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Monday, December 20, 2010
Ganga
Routine again. Step out, down to the river, maybe a 'Hi' to the freewheeling Baba in his bamboo hut along the way and share a chillum or some tea, finally down to the river whose lapping waves and the cold sands in the shadow regions serve a hint to its freezing waters, and the whirlpools at some distance a hint to its torrid nature, strip on the sandy shore, scream and come running and dive as John M does, or gradually walk in deeper and deeper as I do, for a slow sensory awakening, feel the hypothermia waiting at your physical threshold, another dip and then another one, and now in lost notion of all proprieties you walk back on the sandy shore shivering like a rattlesnake's tail and uneasily whistling, find the sun a blessing and sit down atop one of the rocks to sun yourself dry, talk and think like Plato, feel absolved of you 9-to-6-Monday-to-Friday routine, stare into solving the mysteries of geography about you, listen to the discordant truck horns in the distance, pat your canine friends who have confusedly followed you to the river, study the footprints, the ripples, the words that never get to you, the smiles that forever beguile you, the rugged spirit you will forever admire, the nostalgia you will fall into next when you're here.
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