Independence Day

Everyone has come to Kalimpong. People of all ages and dressed in all colors meander around the crowded streets. This is what they mean by "throngs"; I can barely move for stumbling over small children carrying toy AK-47s or bumping into groups of bling-clad high school kids making their way to and from the football pitch. Every time I brush against someone, I pat my pockets on instinct, but stealing doesn't seem to be in the spirit of the holiday.

Today is Indian Independence Day. After noon dal bhat I grabbed my camera and headed down towards town. The rain had stopped by the time we left, but the town is still engulfed in mist. Watching the kids slip and slide across the muddy field, I can't even see the far goal. Despite the gray, or perhaps because of it, the people seem to pop with color. Old men selling small bottles of soapy solution stand in the main square blowing streams of bubbles out of small brown pipes, while in the more twisty corners of the bazaar middle aged women push unsettlingly sharp swords at us from under yellow tarps.

Little children and drunk twenty-somethings wave at us as we pass, motioning for me to take their picture. Even cops and old women smile when they see my camera pointed in their direction. This is so different than New York, where I had to fight for every people shot. Here kids call over their friends and try to flash gang signs, chattering for just one more picture, just one more. Most move on after a few shots, but a few stop to talk. "America is my best country," says one thugged out 14-year-old when we tell him where we are from. We ask him why he doesn't feel more patriotic on his country's independence day, but he just shrugs. "America is best."