:: Chariots of chaos ::

India was a shock to my pampered, first-world-country soul. The CNNs and the Wall Street Journals of the world never did fully capture poverty at its most sordid: in its technicolour, day-to-day form. As I watched children roam the dusty, pitiless streets hawking wares for practically nothing, as I saw slum life as a natural part of New Delhi's cityscape, as I witnessed the filth of hand-to-mouth living reflected in the shadowed glories of the Taj, I realise the full extent of how ungrateful I've been.

All that unfortunate wallowing about a broken heart. All that self-doubt and discontentment because of a necessary routine. All that nihilistic misery. All that acidic emptiness. All that, because I've already been fulfilled beyond the wildest dreams of any of the bright-eyed but hollowed-cheek children I've seen.

I almost despise myself for turning these thoughts over as I sit in air-conditioned comfort, sipping a five-dollar cup of coffee. It's the classic form of charity: in thought, and in thought only. How vile we've let ourselves become.

But that aside, India's heritage is a golden thread that has woven itself fiercely and brilliantly into the cultural tapestry of its history, and every where I turn, I saw stories of a cultured people, and centuries of diversity only sharpened the beauty of its chaotic present. Singapore - clinically in order and beautifully systematic - can never touch a nerve or move the eye the way a faded inscription on a 600-year-old tomb can.

Nameste, India. Thank you for showing me how blessed I am.