Just a thought I had on the way to a Christmas Carol program held at the Bombay Baptist Church the other night (an experience I’ll write about later, I’m sure).
There’s a strange kind of romance in the dusty, smoggy, orange sunset in Mumbai. Where the smudges of high-rises cross the vista and during its descent, the sun appears to be alive, to be aflame, and as big as you can image – bigger than any harvest moon I’ve seen.
A carpet of clouds somehow show a glorious weaving of colors and shapes not unlike that of saris and kurtas and salwar kameez and any other manner of traditional Indian women’s dress.
Sometimes, I wonder from where it is that Indians draw inspiration for the bright and magnificent things in which they adorn themselves and their lives amidst and insane landscape of brown and hazy and dusty and dirty.
I think part of it is cultural, part of it is historical, and part is a hunger for that which isn’t readily available to the urban Indian – a hunger for nature, for the latent and perfect beauty of nature.
But I also think it’s because those who seek it and hunger for it have found wonder in the rare moments like these, and have endeavored to capture that memory for others, to weave it into the collective memory, so that, should the environmental doom that some predict and many fear come to India, the true beauty of the world won’t be completely forgotten by it’s inhabitants.