this is india.

i stare out the window for hours and hours.
rolling fields of yellow mustard whizz by, water buffalo grazing, goats scurrying, rice picking.
spicy samosa fill my belly, Hindi ballads dance overhead.
a cacophony of honking horns; blaring with ever curve and swerve.
i arrive sweaty, tired, beat, defeated.
i drag myself to the closest hotel.
ten hours on a bus. no bathroom. no lunch. no peace.
a box

hidden beneath a layer of dirt
windows hang on hinges and the sheets are painted with stains and cigarette burns
we chat about the faraway land called America. people. presidents. terrorists. beautiful Bombay.
crawling into the comfort of a mummy sack. my face is stung by mozzies, swarming.
i lay awake, exposed nose, breathing in their bites.
hazy sunlight slowly turns the room into day.
shadows stream through the cracked window panes.
a shadow crawls across the top.
a tail drawn out behind.
pitter pattering feet arouse me from my dreams.
im out in a split second. throwing clothes in my bag, untangle curls turning to dreads.
this new day is going to be good.
i make it all the way to the airport. it says air force.
"there must be a mistake, i need to go to the air Port."
uhh. this is it.
i sit for five hours at the air force base, enclosed in grass, military uniforms, smoking a rollie.
they say the flight is cancelled.
we rush to the station, hop a sleeper train.

still no sleep.
i cannot sleep.
there is an old man in a sweater vest laying across the compartment. staring. his light is on. his eyes are open, and fixed on me. his arms are folded neatly across his protruding belly.
seriously uncomfortable.
i roll to the side hiding under a blanket; my armor.

my death stare is perfected. hours spent cursing the eyes that stick like glue to my face, my body, my skin. i don't want to hate you, but sometimes you give me no choice.

it's becoming harder to discover the genuine, honest, trustworthy, helpful...men. one in a million. no, that's one in a billion. 1.027 billion.

now im here.
and this is India.