The Muse's Indian Kingdom

"O' Muse! Sing in me, and through me tell the story"
-Oh Brother, Where Art Thou?

After only three days, I have found our dear Muse's Indian Kingdom. Her kingdom sits on the other side of the pilgrim's river. Fields of spices and fragrant gardens of tea greet the wary traveler, as Bengal tigers sleep under the cool shade of the banyan trees. Approaching her palace, the white marble meringue towers sit above the hills, like a palace of heaven. The ribbed golden dome of her palace reflects the radiance that lights the skies, and the edifice reflects in diametric perfection in the moat that surrounds it. Yellow-turbaned guards with long white beards and long silver swords with jewel-encrusted handles stand watch at her gates, but over masala chai agree to let me enter her palace.

The palace is a maze of columns made of marble. Carved statues of Vishnu, Ganesh and Shiva gaze down from the ceiling and beckon me forward, as peacocks of purple plumage wander around the halls. White lotus flowers and purple bougainvillea wrap around the open windows, and shied me from the intense Indian sun.

Upon entry, the Muse is found, wrapped in a purple sari- embroidered in gold-trimmed lotuses. In the land of Gandhi, the Muse takes no throne, but rather sits cross-legged on the floor. Her long, black locks sit braided over her right shoulder, as she stares out with her kashmiri blue eyes. Above her eyes sits an emerald encrusted in diamonds, as a delicate ruby lined with gold adorns her delicate nose. She just patiently sits over her delicate canvases of Sanskirt. Written in Kali's red ink, with Ganesh's ivory tusk, she reads out the words the will imbue those willing to listen with ideas of wisdom that are far richer than the jewels that encrust her radiant tiara.

Whispered in the ears of the lower castes, she brings solace to those sleeping on the streets. She convinced Agnes Gonxha Bojaxhiu to give up her nun habits for a blue and white sari, and Mother Theresa took on the burdens of caring for Calcutta's destitute. She walked with Gandhi to the sea, as he carried out his salt march against the British. She cheered for India's hard-fought independence, but cried as the cleavages, wars and dispossession that followed; she still bears those scars today. More recently, our dear Muse gave Salman Rushdie the courage to write her words, and strength to bear the consequences.

The Muse's Indian kingdom is one of a vast array of colors, and an overload of the senses. As the long, hot Indian day fades into the purple night, the Muse merely sits with an enigmatic smile on her face as I fight to understand her blessed kingdom.