Color Runs - More Thoughts on India

Huge loads of freshly cut sugar cane fill the side of the road. 
Some are being pulled by white Brahma bulls.
It is harvest season in India.
It is really a sight to see, these pink bulls feel like royalty walking around. 
The proud owners take them to the temple, sprinkle them with pink powdered dye making them holy, holding great value and honor.  

A headband made with fresh flowers make a ring on their forehead.

We throw this same powder in marathons and call them "color runs".
I wondered what other things we do not knowing it is part of Hindu culture.
My desire to capture these pink bulls in a photograph was met with humor that I was unaware of until the day we walked in the villages where I would learn to make kalamkari fabric. 
One of the pastors stopped in front of a fly infested hut filled with black bulls and said,
 "do you need a picture".
Funny, very funny! I did bust out laughing with them. 
- - - 

There is a park in the middle of town.  
It is closed during the day, chained and locked up tight.  

In the coolness of the night friends sit with friends, children play and dance in the rainmaker. 
Here you will find a different life, one freed from the oppressive heat of the day and the work it requires.  
There is a lightness in some of the people, others still carry their burden.
Others sit mindlessly watching the movie playing on the giant screen. 
Christians, not daring to look at such sin the Hindu world takes part of.  
As we walk, I am told repeatedly that this is sinful and bad, very bad.

I try to focus on the our conversation. 
I am thinking about Paul and the very things he didn't want to do he did.

It seems to be the perfect word picture. 
Tell everyone it's bad and see if they really won't look.

It seems I had found the garden of Eden – everyone making a choice between good and evil.

- - -

Rows of white taxi’s line the streets, it seems they could be from the time of Casablanca.

There are trucks named “Tata” that have nothing to do with breast cancer awareness.

It is a harvest season now, the trucks look more like Transformers from the movies with tiny faces peaking out from under the over flowing rice straw. 
Filling both sides of the road forcing you to pass on the shoulder, fighting for the leftover space with the field hands, goats, sheep, water buffalo, bikes and auto rickshaws. 

I hear my grandfathers voice playing over and over in my head – 
an inch is as good as a mile, an inch is as good as a mile.
When there is less than an inch, I bust out laughing. 

- - -

Shepard’s still tend their flocks, carrying the tiniest of lambs. 

Patiently they stand, waiting, keeping everyone in line, away from traffic.

Their crossing is priority.

You wait for them to pass.

- - -

Water buffalo seem set the pace for life, meaning themselves and the people. 

Crossing the road at will, never minding where they lay, sitting just in the line of traffic. 

Not to worry everyone will move.  

There is a rhythm to it all. 

Rules not understood by the visitor.

- - -

Tiny children walk about, there is no fear or doubt.
Each in a uniform carrying huge back packs that seem empty. 
It's odd.
They must be full of dreams I think to myself.
Dreams bigger than any life time could hold. 
They seem airy and light.
Or...was it airy and light because they are empty. 
Empty for so many of them as is the reality that lay before them.
I hold my breath and scold myself. 
These thoughts should never be spoken to a child with such hope.