Saturday, February 8, 2014

Hot Pink

Long before we came to India, Elise and the boys had identified dawn and dusk has being the color hot pink. I think it must have started in Brazil, as there were many colorful sunrises and sunsets there.

Everyone rises before the sun gets up. Elise to go to her 5:45 yoga class. Me to start the dishes from the night before, make coffee and breakfast and school lunches. Everyone else because they are little kids and that's what little kids do best...get up early. It's in their nature.

The other morning, me, Peter and Clementine were standing in the kitchen looking at Jetpack the cat through the window. He was waiting for his milk. It was dark outside, but not pitch. The nights are not too dark around our house. There are a lot of street lights, and the night is more orange than black. A light shining through the plastic corrugated roof of our carport shines blue on the house like we live in a Polynesian resort.

Pete pointed out the window and blurted, "The hot pink is coming!"

At dawn, the hot pink comes...and at dusk, it goes.

The week before last, a meeting at an IT company on the outskirts of town ran late. We stuck in traffic on the long drive back into town, and the sun started going down. Finally, we crossed the bridge going over the Adyar River to Bishop's Garden and, eventually, home. As we crossed the bridge, over the long, placid, unmoving river, and giant bleach-white egrets glided overhead, I could see the condominiums that line Elliot's Beach to my right and the sun to my left. It was absolutely enormous as it sank into the river, hot pink. And I never felt more like I was in India as I did at that moment.

Last night, Elise and I attended a reception where we had the pleasure of meeting businessmen and women from American and Indian companies and representatives from France, Singapore, and Australia. The reception was outside, and, again, the sun set quickly, hot pink. The mosquitoes coalesced in clouds above our heads, though we only minded for a moment. They went as quickly as they came, and Nalla, the bartender, was serving up mojitos that were mosquito-proof. The sky turned violet, and then the bats came out. They flew high overhead, yet gravity is not their friend; it tugs at their large, fox-like bodies and their return to earth is only momentarily arrested with every flap of their leathery patagia. They fly in sine-waves in search of prey.

Fortunately, the reception was next door to our house, and we had a short commute home. As we entered our garden, three tiny silhouettes started jumping up and down in the windows of the sun room. There was no telling how long they had been waiting at the windows for us, or perhaps they had been able to see us the whole time.

Doubtless, they, too, saw the hot pink.

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