Some flight home, on some date, some day-trip to a friend’s home
in a nice neighborhood, some old men who sell figs in a damp
market, wave gently and nod by, a boy on his tractor,
breathless and heavy, with Monsoon colors in his hair
An excerpt from a poem by Catherine Reeves
“Monsoon Colors” Mixed Media on Paper, 2013
On the 1st of July I flew from Turkey to India, where I would spend the remainder of my summer. I have always been intrigued with India, and somehow knew I would find myself there at some point in my life. Thus I made no hurry to book a flight or plan a trip, but instead let India come to me. So, after receiving an acceptance letter for a residency program in Goa (something I had applied for amidst a huge pile of applications) I suddenly recalculated my plans and plunged into the unknown.
The 10 weeks of my Indian adventure were a blur of beautiful shrines tucked into moss covered walls, the smell of incense and rain, alluring fabrics, jasmine wreaths piled up in markets, old Bollywood music playing in some nearby home, hindu shrines with flashing neon lights and the endearing Indian head wobble…not to mention the ever-present cockroach in my kitchen or shower, pulsing mangos, a constant coil of pain in my abdomen and the disturbing appearance of something growing underneath my fingernails. India was both stunning and difficult, strange and wonderful, playful and dark, the best and worst of everything.
Now, more than 6 months later I find myself trying to sift through this jumble of surreal experiences, but with a smile of extreme fondness on my face.