India on my mind

We recently watched Born Into Brothels, a documentary about children of Calcutta who live in the red light district, are given cameras and taught photography, and take the opportunity to change their lives. Because the children speaking to the camera was a large part of the film, but there were no subtitles, I spent a lot of time looking at the scenery in the background.

It's been two months since we came home from India and traveler's amnesia has set it. The frustration of dealing with touts, the discomfort of long-distance travel and the itch of ant bites have faded to dim and painless memories. While we didn't visit Calcutta, the surroundings of the movie were familiar: Rickshaws darting through traffic; cows, dogs, goats, pigs, cars, bicycles and people all competing for the same bit of space; tiny corner stalls selling everything from laundry soap packets to potato chips; more people than seems possible packed into one vehicle.

Though I managed to take more than 2000 photos during the trip, there were many photos I didn't take, usually when I preferred to interact with the people around me rather than put a camera between us. The memories of the moments I didn't capture on "film," rather than fading like the unpleasant parts, are crystallizing and remaining strong. A few of my mental photos:

Driving through a tiny village in Rajasthan, a tiny girl by the roadside bends down to scoop up dirt in each hand, stands up with her arms extended and throwing her head back, spins to let the dirt fly.

Bicycles with enormous loads of brilliantly colored plastic jugs and buckets tied to the back.

Weaving through the outdoor market in Ooty. Light filters through the canopy overhead and highlights hanging bunches of bananas, neatly stacked piles of oranges and pinapple, cabbages and eggplant. A vendor offers me a piece of fruit, no charge, when I stop to ask what it is.

The peace and quiet of a hidden courtyard when a family lets me in to use their bathroom because there is no public toilet in the small town. From inside it's impossible to tell that the road passes just a few feet away.

The look on the rickshaw drivers face when eight of us ask if we can fit into two rickshaws; a feat Indians seem to accomplish with ease, but we only managed with much squeezing and laughter.

Walking confidently into our guesthouse in Jaipur only to realize that, in the dark, we had walked into a private home next door.

I have no doubt that we'll visit India again; there are still so many good memories waiting.