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  • the roads in india are a chaotic ballet. to the uninitiated, it is intense and overwhelming. one minor mistake will set off a chain reaction...a fantastic collision of molecules thrust from the particle accelerator. a rickshaw operator drives into oncoming traffic like a salmon working it's way upstream. surprisingly, the current parts for him. moto kids carrying panes of glass. horns, conversing as peanuts-gang adults. the dharma of overlapping planes of existence, where each individual has an obligation to the old culture and to the new.

    yet, they were born of this. their collective unconscious gives a calm acceptance, and the motions are fluid and intentional. i go left, you go right. impermanence is deeply intuitive. i realize that i'm not a stranger in a foreign land, but a citizen of the here and now. i am the rickshaw operator, offering connections for 20 rupees as penance to Manasa. he appears as me, improvising jazz as homage to a french gypsy, in a world of foreign-born natives.
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