Agra dust at dusk

I can see why every person I know who has travelled to India had felt compelled to come back here. The chaotic, unpredictability whilst somewhat unnerving is also highly addictive. As we weave our way through Agra towards the Taj Mahal I don't think there is any other form of mobility that could possibly fit on the road. Cars, buses, bicycles, tuk tuks, vans, people, goats, horse and carts, dogs and children all share the road and from what I gather, you simply toot the horn and pull out in order to get past whatever is in front of you, assuming (and hoping) that any oncoming traffic will move...seems simple enough, until I look out the window and see a smashed up mini van. Gulp. Agra is mystifying. Men in check shirts line the streets leaning against cars in crowds with their arms folded. Women peer out from beneath their glorious pink and gold saris. Meanwhile, cows lounge about with their companions, nuzzling child hands. We pass some local children playing cricket. They waved from a distance and I waved back. As we crept by their waves morphed gradually into pelvic thrusts and I laughed at the universal nature of the almighty crotch emphasis. As we drive past I notice a man hunched amidst his shop items. These surround his head like a frame and I can't help but wonder if anything ever gets sold. Further on a child stands in his own shop front. He is a young entrepenuer and has the longest line of customers I have seen and they are children, hoping to get their hands on one of his famous kites. The sky is dotted with them (kites, not children), spinning and diving under the masterful gaze of a child, whose hands I never seem to see. Everything seems to be various shades of brown, and it is like life itself has been bathed in a sea of dust from the top of the trees right down to the child's toes. Yet I am struck, once again, by the vibrancy of India and it's people and can feel the magic beginning to take hold.