I remember India: palm trees, monkey families, fresh lime juice in the streets, the sensual inundation of sights and smells, and excess in everything. I was exotic and believable there. I was walking through dirt in my sari, to temples of the deities following the lead of my Indian in-laws. I was scooping up the fire with my hands, glancing at idols that held no meaning for me, being marked by the ash. They smiled at the Western woman, acting religiously, knowing it was my way of showing respect. It was an adventure for me but an arm around their culture for them. To me it was living a dream I knew I could wake up from. To them, it was the willingness to be Indian that pleased them. We were holding hands across a cultural cosmos, knowing there were no differences hearts could not soothe. They accepted me as I accepted them, baffled but in love with our wedded mystery.
Life can be likened to a bouquet of roses, each with its unique charm. Some roses sparkle like raindrops, while others lose their luster in the absence of sunlight. Some roses wilt away with time, while others bloom in a kaleidoscope of colors. Some roses sag with drooping petals, while others captivate with their beauty. However, it is vital to acknowledge that the perception of beauty resides in the eyes of the beholder.
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