India

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Once you accept the overwhelming heat, humidity, smells of all kinds, and just simple randomness – like a religiously-clad man leading an even more religiously-clad bull down a city thoroughfare, asking people for money – there is something divine about India.

There is something very erotic about India. Once you get past the unhygienic nature of urinating in public – hundreds of thousands of Indian men very proudly unzip and relief their bladders everywhere and anywhere. Just as many walk around without underwear, wearing only a piece of cloth or a lungi.

There is something oxymoronic about India. In the same communities where the Mother Goddess reigns religiously supreme, women are subjected to subservience – female infanticide and various assaults on the blatantly feminine occur every day and receive impunity.

There is something incredibly real about India. Here poverty means living on the streets with your family, fetching food from dumpsters and begging for change from passersby. And prosperity can be found right next to it in the Rolex shop – their customers do not carry change.

I am strangely familiar with these social discrepancies, yet find them so alien. I am not rejecting as I would have been had I always existed in a sterile environment of the ‘First-World.’ But I am constantly flabbergasted by these reminders of being from a place as dichotomously cohesive as the Cosmic Dance.

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