tea is served

Journal Entry

March 6th, 2004

Varanassi, India

Legs are crossed and tea is served, but this is like no party I’ve ever attended.

The heat depletes and liters of bottled water flow through me mimicing the mother Ganga in her quenching of the thirst of this chapped country.

Flavors of India waft lazily down the alleyways and without warning hijack the senses of the unsuspecting white girl who is foreign to their friendship.

Egos of backpackers and Brahmins ride high and low — on the back of arrogance and under the belly of modesty.

And although my eyes are overwhelmed in the visions and vibrancy of this life — I am blind. In attempt to steady my understanding, I grope around for any semblance of the structure of society that I was raised on…

But what looks like a wall is not. And what appears to be a window is walled.

And so I smack into glass shields barring all that seemed obvious. And I stumble through invisible doorways to that which mocks reality.

One step at a time, I move forward. Understanding that it is just as important for me to grasp onto and understand what is not, as it is for me to hold on to and realize what is.

One step at a time, I shuffle ungracefully through India. Experiencing her with ancient senses that are out of shape but pleading for air and desperate for exercise.

I shake out the stiffness from the limbs of these senses and take first steps forward.

Slowly seeking the beat. Patiently pursuing the pulse.

The music is distant.

But with each step I come closer to the room where the Essence of India is played.

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