Pushkar Diaries 5

In the land of dust, I heard the plight of an Indian woman. Sung by the wife to a god, in brandishing classical ragas that stirred something within, a déjà vu, of a knot-like feeling I had to digest while I read the ‘second sex’.

The song goes on to narrate Rukmini’s marriage to Krishna as she parts in her Doli, on her journey to his palatial house. She exclaims, ‘to be sold to another man, without dowry is worse than to be sold in the first place. My abilities have been mentioned with clarity to my new keepers, and only those that would profit my master have been cultivated. Everything that he may not like will be me. In my tears, I will understand the reason for such slavery and maybe in rejection, I may find myself.”

Pushkar Diaries 4

The days are filled with chats and food and walks and scenic beauty. the mornings wonderfully long and lazy with American breakfast. at any time pre-noon, noon, after-noon, the Sunset cafe, a sprint's time from my chosen haven in Pushkar, we lounge for nibbles and vicariously live the life across the ghat.  

However...

In the night of being, I visited many parts of my mind. The silence seething its teeth deeper, when the world takes a back seat and the beat of the Jambe reverberates within the soft soil. Minutes later a handmade Didgeridoo joins in, the breeze rustles the Ashoka and someone lights a Jason. They go in tandem, like elements or senses, never over-shadowing one another. The body rests, the spirit awakens all that the body can absorb.

The magic will last in some part of my conscious forever. It’s a liberating awakening of oneself. A space refreshing for each organ, each sheath of skin, each sense - and all in giving silent moments.

Pushkar Diaries 3

Gods from another time.
A ringing of temple bells at four inviting the dawn.
The morning smoke of cannabis. The spiritual discussions influenced by trance and magic mushrooms. A dam on a dried lake. Timeless firangi eccentricity of travelers bumping into each other as writers to a parable. A heart awakens with the tales of Kodai and Hrishikesh. Clothes are shed, with months and months of freedom to look forward to. Real food is eaten, hot, spicy, sandy with sweet camel milk.

Dreadlocks and dementia never seemed more natural and in tune with the universe.

Pushkar Diaries 2

more like scraps from Pushkar.

Night Fall.

The city sleeps, all back but a blue box shimmers in the sky. The waters in the lakes reflected the borrowed light from the moon.
In a dingy café across the dry lake I hear Jimmy Hendricks. He is alive – and so is the alternative culture in the laps of Brahma and wood fire pizza. This alternative world is actually beautiful; though I won’t leave the one I have for it! I should learn the art of skipping into other worlds. It is mighty refreshing.