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44" x 208"
Every day I took the time to stand a few meters from the end of my driveway in India and watch the people go by. It was an explosion of color and culture. Mopeds and rickshaws and hand-pulled carts, very little cars. The chiku man, the coconut man, and the recycling man. Children in uniforms, teenagers in jeans, and women in bright-colored saris. I had sari envy. There is a strong desire a Westerner gets when they see one beautiful sari after the next and wish they could pull off wearing one. I mean, I guess one can, but it always seems a little odd, similar to my suddenly wearing a tank top. Although it perhaps feels odd at first, it becomes more and more natural and the body becomes more relaxed as time goes by. New York gets as humid as Mumbai and I think wearing a sari here would be appropriate. For now, because they are so beautiful, I buy saris to use for other things and I wear my sari around the house as a sarong. Marco and I had a debate as to whether the sari would fall into the sense of touch or sight. I said sight, he said touch; to me this is another fine example of male vs. female differences.