Celestial Bodies And Street Scenes
BUTTER LAMPS BURN INSIDE A TEMPLE
She moved with a grace that can only be of paradise; her beauty and poise far beyond that of a mortal. The movement of her almond eyes alone, dark and yet clear like crystal pools, was of a nature so divine that anyone blessed enough to see her could be in no doubt that if indeed she were temporal then this was to be here final incarnation. I was surely watching a bodhisattva dance her swan song before nirvana..
HINDU CARVINGS IN AN ANCIENT TEMPLE
PROOF IF NEEDED THAT SILICON IS NOT NEW
The divine dancer is, so I am told told, famed throughout India. She is so mesmerising that I have no reason to doubt this; and yet she was performing exclusively for my my group and I courtesy of the wonderful family run guesthouse aptly named Tranquil Nest. The climb to get there from the plains outside of the southern Indian city of Madurai had taken us along a narrow winding road wending its way through vegetation that changed as the altitude increased. Scrub plain interspersed with verdant green palm plantations spread out into the distance flanked by the hills of the valley wall. Bellow us odd random hills stood in ones and twos scattered around the otherwise billiard table flat land bringing me to the conclusion that my mother had been right, I should have paid more attention at school, that way I may have been able to answer my own question, what caused them to be there?
As we climb the temperature becomes cooler and kinder and scrub land gives way to a thicker forest fragrant with eucalyptus. We climbed on into the realm of coffee plantations as the sun lowers in the sky and the harsh tropical light quickly gives way to the golden glow and extending shadows of early evening. The chirping of birds and hooting call of monkeys in the forest is from time to time be shattered by the blaring of a horn as a truck heavily ladened with coffee plantation workers waving and shouting greetings thunders past.
The roads are at times perfectly surfaced. At times they are not. For the lion’s share of the time we rise and fall along tracks little more than single lane and with a motoring population of old Ambassador cars and Royal Enfield motorcycles thud thud thudding along with big single cylinder engines firing once a fortnight it is easy to drift of and imagine what England’s byways would have been like in a bygone era.
I shall leave you for now with a few street scenes.
AN AUTO RICKSHAW WITH A CLASSIC HORN
ONIONS SHAMPOO AND WASHING POWDER. ONE STOP, ALL YOU NEED