Indian Boy in the Niche

I was in India last night. It was bright, golden, warm, and dusty. I was with a young Indian boy; he was showing me a temple. Inside there were small niches closed off by delicate silk curtains. They were all empty except for one where a middle-aged American sat. He wore a burgundy robe and was waiting for his teacher to join him. He noticed I was observing him and he told me that the reason he was there was because he was trying to change his ways. He was a low-income property owner in New York and had been charging his tenants much more than necessary so that he could make a buck. The man felt terrible and had pilgimaged to India to sort out his affairs. The young boy took me for a long walk down a dusty dirt road, passing little villages and stray animals. He told me there was a young Indian girl that he liked, and who also liked him, but they were both to shy to do anything about it. We arrived at a festival. There was a large carousel-size ride that was like nothing I had ever seen before. Two gigantic donut-shaped bubbly air-filled rings sat on top of one another. They were constructed of various colorful linens in a quilt-like pattern. The balloon-rings spun around in opposite directions and people bounced around on them, or just held on for the ride. It was great fun. The boy spotted the girl he liked, but she ran off. He was about to be sad when he met eyes with another Indian girl. She had curly hair and was not shy about her feelings. They disappeared together. I continued to ride until I felt sick. I decided to leave the festival area. To leave, one had to stoop down under a giant flat concrete slab that the people had erected to remind one of the infinite challenges in this life. After inching out from under the slab I looked to my left: there was a sculpture of George Washington carved into the mountain side. Some Indians were singing the American National Anthem. I thought that was strange. I then ducked into a home bulit into a hillside. Inside two of my friends were meditating. We began chatting when all of a sudden a horrible dust storm whipped up and clouded our vision. It was harsh and felt like needles whipping at our cheeks. We all left in a hurry. I separated from them to find my little Indian friend. He was resting in a small, dark niche in a common area. There were dark red cushions and a dark red silk curtain. The ceiling was low and contained a window that looked out upon the great desert. There were a dozen or so niches like this that resembled a restaurant with booths lined up. I asked him what he was doing in there. He motioned to a pair of black sandals and a scarf laying on the opposite cushion. He was waiting for the curly-haired girl to meet him there. He was anticipating his first time having sex. I realized that perhaps that was these niches were used for most often by teenagers such as himself. I asked when she was arriving and he said she was out with her friends first. He showed some frustration and asked if we could leave. We hopped onto a grimey bus and began to talk about first-loves.