I took another sip of wine, swallowed, and breathed. I have to go to India, I inhaled. I’m going to India, I exhaled.
Five months later, my tour group arrived in the holy city of Varanasi. The day was jungle-hot and sticky, with dive-bombing insects. We found our way to the river’s side through the walled city, where sacred cows shared paths with lost tourists. Cafes and temples provided views of the expansive mud-brown river, but we traversed the famous ghats, the long, uneven stairways pilgrims took to enter the holy Ganges.
Revelers celebrated the Durga Puja holiday by dancing in the shallow waters. Men splashed and clapped their own music at the base of the stairs and between boats. A lone woman took part from a distance, covered completely in a wet sari. Large stacks of logs and sticks signaled the crematory ghats.
By Kristin Zibell (to be continued)
