I wake up to the sound of horns blaring, blinding sunlight slicing through the crack of the door, and the smell of something I can only describe as old body odor and spice. This is my life in India.
This month is the first month I think I experienced culture shock. The smells, sights, and sounds of India are so different in comparison to the Philippines, China, Swaziland, South Africa, or Zimbabwe. Cows roam the streets amongst piles of trash, feces, and loads of people. As you diligently watch your step walking down the street prayers, chanting, and car horns assault your ears.
Each breath brings in a different aroma alternating between spices, cows, bug spray, and then the sweet scent of flowers from a vendor’s cart. In any given moment it’s an overwhelming and intoxicating attack on your nose but I can’t help but want to take it all in.
And then there are the colors.
I am convinced the most vibrant colors in the world are found here in India. The makeup artist in me can’t help but to binge on the full spectrum of colors found everywhere your eyes fall. On the side of the road you see bright colors like pomegranate, banana, and orange. Carts ladden with fabric are so jam-packed with colors it couldn’t even be contained in a 24-count crayon box. In fact all of India looks like Easter Sunday. I don’t think I’ve have seen anyone wearing black beside myself. You can’t help but notice the smooth and beautiful shades of brown on their skin. I’ve never felt more pink in my life.
The sound of India is unlike any other country I’ve visited. Horns blare at all hours but if you are imagining the sound of traffic at home, stop. These horns are of all varieties to the point that you think some were created just to pierce your ear drums. Some sound like the blowhards you place on bicycles and others sound like annoying doorbells. The streets are filled with chatter from men and women talking, laughing, and working as they nervously stare and wave as you walk past. Children crowd around you and the brave ones stick our their hand and ask, “What is your name?” again and again.
And then there is worship. In the two days that I have spent in India I have attended six church services. I can confidently say I have never been so astounded at cultural differences as I was in my first church service. The only instruments used are maracas and a drum. Even with gatherings of 20 a sound system with microphones and speakers faced outdoors literally washing the village with worship. Not that they would have noticed since every Hindu Temple and Muslim Mosque do the same. Just like the music here emotions are untamed and unkempt too. There is no shame when it comes to expressing your emotions in worship. The midwest-white-anglo-saxon in me couldn’t help but feel embarrassed at the women who sobbed uncontrollably as I sat there.
**Pictures by Amy Dillman because I never take any. Thanks Girl!
