I just got back from India! Between a long last day, spending the night in an airport (and not sleeping for most of it), and then another 26 hours flying halfway around the world, my body’s not really sure what day or time it is. Fortunately I wrote a lot while over there and have something to share today.
Today’s excerpt is from an experience I had visiting a Dalit village. Dalits are gypsies, one of the lowest castes, but you wouldn’t know it by talking to them because they were so happy, so glad to interact with us.
Intricately beaded necklaces cover half a blanket on the ground, and rubber stamps are displayed on the other side. Rajeesh turns her hand over, then studies the stamps before selecting a large rose which he dips in the ink, then presses onto her palm. Tenderly he inks each finger with a dotted leaf pattern. Again he studies the stamps, finally selecting one. “Fishies.”
“Fish,” she corrects.
“Fish,” he says as he grins at her and she grins back. He quickly presses the stamp against her skin, six fish swimming to Chennai, to Paris, to wherever they want, while he stays here in his village.
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