call of the digeridoo

A gush of hot air stifled my senses, as thousands of spices shot straight up my nostrils. I could barely breathe. I was back home, or so I thought. As my hair moistened, a soft trickle of sweat slithered down my temple as the steam from the market food closed in on me. The weather was humid as a constant dull overcast of grey gloomy clouds seemed to consume the sky above. The shrieks of the coconut wala and the otto driver pierced my ears as Rahul tried to squeeze us through the crowd in the Indian market night life. The aching noise continued by the ceaseless honking of the cars and scooters, down the narrow alleyways. The market lights streamed a blinding yellow that gave out enough heat to warm up the whole village. Rajasthan had changed since the last time I have visited. Memories of bright red chillies, the lush orange pomegranate and the fresh smell of papayas have now been replaced by noise, pollution and rotten herbs and spices as me and my cousin struggle to weave through people travelling against us. While I felt as if I was fighting against an endless sea of people trying to sell things, Rahul threaded through the crowd with ease as gracefully as a bird swooping through the crisp, clear sky. My feet were begrimed from the dust that polluted the streets as we trampled through different markets. We passed through the markets with ease, until Rahul led us into a small, weak shanty. The smell of spices lingered, as we both looked around the shop for food. Without hesi...

call of the digeridoo

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