Rain

The last few days in Bhuj have been unexpectedly cold. People walk around bundled in long colorful shawls and a variety of coats that appear to have been passed down through the Salvation army chain – they are bulky, synthetic, oddly patterned and likely the jackets of 80’s matching jogging suits. It’s chilly and rainy, and the streets are rivers of water mixed with cow dung and floating garbage. It’s dreary, incredibly unsanitary, and generally pretty miserable. But today I loved it. I felt my hands grow cold as I walked through the streets and the sensation reminded me of Fall – of those rainy days in the North.

On my way home from work today, I squeezed into a shared rickshaw, smooshed between women on either side. I felt the rolls of their bodies touching mine on either side, the heat moving from one body to another, connecting all four of us across the bench. It felt maternal, feminine, a strong and loving force against the cool grey of the afternoon.

When I climbed out of the rickshaw, leaving that womb of Indian mothers, I stole a glance in the driver’s mirror, and realized my cheeks had become pink. I smiled, thinking again of fall, of thanksgiving, too, of being outside and young. I walked homed and felt, so distinctly! the chill of the outside contrasting with the heat of my body. 96 degrees of warmth inside of me carried me forward and moving through the wind and rain. I could feel it swirling and radiating in my stomach, in my arms, and flushing my cheeks while my eyes stung with rain.  Never have I appreciated such cold, and the magnificence of my own self, of my own body to produce such an emanating and soothing warmth – it soared through me and I felt powerful and gracious in those mucky streets of the city.