A Love Letter to the Vibe of India

Op-Ed

A Love Letter to the Vibe of India: Madland, Motherland, Maddestland

Sunny and Meeta

KEYWORDS YOUR VIEWS
India. Bharat. Devbhumi. The woman, with a body that smells of the chandan, the vibhuti, the mango, the smell of the dust and the sweat exuding the dusky sensuousness, big black eyes that refuse to let you pay attention to any other part of her being, to take all of you within for a spiral spin, impossible to escape after just one hard look. Its hold, somehow, whether through one's eyes, through the nose, through the throat or directly through the chest, the rib cage, is unbreakable, for it constantly and continuously insists on destroying or just displacing the foundation of every intelligent word, theory ,mind construct. Other civilizations might be like rivers which tend towards gradual senility or mutual destruction but this one is the wild woman, the pure woman, the sensible woman, the queen and the sakhis, the goris and the sawlis dancing their garbha or leela within from which humans take the Rasa, living with the illusion that he is playing the flute, instead his tune, his breath is decided by the rhythm, the beauty and madness of the swirl around him. In the emotional torrents of so called blind faith fated irrationality, blood has mixed in the river but never touched the banks, the body-whether call it helpless acceptance or stupidity, awareness of death as a blasé reality. An ability of losing oneself in colorful respite, of Holi rang and bhang, of the melas, the conspicuous dressing up of stone gods and goddesses-our children and parents, our lovers and soul mates, we can all spoil together, cry to, hold close to our heart, hit our head against but try and...
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