The Pale Blue Dot

When I was twenty, I went to Kolkata, India, with my dad to visit his family for the first time. India is a huge country, and it has everything from sweltering heat to ice and snow. There are the sweetest foods that the tongue can taste and the spiciest foods, which most tongues cannot handle. India is a sensory overload: the colours, the noise, the smell of spice, incense, gasoline.

Kolkata is near the Bay of Bengal, so we rented a small but colourful beach house to escape the bustle of the city for a night. Beside the beach house was a large golden statue of Buddha, just because. You can drive away from the city, but in the land of India, her flavour will not escape you.

We were about to return "home" after an intense day of swimming, animal petting, talking to locals, and eating sumptuous street food, and I was beat from imbibing all the intense colours and sounds of the ocean-side town. We had to stop by reception and check out, but I didn't even have the energy to get up. My dad, family, and the driver left, but I told them I wanted to wait. I opened the window and leaned against the door, my now well-tanned, overheated body feeling wilted. I was all alone for probably the first time in a week, and I relished it.

But even as I relaxed, India was not still. The palm trees swayed in the warm breeze, the sand blew across the streets, and people roamed in colourful outfits. I even remember the garbage cans along the roads: the "mouths" were shaped like smiles, and someone had painted eyes on each one. Everything about India was creative, unique and beautiful, from the fashion down to the trash cans.

An elderly woman in a hot pink sari was walking down the street, holding a jar of paste, and singing. She passed me, glanced over, and continued on her way. Then she turned back, as if she realized something she'd forgotten. She dipped a toothpick into the jar of paste -- likely sandalwood or some herbal concoction -- and pasted a "bindi" between my eyebrows as she continued to sing softly to herself. Then she wandered off as randomly as she'd arrived.

"Did that just happen, or was I daydreaming?" I asked myself.

I looked into the rear-view mirror to find a newly pasted bindi on my forehead. It happened.

My family returned to the car shortly after.

"Where did you get that bindi?" asked my uncle.

"I have the strangest story for you..." I began, realizing that none of this would have happened if I'd just closed the window. I was glad I kept it open.