I cannot finish my meditation on wandergrief without looking back at my travels in India. This time, I’m go further back in time, to mid-2009. I was there on a pilgrimage, to see the holy sites of Buddhism and learn more about this new religion and practice that I had just discovered not too long ago. To follow in the footsteps of Buddha, so to speak. And wow, what a transformative experience it was. I returned home, irrevocably changed. So, this again shows that Kyoto was not the first time I’d been down this road of wandergrief.

What lessons from the past can I take comfort in? What hangover cures might there be?

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Breaking dawn on Ganges river, in the holy city of Varanasi. 

The boatman paddled leisurely. In a distance on the other shore, we can see the sky turning violet and orange. Soon, the sun will peak over the horizon. But it is transitionary moments before its blazing glory that’s the most sublime. The sky is quiet, almost holding its breath, just waiting for the ball of light to climb.

Over on the city side, Varanasi is just waking. Sadhus, pilgrims and locals taking their baths at first light along the ghats, holding their noses and dipping into the waters several times in a ritualistic way. They say if you bath here, the holy waters will cleanse your sins. Yet, as tourists, we steer clear of it. The river is also where all of the city’s sewage gets dumped in. Holy in spirit, but not too clean to drink, if you ask me. Someone in the boat cupped some water up, and asked if the boatman drink from it. He replied that he drinks from it everyday and has no problem. On the contrary, if he drinks bottled mineral water, he gets ill. How strange, yet, like magic that only a holy city can have.

Now, the sun is rising above the horizon. Oranges flames of the burning dead on the river banks, amidst the orange fire of the rising sun. Out of the four elements - wind, air, fire and earth - surely fire belongs to Varanasi. All along the ghats, fires burn through the night. By nightfall, there’s the aarti, a daily fire prayer by the river, to the river. Weaving through the dark alleys of the city during the frequent power cuts, occasional oil lamps lighting the way through the black darkness, emerging into the silver moonlit Ganges river, one cannot but imagine that this city is the spiritual journey made flesh, our life’s metaphysical journey reenacted in physical form.