Rajasthan. After two weeks in Varanasi I was working towards exhaustion within the bustle,dirt and chaos of the city. Charmed but exhausted. A couple days of coughing, crowned with a near sleepless night of confusion after being served a far too strong bhang lassi. Getting up the next morning with the resolve to avoid cannabis for a while and book a ticket out of The Holy City. Rajasthan being 24 hours out, I decided to break up the trip half way with a stop in Khajaraho, home of the Lakshmana erotic temples. Overnight train. Arriving in Khajaraho around 7:00 am. I was ready to leave by noon. The temples themselves majestic! Albeit saturated with tourists and stone faced military personnel. The closest thing to pornography the Indians have(even with the Internet nearly ubiquitous in India, viewing porn is considered a crime) you gotta give the ancients credit for the depth of fantasy. As for Khajaraho itself, being a small town the sight of any traveler is a high thrill. I literally had atleast 8 Indians get off their motorcycles, out of their houses and from their shops and follow me down the street. Asking my name and nationality. Inviting me to their farms, shops and homes. Endearing as it sounds, every offer clearly motivated by some sort of sale or scheme. I was pulled(so very reluctantly) into three different silk and pashmina shops, served tea and interviewed on my life before being told why I absolutely "needed" a pashmina scarf. My polite firmness is really getting toned in this country. And every traveler I encountered venting about similar treatment. You can't even walk down the street or stop for coffee in this town without being accosted. So I booked a train ticket for the next morning to Jaipur. Another 14 hours on a train. Through the middle of the day. Arriving at 11:00 pm, if I'm lucky and it's on time(I wasn't and it didn't). But I'd found a copy of Miles Davis' autobiography back in Varanasi and that kept me well occupied the first five or six hours. Around Jhansi an older British man boarded my compartment and we struck up a conversation that lasted through the trip. Rail line strikes induced delays and we didn't arrive until 3:30 am. The only thing more hectic and stressful than an Indian train station is an Indian train station in the middle of the night. Especially when you don't know where your going from there. Figuring I'd splurge a bit and follow my British friend (we didn't introduce ourselves until we got off and we're being hurried into an auto rickshaw) to his fancier hotel which he called ahead for and booked me a room. Somehow 900 rupees(about 600 more than I usually spend) offering little more than a rooftop restaurant on top of a dingy room with no hot water. Oh well, a bed and a door. Jaipur itself a beautiful city. Ancient architecture and a high desert vibe. Amongst overcrowded streets and too many motorcycles and the standard Indian patina of garbage everywhere. After a morning walk I quickly decided a day here eoukd be enough before heading to Bundi, three hours south. And so Ben(my new British friend) and I hired two kids with an auto rickshaw to take us around the sites of the city. Ancient forts and palaces, Mughal gardens and a few temples. Ben caught a bus to Jodhpur that night and I packed my things in anticipation of the morning bus ride to Bundi. And my attitudes are revived some after falling under such low energy by the end of my Varanasi time.

Day five (or six?) In Varanasi.  Lost in this Dada daydream.   Six days(or five)of stepping over ox shit, dodging motorcycles on narrow alleys and finding ever more ingenious methods of out smarting the hustlers on the ghats.  Five days(or six) of surrealism, synchronicity and because I just can find a better damn word, Magic.  One moment knocked back to high reverence, the next, using utmost restraint to not call an Indian "motherfucker" beside his Mother Ganga as he tries to grab my hand and "massage" it for 50 rupees.  My first two nights spent at a guesthouse on the Assi Ghat called Om Home.  Dark, loud and most every surface, damp.  I moved out after a couple days of settling into the city, the owner trying his best to sell me fine silks as I loaded my gear out.  Early, tired and hungry, I carried my bag and guitar to my next home a couple miles into the old city.  And suddenly in that frustrated,strenuous moment I look up and see a face I recognize. Which recognizes me.  And I second, third, fourth check and it's still Brook.  Two seconds difference on either of our parts and we would of missed each other entirely. Both in shock, we hug and try to piece together what brought us both here.  He was on tour with a kirtan group and is now studying violin with a local guru.  Me, exploring a directionless life in a more exotic locale.  I'd met Brook two years ago at an intensive three day confrontation workshop.  So we've already seen each other cry, look for available walls to punch ect.. I had no idea he was in Asia and hadn't seen him since Beloved Festival back in August, the weekend I'd hatched this whole India plan.  Carrying on, I check into my new guesthouse.  An ancient stone building with narrow, short hallways built around an open garden.  Rustic, though the atmosphere fulfills a few adolescent fantasies of mine.  Sometimes noisy but of the goat calls, chanting variety.  And my days here mostly spent wandering(getting LOST) in the ancient, labrynthine corridors of the old city, occasionally emerging onto one of the many ghats along the river.  Varanasi, like a good woman is curvy and full of surprises.  Every time I think I know exactly where I am, I turn corner and find a new (to me) Avenue of vedic astrologers, silk shops, hash dealers and temples.  All the better as there never seems enough time to chew bettle nut and drink chai when you are in familiar territory. The nights usually with Brook drinking bhang lassi and sitting at manikarnika ghat watching the continuous cremation of Hindus as the huge bell tower ominously chimes and street kids come up claiming to work for the hospice and seeking "donations".  Hindus save their whole lives to be brought to Varanasi for cremation upon death.  The rites are both reverent and common place to the point of nonchalance.  Young kids tending the fires, throwing more logs below  and prodding at the immolating bodies with big staffs of bamboo.  What a strange, dull sound a body makes as its being struck mid pyre.  But on the lively side, I've been exposed to live traditional Indian music for the first time.  Getting so lost in the crescendos I nearly seize up into convulsions sitting cross legged on the carpet.  Being moved to tears by the precision, communication and genius of the musicians. And the kids on the ghats who the first days tried to sell me sandalwood oil as hashish  or stared me down as I walked home at night have quickly warmed up and now call me "Michael jackson"insisting I join them for Chai and conversation.  Never asking for money anymore but always offering high quality hashish or opium should I change my mind.  It seems most travelers get put off by the hustle and just ignore the Indians after a couple days.  And I felt that, but then began grabbing their extended hands and massaging them first. Demanding 50 rupees myself.  And we both laugh.  Laughter, the most universal language.  And no clear thought on where to next.  The amount of oddity occurring(most of which I'm not in a position to even talk about) makes me want to stay here a while and see where it goes. Anyways, all is swell.

out of the skillet and into the fire.

First morning waking up in Varanasi, the holy city.  Thus far, the chaotic city.  From the train station to the guesthouse anyway.  Far too exhausted upon arrival to do much else but check in, drink a bhang lassi and go to bed at 7:00.  Almost restful aside from the assault of mosquitos, something Rishikesh lacked.  Swatting them in the dark and finding my hands covered in blood when I got up this morning.
If not my heart, than my mind (or maybe vice versa) still rests in Luxman Jhula.  Three weeks there established a "home" that I miss dearly.
My last day spent with my friend Dane from the Whiteaker Hostel days who arrived as I was leaving.  The only rainy day I've had in India.  We made the rounds from cafe to cafe drinking too much coffee, smoking and enjoying "American" dialog.  My own bad feelings relating to the way my brief Australian fling ended recurring often.  Eventually arranging to meet with Larissa before I left.  A chai and a slice of pie on The Babylon Rooftop together, sharing affections and "no regrets".   Funny, despite the troubles and brevity that I miss her.  And grabbing my load, I left all that familiarity.  Caught a tok tok down the hill, a bus down the valley and found my way into the Haridwar train station.  Indians sleeping everywhere on the ground, rubish and debris carelessly heaped about.  No english speaking officials in the ticket window.  The machine gun sporting guard only able to gesture "5" when I asked for Varanasi platform.  And so I wait on a bench.  Clutching my gear and trying my best to read, it's so dark and distracting.   I'm joined shortly by a turban wearing, armed station guard who sits beside me and strikes up friendly conversation in very broken english as his assault rifle casually lay across his lap pointed at my knee.  He said I must be bored and lonely with no one speaking my language.    
"Not yet".  Considering the excellent cover of chatting kindly with the guard, I'd wished I hadn't gotten rid of my lump of hashish.  For two full hours he ignored his task to tell me about the Punjab region and ask about my thoughts on God and India.  He was very impressed to meet an American who doesn't eat meat.  And once boarding began for the train he asked for my information so he can find me on facebook.
Finally 11:30 I'm on my train, bag chained to the seat.  Sharing my 3AC compartment with a kindly Indian family who immediately offer to get off the shared bench that doubles as my bed so I can get to sleep.  The night punctuated by starts and stops, grinds and screeches.  Somehow very restful.  And a morning spent chatting with the 16 year old daughter as father eyed suspiciously her devoted attention to my stories of the great American west.
And only two hours late, we arrive in Varanasi. I'm tired, hungry and anxious to check into a room and sprawl out.  Not patient to haggle I am less than enthusiastic with the tok tok driver (the legendary scammers of Varanasi station) as I ask for Assi ghat and refuse his attempts to find out which guesthouse I'm seeking.  Remembering my Oregon friends mention of staying at the Om Home, I head straight there.  I'm shown a dingy though large room with private bath (hole in floor and water faucet) and hot water.  Drop my bags, lock the door and check in.  Maybe it's dehydration or the million little cups of instant coffee I had on the train but my head hurts and I just want to close my eyes.  Of course, I quickly walked down to the ghat first. Gave myself a taste of why I'd come and then found my way to a disturbed itchy nights rest.  And here I am.  Good morning!

Where to begin?  The beginning has already begun.  I've been here (India) three and one half weeks already.  In gestation in the womb of Rishikesh.  Decompressing from Western values, learning Eastern street smarts and scrutinizing the habits I didn't realize I'd packed before I left.  But mostly a lot of romanticized days of Ganga baths and cafes, hashish and contemplation.  And atleast a week of restless, impatient dreaming of the sleeper train taking me from Haridwar(a bus ride down the valley from Rishikesh) to Varanasi.  Throw in a day of feverish guesthouse sickness(cold, clammy marble floors...), a quick romance and a crash course in the Indian scam traditions and my first month of 2016 is well summarized.
Here I've done less yoga, drank more coffee and ate larger meals than I ever did in Oregon.  Sang the last David Bowie songs on the ghats while the Hindus chanted "Hare Krishna" .  And learned more about the occult influence on the Nazi regime than I did about The Rig Veda.  Also, had a pretty stellar pair of pants tailor made.
And what frustration that I couldn't fit into an ashram, go on juice fast or stay silent in Vipassana for ten days.  What disappointment that I don't count beads, play djembe or chant mantra.  What better way to affirm your self as imperfect, worldly and sensuous than to immerse in the world of bliss pilgrims.  More Clown than saint, fool than sage, I feel more myself than ever.