There is a hazy fuzz of pollution in the Mysore air that coats every situation and person and color and horizon in layer of softness. Looking at things here, especially during certain parts of the morning and evening, is like chocolate cake for the eyes. Everything glistens with a kind of syrupy sweetness. Everywhere there are colors and textures dripping and radiating off the sky and puddles. It makes the food taste better, the hullabaloo a humming delight, and the disposition float merrily around with the dragonflies.
I feel like a sumptuous feast being slowly cultivated and prepared by the experts of nature. All of my veggies have grown, been harvested, and now I am a vegetable pot roast bubbling in the Indian sun, slowly becoming more and more delicious. All of the spices I’ve collected over the years, the hot, the bitter, the sweet, the sour, all compliment each other a little more as I instinctively round out my recipe.
I wonder…if I can make myself as balanced and as strong as I’ve ever been, plus some…will any grievances or poisons crumble from me like hardened wax? Will my oil and my water separate? How many layers of skin can I shed here, and yet how tough can I make my hide? What parts of myself will I take with me to Varanasi to die and toss in the Ganges river?
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