My memories of India are of mornings filled with mystery and anticipation. The haunting sound of the first call to prayer from the muezzin swirling in through an open window with the pre-dawn mist, waking the peacocks who add their plaintive cry. Chants from the Sikh gurdwara follow soon, as do tendrils of rosy sweet dhoop (incense) that meld with the dung-fire smoke from the villages, as early morning puja begins. By the time morning has settled in, the mists have burned away, and the koyal birds have begun their sweet song that will continue through the rest of a day bursting with sunshine, as the green parrots in the trees resume their daily gossip and the vendors begin to make their rounds, crying out their offerings of fresh orange juice, vegetables and shoe repair. Cows come grazing along the street, sometimes stopping to inquire mildly into the goings-on of the households they pass…
