There is no escape from the hecticness of India. Entering the miniscule , overstaffed, and underfunded Varanasi International Airport to find every flight on the ancient scoreboard-type
flight list to be delayed or cancelled. Luckily, mine is only a delay. I will arrive in Delhi tonight, with fingers crossed. Other Westerners enter, dumbfounded at the scene of chaos that soon unfolds before their eyes. I sit and smile. This is India.
Kites, like birds, flew over the city at dusk, peering down at the maze of the old city, silence up in the heavens, masking the commotion unfolding below.
Varanasi was a wonderful place, and I am grateful that I made this pimgrimage, like so many other pious Hindus, even if just to observe. It was neither as scary nor dirty nor chaotic as I was prepared for; there was serenity to be found on the banks of the Ganges, as well as many kind locals, their religiosity shining through in actions and white smiles. This was a holy city, and I felt it in every step, every narrow passage leading to an obscure shrine, the constant ringing of temple bells from above and below, the omnipresence of holy men and barefoot colorful pilgrims. But it is the calm peace of the Mother Ganges that I will take with me in my mind; even though choked by putrid filth, it shone of a cleansing quality evades rational thought.
This is India.
I've put Varanasi pics on my picassa site, take a look.
Namaste.
