In India, in between the Sun’s rays and the Moon’s beams the physical and the metaphysical tangle and blur, constantly wavering, shimmering, flickering in and out of focus.
Ganesha, Rama and Sita, Krishna and his Gopis, Shiva and Kali and Hanuman walk the streets and enchantment fills the air.
Even as one plants ones fleshy western posterior, wraps ones thin western lips around a masala chai (and trembles with joy at the ginger, cardamom and sugar hit), and turns ones bloodshot Western eye upon the Hindustan Times or Times of India the enchantment continues.
There are highly proficient, gold medal winning Babas on hand with a spell to dispel all cares.
Should one’s thoughts turn to matrimony then the newspapers have just the ticket. A one way ride on a pink fluffy cloud to a powder blue house with a white picket fence at the end of honeymoon drive.
A bride or groom for every religion, caste, profession, and/or any imaginable state of being.
But even in this delirium of romance, caveat emptor.
Indian English newspapers have their own idiosyncratic journalese style. It’s quirky, cute, filled with slang and archaic terms. It’s a constant wonder and a delight.