Today they flew kites in Delhi. By the thousand. We noticed them at breakfast, and the numbers seemed to multiply each time we glanced up. They're cheaper than fireworks, after all, to celebrate the Independence. Pigeons flew low to the rooftops; how do they miss the invisible, cutting threads? Intrepid birds. An eagle circled, confused by the myriad false prey.
When we reached the Red Fort, the ceremonies were finished, but hundreds of Indian eagles remained, circling high above the fort and its empty lawns. "Maybe they're here because there are no kites flying," said John. We walked East, towards the river, past thriving ficuses, trees that resembled cottonwood, trees that resembled white walnut. One tree dangled its flowers down to us from its branches on long stems. I don't know tree names here. For all I know, they haven't names in English anyway--so.
We crossed over the Yamuna River today before catching a motor rickshaw back to Pahar Ganj. I thought we'd left the egrets back in Maine, but here they are, too, fishing in the floodplain turned marsh by the monsoon. Nearby, a half dozen water buffalo stood motionless in neck-deep water. A horse with hollowed ribs picked its way along the bank lined with rubble, pulling behind a man in a cart.
Life is roiling and teeming here. We picked our way back to our hotel, past people and cows and sleeping dogs, dirt and smells of incense and urine and spice. And tonight, the pigeons nesting outside of our window will coo me to sleep.
