The people who will always win are the ones with hearts filled up to the brim, the philosophers with heads held high above the material clouds; The flamingos, arching pink crisp wings break through bondries of heat and smog and burst into the air, flying necks elongated above shrimp mud flats. The people,with brown toes soft in the dust, with taut skin from wind and sun, with brilliant fabrics drapped around sharp thin bodies or round, sloping bodies; people of the flesh, whose eyes burn brilliant bright in dark faces, who have been and seen and lived in the events one cannot understand without having been there. Whether they admire or despise, I cannot understand, but difference always draws attention, and stares to follow- What I do know is the absolute validity of the statement, "india is like.... It is like, love, India is love". And many times hot, sweet, milky cups of chai tea are pressed into our protesting palms, as are gifts- punjabi suits, sweets, necklaces, bangles, chuni, mhendi drawn on my white wrists, sitting cross legged in a place of honor next to the bride- And I wonder what other culture compares to the overwhelming hospitality of India, this love for all, this excitment to celebrate difference, and cohesion, and culture? So many different beliefs, gods, shapes of smiles, bodies.... All these in one crowded, throbbing throng of persons- the beauty comes in picking out one simple details with your eyes, in seeing and celebrating the individual in this thick crowd of life. One doesn't have, doesn't have, doesn't have enough.... One sleeps at night in plastic bag shaped tents and hunts by day through the leftovers of others. But there is always food in the 24 hour kitchen, and there are always hands of neighbours, friends, strangers, soft hands to place on hurting bodies, hearts filled to the brim, to the brim, to the brim, flavours infintesimal in the food, colours infintesmial in the textiles, stories infintesimal in the people, the people, the people. Here I stand, from my own place in the world, and try to understand how this works- the morality of it. Trying to dissect my urge to feel pity for these people who seem to have so much less then my white priveleged self.... And then trying to reconcile the truth that really, they have in so many ways so much MORE than I, after all. More cups of chai, more pain in the bones, more hunger in the belly- more people to share these pains with, more life to go round, more stories to be told, less things, bigger hearts. To make it work, the best for everyone, we need this thing called love.