by Michael Plümpe
A heap of rags,
a dirty sack, people lie on the streets,
they were dead, rubbish and waste.
like excrement and urine.
Above all the street-children wish for a good character.
Dead bodies float on the holy river and the ravens eat their flesh.
A peasent herds his cattle on a pavement in the center of Bombay.
"I just sit here doing nothing", he reports happily, "and
the milk just keeps on coming".
A journey of
discovery of the somewhat different kind into a foreign society
and culture, into a reality, which works in a completely different
way: God's machine - "The Indian Wheel"
now - The Indian Wheel -