Two holy cities, Rishikesh and McLeod Ganj, one a Hindu spiritual centre, the other Little Tibet. The two are a 15 hour bumpy bus-ride apart, and could not be more different from each-other. River ceremonies by night, kite runners, thalis, noisy vikrams, colourful gods, chai tea breaks, dog food-filled backpacks, pretty school girls, the holy Ganges and the laundry on her banks, side-of-the-road Sanskrit lessons, festivals every second day, yoga-stretched pains, the power of sages and Shiva. Then came the Dalai Lama's residence. With it, delicate momo's, mantra beads and prayer wheels, lemon ginger tea, constant reminders for a free Tibet, the lotus flower, Himalayan walks with friendly fed dogs, the start of environmental awareness, new friends who I'm sure I've met sometime somewhere before, His Holiness's smiling face, sidewalk-sold bokchoy, meditation classes, mountain cafes and waterfalls, inspiring volunteers and heartbreaking stories of displacement. Every day that passes in India makes me want to stay, laugh, explore, pause, climb, savour, give, and be mindful. Two places with so much faith and loss and struggles for freedom, but not deprived.
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