"Wrong platform,” says the coolie and smiles his all-knowing smile.
He looks exactly the same. The red shirt, the dishevelled dhoti, the shiny brass tag on the arm. To my child’s eye, the coolies always looked like they had somehow grown up in Indian railway stations. Some type of irrepressibly resilient plant like the bougainvillea, which need little care but blossom as vividly as the coolies’ red shirt.
Then there was the meal to be enjoyed with the vistas… the vastness of rural fields, tiny temples and the small colourful humans speed dancing on the screen-like window. Part of that memory is a small tub of vanilla ice cream pressed into my hands. And the sweet flavour-filled realisation that India’s heart and beauty lie in her villages. Why do we even bother to urbanise? It seems to take us so far away from the richness of naturalness.
The dazzle hits you as you enter. First your eyes and then all your senses feel bathed in blazing yellow brilliance. Walking in the Golden Temple feels like a stroll in a heavenly abode. The kada prasad is more fragrant than anything describable.
The kulchas and kulfis are soon an addiction. And the rose lassi puts you in a stupor. Now you no longer care that you have just bought your ninth pair of jootis. Exquisite silver and gold metal threads on rainbow bright slivers of camel leather. My feet feel dainty, bejewelled and pampered. What a gift culture and craft are to those yearning to receive. The glory of humankind.
Anupamaa Dayal
This fashion designer is about happy clothes and happy homes for happy women