My senses are overrun – a foraging pendulum grasping the air. Begging for answers. Who constructed the pieces of this puzzle? India.

I’m a visitor in this enigmatic southern village; an Oceanside town smothered by coconut trees and heavy rainfall. Broken dirt roads lie flooded. Men wearing dhotis drift by. Women walk in small packs, in silence, their solemn majesty reined beneath an ornate sari.

I haven’t slept. The undulating energy of this country has found its way into my soul. And I don’t want to miss a beat. Not one. I sip tea and watch the village come alive. The carpenter’s hammer is playing an early morning beat. The Grandma next door is chanting her daily prayers at the corner temple. And a hopeless scooter is creeping down the street; the day’s milk delivery is right on time.

Every morning, at exactly 8:30, a group of schoolchildren bang on my front gate and scream for my attention. Disheveled, I greet them on the terrace. “Mr. John!” they shout – delighted by my mere presence. Through word fragments and other bits and pieces of language, gestures and wide eyes, we communicate -- each one of us swimming in our unequivocal humanity, with an unspoken, but resounding internal hope, that somehow everything is being understood. Moments later the kids wave a last goodbye and with childhood laughter and proprietary whispers, they disappear up the road.

Author Bio:

John Torrente is a contributing photographer at Highbrow Magazine.