Rishikesh has a more somber melancholic tone to it. I don’t know if it’s me or the weather.
The wind rips through in the morning rattling my screen door. I’ve taken to listening to Miles Davis and Billie Holiday. I’m nostalgic about the United States. Not for a current picture of the States. I’m longing for a Beat Poet, Andy Warhol, Charlie Parker kind of America. One that has raw creative power and howl’s at the moon. Did I mention that I’m reading Jack Kerouac? Yeah. Yeah, you thought so.
The men here stand around small fires they’ve built in the streets. I’ll close my eyes and pretend I’m in Soho… the Lower East Side…
When I get out of my head. When I leisurely walk across the bridge over the Ganges just about sunset time, that’s when you can really take it in. There’s barely any tourists here. I can actually walk across the bridge. I look out to the setting sun and see the Ganges sparkle. Along the river people are doing their evening prayers and offerings. You can hear a chorus of ringing of bells. I can hear them louder this time. More amplified. It’s like people have to shout over the cold.
This time I feel the Ganges. Her power.
She’s the one that glitters with light and makes the wind cry in the morning.
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