The Pants I Wear

I like the space my tan gaucho pants leave around the ankle. It reminds me of India as I walk through my day, them swishing in rhythm with my Birkenstocks. It reminds me of freedom and heat and dust, or the lack of it, these nearly white pants would have not faired well on the soot-stained streets of New Delhi.

These pants remind me of a good version of myself. I had eyed them for a year at a yoga store I like but never bought them because they were expensive and the syle was a little out there. I always told myself, if I was going back to India I would buy them. They would be great for the heat and aren’t tight enough to draw stares from Indian men on the street.

I’m not sure when I will go back to India but the possibility of being there again, dirty and sleeping joyfully in a room with mold on the walls was enough to make me buy the pants when they went on sale for $19. Truthfully, I didn’t jump when I saw the sale price even though it equated to a bulky fast-food order. It was scary to think of hanging a pair of pants in my closet that reminds me of failures and aspirations. But, I threw my money down anyway and brought the pants home.

Today I wear them while I make chai tea in my kitchen or when I stop at the grocery store. When I wear them I think about how, if and when I choose, I will get chai again from the tea shop down the street from my hotel, the one with the Nepali man who was always smoking a joint and would throw my favorite street dog day old rotis. I think of the vegetable market and the long ride I take by tuk-tuk to get there. I think of these things, all while I am wearing the $19 pants that make me feel hopeful.