Waking Up

As I wake, my ears are touched lightly by the roosting lovebirds, the crow of the rooster and the chareeeeeep! of something blue with wings outside of our window. I roll over to the epic sounding call of the mosque trumpeting into my ear, followed soon by the organ swaying praising church voices.
I get up and itch an abhorredly sneaky mosquito bite. Cool waters soothe the heat from the night. My nose warms to the distant smell of spicy vegetables being cooked and the ever lingering smell of wood burning stoves. Milky strong chai (tea) rolls over my tongue, speaking of earthiness and distant hills.
I step outside, my eyes nodding to the gecko guarding our door and to the doorman at the gate, who salutes me like a soldier going to war, not merely going to the bus. My nose first swings at the stands of fresh flowers, fresh fried dosa and then to the upturning smell of garbage, urine and stale water in the drain near the street. My nose then embraces the harmonious smells of squashed lemons, burning incense and strewn flowers that bedeck the local temple.
My eyes take control, feasting on more suculent flowers tied into garlands and then swept away by bicycles rolling by mounded with multi-colored buckets, young cocunuts and stacks of colorful hand woven towels. My eyes settle on a silver whisped bronze woman robed in tattered purple silk. Her cracked, weathered hands arrange small monuments of baby eggplants, towers of tomatoes and crowns of yellow green bananas as tenderly as if they were newborn chicks. She places this martydom of vegetables upon a checkered cloth, lovingly smoothed down at the edges. This delicate still life repeats all over on the roads to Coimbatore, my view from the bus the perfect visage.
The bus stand assaults all senses with waves of exhaust, urine, incense, sweat, fresh garlic, orange stacks, floating tobacco clouds, suspended bananas, blaring horns, torn sandals, sleeping dirty figures, smiles, elegant sarees of silk that float, beeps of mopeds, strong coffee with chicory and chiming cell phones.
My hand and foot barely find a place on my final bus ride, with packed bodies filling the insides of the bus, the occasional arm or leg protubing from its metal block frame. One half of my body is immersed in the bodies of the bus grabbing a pole, the other hanging free, drinking in the cool breeze slowly brushing past. The figure entwined next to me reeks of bryllcreme, moth balls and cough drops. He turns and gives me a toothy grin, says hello. I say hello back. Now I realize, I am fully awake.