India. 9 weeks. And all I saw was this pile of scraps in front of a tailor's shop.

No, there was more. Much more. But that's what comes up first. Color. Lots of color:

Women in the fields lifting large bundles of plants up on their heads, wearing bright red or green or pink sarees. Festivals with neon-colored powder thrown on participants. The orange pigment applied to the forehead in a dot. Even the cows get painted, the horns: one red, one green. The soft fuzzy sunrise in Varanasi, a hot orange blob of sun coming up in a tender pink and orange haze coating the far bank. Bright yellow auto rickshaws zipping around. Bike rickshaws made of shiny sheetmetal nailed onto a wooden frame, handpainted with scrollwork, italic lettering, peacocks, flowers. LED lights in synchronized color-changing pulsing patterns illuminating one of the temples in the BodhGaya complex, beside the Maha Bodhi temple commemorating the spot where the Buddha was enlightened. The deep green of transplanted Eucalyptus trees in Kodai Kanal, where the air smelled like Northern California. The men's "skirts," called Lunghi, with an infinite variety of incredible plaid patterns. Mostly blues and greens, however. Some grey. Almost never red. Temples with every color of the rainbow depicting deities in painting or statues that were also painted with thick shining color. Rivers black with pollution. Bright green parrots. Red-ass monkeys. Corridors between apartments with every color fabric swaying in the wind to dry. Dusty brown dirt fields for soccer. Headlights of trucks and rickshaws replaced with computer-controlled changing light displays. The amazing national bird: the peacock with shimmering green and blue.