home.
I smile wide in response, and forget myself for a moment and look at him. He stops singing when he catches my glance. We both walk on, silently, but as I pass him, he opens his mouth again and continues to sing, unperturbed by the interruption. We both separately carry our simple dinners back home to our loved ones. There is always sound here.
