Oh India, mirror of mirrors!
I walk more easily now in your crooked streets and craggy sidewalks.
You are my teacher.
You beg me to let go, to watch my step, to soften my judgment.
I walk as if in wonderland, enthralled by your jeweled colors, billowing saris, bobbing turbins. I am a child in a candy shop and you gently show me my greedy nature.
…to take a photo.
…to take the jewels home.
…to capture the flavors, smells, scents and sounds.
…to take, to have, to hold and to keep.
But there is no taking, keeping, holding or “mine.”
There is only flow.
Relaxing into what is.
Oh India, your dust lines my lungs, your dirt a second skin on my body.
My heart aches seeing your brilliance….
…the Taj Mahal
…the snow dusted Himalayas
…your fantastic festival Holi painting people purple and pink
…your plethora of temples honoring the gods….Ganesh, Shiva, Krishna, Kali….
My heart aches seeing your pain…
…the bride burnings
…the man with a deformed arm reaching for rupees into my rickshaw
…the shanty towns butted up against millionaire apartments
…the heaped garbage…
How do you manage?
How do you keep it together?
How does it work?
My heart starts to get the joke. It all works out in the end.
The electricity works.
For a while.
The hotel room is mostly clean.
The horns ARE the traffic system.
You must be the flow. No room for doubt.
Squatting and having no toilet paper IS an option.
I’ve come here to practice.
To open my heart.
To be present.
I practice breathing.
I tell myself, “Let go, let go.”
I remind myself the driver wants to live.
I remind myself they’ve done puja for good luck.
I remind myself I am not in control.
Is this why your people pray so much?
Light incense, roll sandalwood beads between brown fingers?
There are so many paths to God in your vast land, from the Himalayas to the beachy shores. Why are some lives so filled with so much struggle while others flash and sprint around in Lamborghinis?
“Only one rupee, only one rupee,” she says, hand moves towards mouth. The baby needs feeding.
Black hair is matted, her feet dry and crusty.
Another woman’s craggy face reflects the 100 years it has turned up towards the sun. Brown, with rivulets running through the valleys of her cheeks, she radiates warmth from inside her stooped and bent body that has traversed the Himalayas to find safety in India, away from her homeland, Tibet. She has no teeth. She gently suggests we give her some rupees.
We take her photo.