The first couple of weeks in India by Phoebe Jones

My favorite place in India is a dust covered rooftop. It is the rooftop of a modest four story building that barely reaches above the tree tops. The farthest right corner is a diving platform, the forest surrounds you like a pool of water. The dragon flies float above, below, around, in the open basin of sky. You are humbled by their silence as they drift in the light winds. If you move four feet backwards and make a 90 degree turn, you find yourself in a staring contest with the Himalaya ridge, it’s peaks glaring down at you like a pair of eyes peeping over a wall of clouds.

The sound of a train, maybe a steam engine train, miles away breaks your stare and you turn to the flat lands in search of the noise source. But you do not find it, you are preoccupied as you realize you have not seen an airplane roar overhead, not once. You relish in this small feat, the idea of an unobstructed sky makes you feel just slightly more isolated from your life at home... you feel a little more tucked away into the arms of India. Your gaze searches the cloud patched sky. The clouds are dense and endless but the world from the rooftop looks uncharacteristically bright. Apparently the clouds in India don’t have the damning dim- the- world effect. 

It is late in the afternoon and the monks begin their deep, elongated chants. The sun drains as it gets lower in the sky, the clouds filtering its light like water. You think about how far you travelled to get to this very rooftop and try to search the landscape for the road, a road, that got you here. But you can not find any. Rather, you think about the man guiding his cow down the road, and the two gardeners resting on the picnic tables, the monks pacing with their prayer books and the wild dogs sitting dormant on the sidewalk, the group of teachers discussing underneath the draping, tattered prayer flags and... it’s time for tea. 

Your last thought before venturing to 4:00 tea is of the tourist appealing slogan that is plastered on soap packets and at the end of street advertisements, “Incredible India”. 

Exactly, you think. Exactly.