Linda Blake - Global Reporter       

A young man rams sugar cane through a roaring metal grinder. Rich sugar juices stream from a metal pipe and collect in open channels in the surrounding dirt.

Bubbles form in a babbling mud hole. An old man feeds a fire below the stewing sugar water. The steam reeks of baby powder mixed with Hi-C Fruit punch.

Nearby men scoop up the cloudy water and fish out the dirt flakes (well...most of them). They then leave the substance to dry.  In 15 minutes the syrup has thickened into golden brown blocks of sugary goodness.

This is just an ordinary scene at a sugar factory in Bugrou Village, Uttar Pradesh at twilight. The factory primarily supplies sugar to sweeten local beers including the infamous Kingfisher. 

The whole irrigation system reminded me of the amateur trenches I used to build at Ocean Beach in San Francisco. As an ambitious child, I would spend hours dislodging sand crabs and digging carefully constructed holes to suck the salt from the incoming tide.

Two pigs dine on a fly-peppered trash heap just minutes from Manju-ka-Tilla in Delhi.

These are the largest pigs I have ever encountered (this coming from a girl who used to intern in the tech command mosh pit at CBS).

I now understand the full thrust of "pig out." Look at the pork-belly on stage left. He's beyond reckoning - completely incapacitated! 

Hundreds from around the world flock to Rahat Open Surgery - an open-air clinic - inches from the Jama Masjid Mosque in Old Delhi.

In the shadow of a mosque their feet and hands are sliced by razor blades. The goal- give the bad blood an escape route and encourage the body to reoxygenate.

Mr. Gyas - who has practiced the tradition of blood-letting in India for nearly three decades- consoles his patients as their darkened blood drips onto the stained concrete.  As he places his palms out in perfect jazz-hands form,  he explains that he is communicating the grace of God.

After they are sliced by punctuated razor blade jabs, the patients then engage in leg lunges and hand curls as red clouds swirls across their bare skin. A water wallah paces the grounds showering the wounds with lukewarm water.

Some come to rid themselves of muscle tension or head ache.  For many more plagued by chronic pain or cancer this ancient method has become their last resort. With all their hearts, the patients say in symphony they have finally found an antidote to years of suffering.

The treatment is generally a 15 day procedure. That's a lot of blood loss under the blazing Delhi sun. Wonder if the light-headed lot is discouraged from operating heavy machinery?

I don't want to dis on New Jersey, but the one American there who was eagerly participating was from Edison.  

Then again, I shouldn't dis on the whole procedure, even if the impact is purely psychological. The detailed procedure and die hard commitment on the part of the "doctor" and patients are captivating.

I will explore the details of treatment and the controversy over what some call an archaic practice in an upcoming television feature. Warning: not for the weak stomached...  

 The High Holi-Day!

I was warned. “One step into Old Delhi on the high Holi-day and you surely won’t surface unmolested!”

A couple of paces in and I was pelted by paint-clogged water balloons from snickering children overhead. “Missed me,” I yelled in a jovial tone. In diplomatic fashion, I attempted to throw some orange powder toward their perch.  Bad idea.  They say that “anything’s possible in India.” But, that doesn’t mean you can fool gravity, Linda! Ugh. So, yes folks, my first official Holi color-spray was self inflicted.  

Holi, the annual Festival of Colors is a Hindu holiday that is celebrated throughout South Asia on the full moon (Phalgun Purnima). It is symbolically meant to honor the victory of good over evil.  

People express their love and appreciation for one another by sprinkling friends and foes with a variety of powdered colors. Everywhere you look you spot grinning locals disguised as preschool finger paintings. It could be all the Bhaang (Cannabis) that people slurp up, but it is said that enemies become friends on Holi. Nihang, an armed Sikh group, has even been known to call Bhaang "Peace-Giver" (Sukkha Prasad).

Decidedly bhaang free, I spent the day criss-crossing Old Delhi. After a couple of laps, a collection of faux-shy men gathered around me. They distracted me with half-broken English all the while elusively de-pocketing wads of colorful powder.   Soon I was surrounded by human fire extinguishers detonating paint flakes! Some added liquid to their color-caked paws. 

Maybe it was those platinum blonde teenage years I spent drooling over the Mac Make-Up counter. Perhaps it was my San Francisco daisy-chain of an upbringing. But, in an eye-blink I threw myself into the celebration! I was fortunate to meet some Canadian and German tourists who were just as eager to play Desi-Picasso. 

I met one interesting Indian-Canadian named Shaan Desai who has been travelling through India for a few months now. He's visiting with family members and connecting with his personal history.  

On this Holi-day that is meant to bridge cultural and social divides, Shaan was still not convinced that India would be able to transcend its great divisions and eventually take-over the global scene.  He spoke on this during a rare moment of rest.  

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My second piece for Voice of America News captured the daily comedic confrontation between Pakistani Rangers and Indian Border Guards at the Wagah border crossing between Amritsar, India and Lahore, Pakistan.

I took a 5.5 hour train ride from Delhi to Amritsar, Punjab (home of the Golden Temple) and then hopped into a hired car to reach the border crossing by sunset.

"Hindustan-Pakistan-Hindustan-Pakistan." When I arrived, the cheers from thousands of Pakistan and Indian spectators - separated by a metal border gate and miles of electrically charged barbed wires - made the ground quiver with indigestion.

In the hours leading up to the ceremony, Indian women and men shook their hips provocatively - especially this macho man. I bet he'd kick butt at Dance-Dance-Revolution.  

With such carefree splurts of sensuality, it doesn't surprise me that this country birthed the holy Kama Sutra.

The Indian Border Guards and Pakistani Rangers punctuated the start of the ceremony with loud war calls.

When I am working to predict behavior for a shot,  interesting details jump out.  In this case, I loved watching the border officials take long breaths before they coiled up their tongues and tonsils to form one long YELLLLLLLLLLLLLLL.

Who knew mustached Jawans (soldiers) were so flexible. They put even the Rockettes to shame.

The kicks were not slow and graceful, they were heavy.  Their boot clunks reminded me of some serious games of hand ball I used to play in Elementary school. I could feel the sting of half a century of antagonism each time their black boots scraped the concrete.

The shoot was a visual paradise, but was not easy for a one-woman-band.

Firstly, I was forcefully told I could NOT move from a restricted seating area, lest I am knocked out by one of the border guard's ninja style kicks. Secondly, the sun sets on the Pakistan side. That means I was stuck shooting directly into an orb of bright light during the ceremony.

I needed to ensure I would get some usable footage beyond a series of silhouettes or seductive ear shots. So, I slowly started to inch my way towards the gate. One foot in front of the other I played deaf and dumb - looking intently at my PD 170's flip-out screen.

The military officials on the sidelines were not pleased. They would consistently wave their hands and drag me back to my nose-bleed spot on the left side of the road. At one point they tabled the direct diplomacy and pushed me.

I'm sure the military action had something to do with the fact that I was right in the middle of the road - blocking the view of the ten-thousand anxious spectators behind me.

My Indian friend Jaspreet - who was by my side throughout the ceremony- later told me that if I were Indian I'd most certainly be locked up. He calls my acceptable antics the "expat edge." 

The top Indian border official called me a Yankee as he was escorting me out post-ceremony.  ....working "real hard" to improve America’s image abroad.

Presenting the Beating Retreat Ceremony: