India

April 2017

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Photographic report

The smell of spiced spices, marinated, burning, cracking the nostrils or sweet fine perfume sharpening hunger ; the jungle of screaming and slaloming taxis on the roads with holes, which road? is it a real road?, the car in opposite direction, the cow blocks the traffic, no we cannot move it because it is a holy one ; cats, who cannot be leaner, by hundreds, accompanied by wandering dogs, sleeping beside naked children, lonely, undernourished, and stuffed with fleas ; I'm thirsty, don’t drink there, wait, we'll go get a bottle of water ; the taste of Indian food deliciously sauced, with chapati, roti, paratha or naan, horribly charred to destroy mold ; no rain ; sweet sweetness, Gulab Jamun, Ladu, the tea that has destroyed my belly, and this Pani Puri filled with bad water that makes vomit ; temples, magnificent grandeur and riches, wreaths of fresh flowers, god with a lot of arms, elephant head, hands folded, symbolic, well placed and significant positions ; she lives in the street, raises her child in the street, washing, cooking, fucking in the street ; songs with sharp, oscillating, dancing and weeping voices ; the putrid odor of alleys, sidewalks strewn with sleeping bodies and waste for eternity ; his black eyes ; I go out of my hotel, I leave my world and land in front of this weak little being - he is hungry, I ate too much, in what world do we live? sickening contrast ; those naked little girls who splash me in the street, this drunken man growling and beating his wife, close your eyes and open them taller, the women stare at me, suspicious, curious, envious, tender, honored, loving, strained, men look at me, look disturbing and lecherous, or patriarchal and protective, the children laugh, they follow me, call me "didi" and take me away, drag me with their filthy hands, they show me, proud ; no thank you, I am not thirsty = I die of thirst but I can not drink the water you offer me ; the unbearable, burning and blushing heat for the little white woman I am ; a monstrously colored, bloody, noisy spit because well scraped in the bottom of the throat ; the architectures unequaled golden ; our water filtration system is very efficient, ok I try, and it is true that after three weeks in India my body has strengthened or accustomed, I drink it without (almost) being sick ; colors as dazzling as dirt ; especially do not give money, we do not know where it will land, so I distribute mango, banana and water ; the saaris and Indian beauties, tanned skins that they persist in wanting to blanch it, they are beautiful but want an European shade, they do not want only this, from the Europeans ; the crowded train, pushed, no longer holds but there is some space outside ; he lives on the sidewalk but watches TV on his smartphone every night ; Buddhist monks and their clothing, silent wisdom, what happens in their heads?

Mine is assailed by new information and images.

Microscopic overview.