I went to India. I was staying with two young people, a boy and a girl. They were the children of my hosts, perhaps the children of a diplomat? They were maybe around 11 years old. I went to my travel case to find skirts and Indian fabric to wear. The trunk was one of those clear plastic storage bins. Underneath the folded clothes was soil…really rich, healthy soil. I brought a lot of it with me. It was soil from home. I was amazed that it wasn’t noticed by customs…that I was allowed to bring in foreign soil. It felt like a magic secret that I had it.
At some point I was at a market. The vendors hadn’t quite opened yet. I think it was early morning. I was at the booth of a textile vendor and there were a few floor mats out. One of them was black and I kept moving it around…repositioning it on the ground. The ground was concrete. The vendor booths were on this sort of raised plaza with steps leading up to it, all concrete or stone.
I feel like the children and I were supposed to be finding some important person, but I can’t remember exactly. There was a slight feeling of excitement or danger…like the person was maybe some kind of rebel or opposed leader/leader of opposition. It felt like there were going to be people gathering in the streets, some kind of parade or demonstration brewing…