“How is India?”
I’ve gotten that question many times from loved ones and friends. I don’t mind being asked it because every time it crops up I wonder how to answer it, and each time I wonder I come to a different conclusion.
I generally tell people that it’s great. Tough, but great. It’s never the truth though. It is perhaps a close approximation of the truth, or, more likely, it is a catch-all answer that is just enough to satisfy the recipient.
Feeling at loss, I spent some time asking other foreigners here what they make of India. “I love it,” said one.
“Why?”
“The chaos,” she said.
How can I lay claim to the title of writer when I can’t put this place into words?
“The chaos,” she said.
Here is India, then, in words.
Take a newspaper, a Bible, and any assortment of novels and books of poetry. Cut them all up into bits. Make them a pile of phrases on the floor and pick a few at random. The sentence made from these fragments will most likely be nonsense—chaos—but, undoubtedly, the truth of this place will be there. Dim, only seen in a glance, but there somewhere in the chaos.
From the Occasional Chair 
Found poetry. I’ll try doing that and let you know what I come up with.
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Chaos was when all you 95 ers were running around – some with capes on if I recall correctly. I guess I can see that it was great now. Feel like India would be very colorful. I wonder if you could find the office that does our CT scan readings. Wouldn’t it be funny if you called me at work to ask for something?
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