Teen Ink

I smell India before I see it: the mingled odors of street vendors selling chapati and puri and coconut water, along with delicious cooking aromas wafting from houses. The bazaar smells of ripe, freshly picked fruits and vegetables, some grown only in India. Coastal cities like Mumbai have the scent of the ocean and just-caught fish.

Next comes sight. There is so much to see, I could not glimpse it all even if I lived my entire life in India. Vendors are selling all sorts of food. The poor are begging and smiling and selling trinkets. I see big railroad stations and taxis and cars in the large cities. In the small towns, rickshaws speed along the narrow roads, full to overflowing with schoolchildren or elderly parents. Small shops are spread out all over town, mostly within walking distance. The ocean sparkles and glimmers invitingly. In some areas, the Himalayan mountains make a beautiful backdrop.

And then there is the sense of touch. The fruits and vegetables are crisp and cool. The air is almost tangible.

The taste of India is the taste of the air and chapatis, puris, and samosas right off the stove. Sweet candies and marzipans fresh out of the oven. Hand-picked vegetables and fruits are crisp and sweet. The naan is amazingly soft and fluffy.

Noise is a word for sounds that are loud, uncoordinated, and ­unharmonious. However, this does not describe India. The sound of India is more like music made up of common sounds. People chattering on the street, vendors hawking their wares: these things are the melody, the high notes. The bass is the rickshaws’ engines roaring and animals roaming the streets, their hooves thudding against gravel, adding their voices. This is a melody that everyone enjoys, a melody that completes the five senses of India.