Art by Living

“Make sure you keep the rickshaws in a single file line,” warned Amit, renowned art curator and – incongruously enough – our tour guide in Mathura.
“How?” I asked. “We’re not the ones pedaling.”
“Keep the rickshaws in a single file line,” he oh-so-helpfully explained.
Three cows, several cars and innumerable motorcycles later, I was not even sure where the rest of the group had gone. Rainwater fell into my lap through the tattered canvas ceiling. I reached out to touch a mud-drenched cow as we passed by, holding back at the last moment from its downy soft eyes. I drew my hand back hastily as we jarred over a pothole. The rickshaw driver shot me a gaping grin. He hooted as another rickshaw tried to pass us, and started to cycle faster.
When we arrived at a temple for an Aarti ceremony, we were warned that we must remove our shoes at the outdoor alter. I recalled how many times I had spotted men urinating into the streets. I watched garbage float past in the unrelenting rain. But when I saw women draped in deep red cloth standing knee-deep in the river, I removed my shoes and embraced the cold water. Why come all the way to India only to balk at getting wet?
The priest chanted over an altar, going at a practiced pace so we could repeat the words. He gave us all flowers to place on the altar and poured milk down its sides. We cupped our hands to receive each benediction. As the sun set, I thought how I had not yet lit candles for Shabbat. Slowly, I stopped repeating the priest’s intonation. I pushed wet hair out of my eyes and thought wistfully of dry clothes.
It’s a fine line for the atheistic Jew, celebrating customs without much deeper belief. I felt an uncomfortable kinship with the Hindu rituals. But I leaned forward anyway so the priest could press henna on my forehead in-between my eyes. By then, it was pitch black outside and Shabbat had begun whether I lit candles or not.
There was dense traffic on the journey back to the hotel. In India, honking is not only common but also necessary, as people often ignore marked lanes and must give warning. Honking expanded into sheer frustration as the roads became entirely blocked. The noise compressed and expanded, taking on a life of its own, rising up like prayer. The road was lined with stares: I rode with my friend Anna, whose bright blue hair often reminded the locals of deities like Shiva and Kali. Ever mischievous, Anne ululated with the cars and we laughed into the messy night.