We left Manali, in pouring rain and a sea of mud, on the overnight semi deluxe bus for Delhi. It was far from deluxe but the journey was relatively comfortable. At 6 am the next morning, the conductor wakes us from sleep yelling in Hindi, “last stop, Delhi!” Two hours ahead of the scheduled arrival, the bus deposited us beside a metro stop, at the far end of the line from our destination, Gurgaon. The newly built-out metro is the jewel of modern Delhi – efficient, safe and clean – it is the solution to the city’s population and traffic overload. Ridiculously cheap, it’s affordable to everyone. We travel 42 km for a mere 27 rupees each!

Our five days in Delhi reunited us with our Indian family. Since, the inclusion within this family is very special to us because neither one of us are part of a large family of blood relations anymore. And we really do feel part of the family, not guests anymore. The conversation drifts in and out of English and Hindi without any special awareness that we don’t understand Hindi. We’re not special, we’re included. Maybe because they’ve all traveled abroad, it’s not so strange to develop a friendship with a foreigner.

Gerard comments that he is neither dreading nor excited to return to Boston. “In fact, I don’t even think about it,” he says. To a large degree I share his feelings, although in my usual mental overdrive, I’ve definitely begun to project – the little things I miss if I choose to go there – our soft bed, my yoga class, brown rice, weekly Satsang, the garden waiting to be replanted – but nothing that important that it can’t wait. I know I’ll be very happy to see friends again, but they are not part of my immediate life right now. And then, a few minutes later, I’m thinking about India next year, already planning our next visit. Gerard refuses to go there with me; he’s content to deal with the matter in hand – going home. “The only reality is the present,” he reminds me.

While flying back to the US, I’m hanging in a state of limbo between two realities – India and Boston. Our friend from Rewalsar, Frederic, who travels back as far as London with us, is so much part of our India experience, and keeps us rooted in that reality longer than might be the case otherwise. Frederic exchanges seats to be able sit with us on the flight. I reflect on the friendships we’ve made traveling. A spontaneous change of plans took us to Rewalsar where we met Frederic. Is the encounter random or destined? I believe it’s destined. And the fact we’re traveling back to London together is further proof.

A week later:

We’ve now been back for almost a week. India is such a large presence that it doesn’t fade from our consciousness quickly. Our street seems quiet, but it also lacks the vibrancy. It’s so convenient to drink water out of the tap and brush your teeth without filtered water – but there aren’t half dozen ‘pure veg’ restaurants on our block. It’s nice to have a closet full of clothes to pick from – yet our little case was all we needed. A friend asked me, “Why do you go to India? Is it to escape from winter?” Well yes, it’s a cheap escape. But it’s much more than that…the attraction to a country that is so large and so diverse physically, economically and spiritually is powerful. To quote, the Mexican poet, Octavio Paz, “India’s diversity is created by extreme contrast – modernity and antiquity, luxury and poverty, gentleness and violence, a multiplicity of castes and languages, rivers and deserts, plains and mountains, cities and villages, rural and industrial life, centuries apart in time and neighbors in space. To those of us who are attracted, India can be addictive.

Gerard asked a lot of people about the weather in Manali before we decided to travel north up the Kullu Valley to 6,500 feet surrounded by mountains reaching up another 10,000 feet. Our French friend from Rewalsar, Frederic, decided to accompany us in the shared taxi. The ride followed the Beas River, through deep canyons and wide valleys, slowly working our way north and increasingly higher. We passed through villages with old wooden two storey houses where the livestock is kept indoors on the first floor during the winter, helping to heat the living quarters above. The roofs were covered with gigantic pieces of slate. Wonderful indigenous architecture!

Five hours later, we arrived in Manali, a busy mountain town, its main street looking a little like the Wild West with its wooden buildings, verandahs and store fronts. The guidebook advised we stay in Vashsist, a small village just up the hill beyond Manali. The season is only just beginning, and our first choice of hotel had not yet opened. But next door, we got a large room with a spectacular view across the river valley rising up the hill side through pine forests to snow covered mountain peaks. The price of the room was very reasonable even after a one-bar electric fire was thrown in for an additional 100 rupees a day. I didn’t see the need, but Gerard insisted; later that evening after the sun went down, I was glad of it!

The next morning was decidedly brisk and the air so clear that the mountain ranges and bright blue sky looked more like a post card than the real thing. I have to pinch myself to believe we’re really here. Frederic was put off by the row of restaurants and funky tourist shops lining the steep main street, but this is an inescapable feature of any tourist destination. And once we ventured into town, the three of us were amazed at what we found. Many of the buildings are still wooden and look like the ones we passed further down the valley, large enclosed verandahs with carved details. Perhaps at one time they were painted, now sun bleached and weathered to a beautiful patina. Others sport a fresh coat of blue or green paint.

The locals seemed unperturbed by our presence even as we clicked away with our cameras. In fact, some of the women even struck a pose!

One afternoon we followed a foot path out of town up a steep incline through apple orchards. We’ve ahead of the blossom by a couple of weeks, but daffodils, jonquils, forsythia, irises, hyacinths, primroses, violets.-all the flowers familiar to us back home are coming into bloom.

Vashist is known for its hot spring which is in the center of the village. They’ve cleverly managed to make public bathing areas, for men and women respectively, right in the temple. The hot spring also feeds into a clothes washing area. The women are spring cleaning now the warmer weather is arriving (or so we thought until it clouded over and the temperature doesn’t rise much above freezing). They’re washing huge piles of blankets, pounding the dirt out with their feet, and then spreading them out to dry across the slate roofs of their buildings.

Among the restaurants that have opened for the season, we select a couple: one for breakfast with a roof top terrace and spectacular view in the early morning sunshine. The other is a funky old wooden building, painted robin egg blue. The ceilings are so low even I have to duck my head. But it’s cozy. Run by a two generation family, the father, mother and daughter sit around a table in the back of the room until they’re called into service when a customer arrives – the mother knitting, the daughter nursing her baby under voluminous layers of clothing and shawl.

Across the river in Old Manali there is a bookstore which provided a haven of warmth as the day deteriorated from clouds to drizzle to downright cold. While I browsed, Gerard engaged in a lively discussion with the owner about Indian politics and Gandhi. The store keeper was very forceful in his opinions, and after initially disagreeing, Gerard went quiet and let him continue to explain his views. When the discussion finished and a few minutes had passed, the storekeeper began to apologize to Gerard for any offence he might have made. “And furthermore” he said, “You’re older than me, I meant no disrespect” Once again age is treated with directness!

Frederic is an interesting character. We’ve been with him for almost two weeks. Like others we have met traveling, he discloses little at first, but gradually the layers peel away as we talk and we piece together more about him — but he’s still a mystery. The dynamics of three can often be difficult; with Frederic that’s not the case; he engages both of us. His moods are erratic – like me, he wears them on his sleeve. But when his mood is good he entertains us with his enthusiasm on subjects, ranging from spirituality to French movie stars. He reveals just enough of himself to make us feel we’ve become good friends. After three days he left to go back to Rewalsar. But by huge coincidence, we’re all flying back via England on the same flight! So we’ll see him again at Delhi airport.

Big selling items here are long underwear and hand knitted wool socks. We’re glad we’ve arrived before the crowds, but it would be nice if it was several degrees warmer. By the middle of the day, if the sun is out, it’s comfortable. But too often the day starts bright and clear, and then clouds roll in over the mountains – and by late morning the sun has gone.

But for the past couple of days, the weather has deteriorated into thick clouds and rain with the snow line descending down the mountainside. Our warm clothes are back in Delhi and layers of tea shirts no longer adequate. Glad of the excuse, I bought angora wool socks and leg warmers to wear with my capri knee-length jeans – a pretty odd looking outfit! But the village is full of odd looking outfits. In the most comfortable restaurant in town they try to get a stove burning and play movies for us in the evening. We’re holed up in this town waiting for the weather to break hopefully before we leave for Delhi. And in spite of the unexpected cold, it’s still very beautiful looking at the mountainside covered in fresh snow and the frost coating the pine trees.

Gerard found an interesting sounding place, 25 kms off the main road. The only information he could get from the Internet was that it was a Tibetan enclave. So we thought we’d go and spend a day or so. The bus ride from Mandi through the valley up the mountainside heightened our expectation. Rewalsar is a small town beside a lake, made up mostly of Tibetans, but there’s also a large Sikh gurdwara and a Shiva temple. Walking down the main street looking for a guesthouse, a friendly Tibetan merchant greeted us and recommended that we stay in one of the four monasteries that dominate the town. Taking his advice, we took a large clean room overlooking the monastery and lake – and a gigantic Buddhist statue on the hillside.

The typical Tibetan chanting with horns and gongs was sounding in the courtyard. Gerard commented, “This sounds like one of the avante-garde jazz bands I like!” In the late afternoon, we walked down to the lake as the sun disappeared behind the hills. We both agreed that maybe Reselwar deserved more than just a day or so.

After breakfast the merchant advised we go up to the statue of Guru Padmasambava Rinpoche, called Guru Rinpoche for short. It’s newly constructed and in the building beneath it elaborate tonga style painting is in progress on the walls and ceiling. A group of young Bhutanese men are painstakingly executing intricate scenes from the life, we believe, of Guru Rinpoche. It’s hard to get the full story because people speak very little English. It appears that one man draws the scenes (from memory) while others follow behind doing the inpainting (once again from memory). Gerard looked around for plans or photographs – anything that would guide the artists…but there was nothing. Later we were told that these artists have been highly trained from the age of eight, and they don’t need any reference material. There were neon colours of every description. We both felt that it was a rare opportunity to see this work being executed.

Guru Rinpoche came from Afghanistan to Nepal and then to Rewalsar in the district of Mandi. He’s mostly known for being the person responsible for bringing Buddhism to the Tibetans who were previously practicing a shaman practice called Bon. At the top of a steep hill above the town, Guru Rinpoche meditated for many years in a cave. Walking in the nearby forest one day, he met the King of Mandi’s daughter and they connected spiritually. The local people were jealous unable to believe it was a pure relationship and told the king.. Annoyed the king sent soldiers who pulled Guru Rinpoche down from his cave and set fire to the forest to burn him alive. The Guru stayed in meditation and turned into a lotus – and the fire turned into water.. It is now called the Lotus Lake. But the way the story goes depends on who you ask, and there’s little information on the Internet to verify.

One morning, we went up to the cave where Guru Rinpoche meditated. Deep in its interior is a large Buddha statue. The silence in the cave was nearly deafening. And of course the whole hilltop was covered with fluttering prayer flags. From the hilltop we noticed an interesting looking building overlooking the lake that was clearly not Buddhist. So the next day we investigated. It turned out to be a large Sikh gurdwara. A young Sikh man told us that this was the spot where Guru Gobind Singh (the last Sikh Guru) met with the Hindus to strategize to fight the infamous Mogul emperor, Arjungazeb. The atmosphere was very peaceful as we sat drinking chai from the langar and conversing with the young Sikh in the late afternoon.

One evening we were trying to meditate with the sound of loud drums and horns right outside our window. Finally I got up and looked down into the courtyard where a large group of people were encircling a line of dancing women in full regalia. The story was that some people were visiting from Ladakh and the locals were so pleased to see the visitors that they danced for them. Later, after we’d gone to sleep, we were woken by them dancing again – as if they could not contain their joy.

Rewalsar is sacred to Hindus, Buddhists and Sikhs. A number of westerners practicing Buddhism are here, dressed in the traditional red robes, but it is still largely undiscovered.

Among the very few tourists is a Frenchman from Provence called Frederic. He’s been here for the past six weeks and both of us enjoy talking with him. One evening he showed us a lovely walk through the green terraced countryside to a small Shiva temple. We sat for a long time taking in the view.

Reselwar is one of those places attractive in so many different ways that you wonder if it will exist after you leave…and if you were to return, would it have completely changed? Part of the charm is finding this place, and the rest is the people who mostly still seem rooted in the traditional life style and are not complicated by the stresses and strains of the west. The Tibetans walk up and down the street with their spinning prayer wheel in one hand and prayer beads in the other; their mantra on their lips. They don’t seem to be interrupted by our presence; at the same time they’ve very welcoming, and the women seem especially friendly toward me! The seeming ease between the three communities is also a welcome contrast from the communal rioting that delays our trains in India and the continued agitation in the Middle East

Leaving Varanasi before 5 am, trailing our cases through streets still dark a quieter but not empty. Our rickshaw driver literally leaps across the equivalent of three lanes – a mass of vehicles, animals and pedestrians. He carries us at breakneck speed to the railway station, only for us to find the train is four hours late – a result of JAT agitation in Lucknow (a low caste demand for inclusion in the central backward classes) which is occurring in several states.)

You never know what to expect on a train journey in India. Across the corridor from our bunks is a family with two small rambunctious kids. I’d objected to being called Auntie, but now I have to endure Grandma. “Go and talk to Grandma”, the father instructs, trying to offload his kids. I’m happy when they get off the train. Indian parents teach their kids to be forceful personalities. This is fine, but loud voices calling “Papa, Papa” incessantly (not to mention “Grandma”), can get tedious for those of us who have never been schooled in parenthood. Towards evening this family is replaced with a newly married couple, honeymooning in Simla, who appear to have little need for sleep and sing love songs to each other late into the night.

With further delays, we arrive 8 hours late in Kalka, missing the connection to the toy train for Simla. So there’s no alternative but a taxi. Two other tourists appear – a couple of very tall young men from LA on Spring break. We all pile into a white Ambassador crammed in with bongo drums, guitar and hiking gear and head into the mountains.

At 2,200 meters Simla is built on two sides of a ridge…very steep sides. Practically what this means, there is no motor or any other vehicle traffic. Goods are delivered by porters, with large bundles strapped to their back. Learning that many of them end up dying of tuberculosis, I found the sight of these scrawny little men struggling up through the bazaar more painful than even the grossly deformed beggar sitting outside our hotel.

Back in the time of the Raj, Simla was a favorite hill station of the British and also the seat of government during the hot summer months.. Before the British put in the toy train, it took twenty days to bring everything up from Kalka below where the train terminated to outfit the government.

The Mall at the top of the bazaar even today reminds me of a British High Street. I’m horrified to learn Indians were not allowed up on the Mall unless they were serving the Imperialists. The most magnificent building is the ‘Viceregal Lodge”, the palatial summer home of the Viceroys, ending with Lord Mountbatten during the final days of the Raj.

Shimla is also significant for its green policy. Part of a broader Himachal Pradesh initiative, it is in the forefront of banning smoking in public places, limiting the use of plastic, and serious conservation of water.

Gerard deliberately left Varanasi before Holi, a festival of color, which involves pelting each other with day-glo colored powder. Tourists are prize targets and Varanasi is notorious for this. He thought we’d be safer in Simla.. I’d gotten tired of Gerard worrying about his already limited wardrobe being sacrificed to the resilient stains of Holi. But I was blasé: “It’ll never happen to us, we’re too old.” My mistake! We’d barely stepped out of our hotel in search of breakfast, when round the corner a band of “color snipers” advanced toward us.. .“No, no!” I pleaded with no where to run.. “Oh.. Shit! Shit!” as a cloud of pink dust enveloped me. I desperately tried to brush off the color from my white and blue windbreaker, much to the amusement of on looking locals. Not so blasé now!

After I’d finished venting, and some breakfast, I wore my pink hair with pride. And later, the boys from LA who had entered fully into the spirit of the festival, returned covered from head to foot in color, looking like a credit to Jackson Pollock.

Simultaneous with Holi was an Indian film festival where we escaped further pelting and also saw some excellent independent documentaries on India regional cultures and communal tensions. It was also interesting to once again come across a small group of people following the same spiritual practice as us – 50 people meditate together in a meeting hall every evening.

Varanasi is still as fascinating as ever. The narrow lanes pulsate with life (and death) marriage and funeral processions, cows, dogs, water buffalo, beggars with babies, all jostling along to and from the ghats. Wandering lines of pilgrims, trailed by guided tours of Asians, wearing face masks to protect them from the dreaded disease. At sunrise over the ghats – pilgrims in boats, sadhus begging, smoldering cremation fires, boys playing cricket along the narrow steps, children selling bowls of fresh flowers to offer to Mother Ganges.

The Sita Hotel staff is welcoming – remembering us from a year ago. Likewise, the amiable, paan chewing Shree Restaurant owner where we eat regularly – because the food is good but more because he plays Indian classical music. Few tourists are as serious about music as Gerard, and the boys in the three CD stores we frequent call out greetings as we pass. They know Gerard is a good customer and will purchase more CDs this year, but they also I believe enjoy talking with him, sharing their knowledge as they advise him on the best musicians and music. Still young, their knowledge of classical music is remarkable. The Muslim beggar, who Gerard favored last year, his right hand a disfigured stump, also seems to remember us: His face lights up, “Salam Alikoum!” “Alikoum Salam”, we reply.

Santosh of Shree is also a patron of art and his restaurant walls are covered with rich photographic impressions of India and its people. Since last year, he’s opened an art gallery next door with excellent pictures taken by a professional. Vivek Desai. Two portraits especially impressed me – one is of an old woman her grey hair in a tight bun, grimacing as she immerses herself in the cold water of the Ganges. The other is of a younger blind woman, also immersed above her waist, her vacant eyes uplifted as she holds her baby above the water, her yellow gold sari reflected in the rippling water surrounding her. I was moved by the conviction of both women in the sacred power of the Ganges. Gerard was particularly taken by a photo taken of the body of another old woman this time laid out on a funeral pyre, lifeless and mouth open. He commented, “No matter what our journey, this is the common end of all our travels.”

At dusk, tourists and pilgrims converge to watch the puja (religious performance) beside the Ganges. But this year, we have to walk through a security gate. Fears of terrorism were realized last December when a bomb exploded during the puja, killing at least two persons, possibly several more, and injuring many. People believe the police disposed of the bodies in the Ganges to minimize panic and scandal. The security seems ineffectual as a further deterrent. The police pay little attention, a cow wanders through the gate ahead of me, and when my bag sets off the alarm no one reacts! Despite the bombing, which was never attributed to any terrorist or religious group, there is still a crowd at the puja each night, extending out into crowded boats on the river – but maybe a little less crowded than last year.

CD stores in the lanes are a refuge for listening to music, good conversation and dinking tea from small clay cups. A stranger sitting across from us at dinner was amused overhearing our conversation. I upbraided Gerard for reaching his 11th CD purchase. But the last one’s a present, he protested. The man was reminded of similar conversations with his own wife. He’s a German humanitarian aid worker. “Keep buying more CDs,” he laughingly encouraged Gerard as we part. I was less amused!

At times, the dirt, noise, crowds all get to me – I don’t want to have to step over another cow flap, see another scrawny dog limping because a speeding motorbike ran over its leg, or have another beggar woman use her baby to evoke my sympathy. I cannot make these things go away. I don’t want to ignore them but in order to be here I have to live with all this harsh reality. Then I go through a letting go process and can handle it again – more to the point, actually enjoy the city.

But this time, neither of us can take the continual noise in the ashram below our window. The music starts promptly at 4 am, high pitched bhajan singing interspersed with what sounds like mournful laments rather than devotional rejoicing. Later, a devotee claps what sounds to be tin castanets at a slow regular beat to aid his concentration; after 30 minutes we’ve had it. He starts again in the evening, considerately timing it with our own meditation. It does not aid my easily distracted concentration.

So we move to a new guesthouse. We no longer hear the sounds of the ghat – the thump, thump from the washer men who begin their work before daylight, the muffled voices of bathing and boating pilgrims. Instead beginning at 3 am, faint chanting accompanied by a harmonium in the far distance; an hour later the temple bell tolls, followed by the mosque call from a different direction. And always the barking dogs. The monkeys don’t begin their screaming till after day light by which time the dogs have gone to sleep, exhausted by their nocturnal escapades.

While I struggle with the less salubrious aspects of Varanasi, others seem to have no problem. Even the most vulnerable have a higher tolerance level than me. A young Russian mother worries whether her three year old daughter is having a good time. “Don’t worry mummy, I love everything here,” the little girl reassures. She loves dressing up in bangles and sequined skirts and greets the cows in the lane outside her hotel with the names she’s given them. Another grey haired English woman is here with her thirty-something son. She has dreamt of coming to India ever since he began coming in his teens and is finally here having a “lovely time”. The way death is handled here in Varanasi especially impresses her. “Everything is in the open, so different to how in the west we try to deny and ignore it” As we talk, a procession passes in front of our restaurant. An old lady’s dead body is being carried on a rope bed covered with flowers through the lanes to the cremation ghat. The boy in the CD store off the music for a few minutes while the procession passes and raises his hands in prayer.

Indians also are very direct about age. “You are old”, they remind Gerard and I repeatedly. “Auntie! Auntie!” the young men call after me. But the ultimate injury is when they call out tauntingly, “A very young couple!” All harder for me than Gerard who is more accepting of his age.

The guesthouse is occupied predominantly by young Japanese and Koreans. I try unsuccessfully to analyze why…Do they come for spiritual reasons? Or with their dyed blond hair and dreadlocks are they escaping the restrictions of middle class life in Japan? I admire their individuality – the young girl who walks down the alley stepping around the garbage in very white, very high heeled shoes, holding her equally white skirt above her ankles…totally impractical and inappropriate. But hey! She felt like wearing them…so why not?

Whatever the reason they come, they are the largest tourist group in Varanasi. The restaurants cater to their tastes, cooking Asian food. This is a relatively new development although the restaurant owner tells us the Asians have been coming here en masse longer than the Europeans or Americans. They do not seem to react to the terrible news of the recent earthquake and tsunami. Asking those in the cafes if their family is safe? “Yes, everyone is ok” – but in the evening, they demonstrate their concern by performing a ceremony Hindu style, with candles in earthen pots on the edge of the Ganges in remembrance of all the suffering in Japan.

Varanasi exemplifies the choice that we have in life – do we focus on the negative – the trash beneath our feet? Or do we raise our head, and see the magic that is everywhere? Other than the visual and audio charms of the city, there’s something less obvious that keeps us coming back. The struggle for life and its conclusion death are so much more apparent here that hopefully we will leave with a better grip on reality.