In the early morning, India breathes heavy. Tradition ripples across vibrant, sparkling saris of women carrying morning wares as the city rises.
We drive on. The contrast begins to swell between vast swaths of peace and pasture, chaos and clamor. The farmland blurs past, yellow pointillism on a bed of green. Blue shrines peak through and eagles soar above in great numbers. Harbingers for locals, a litmus of luck, their appearance indicates failure.
At the rest stop, KTM riders mingle with tarmac in a cloud of male ego. More than a dozen demonstrating prowess in skids and wheelies, speeding in spurts of 20 parking spots. They take off and we eat their dust.
But we’ve been eating the whole country’s dust for days. The world here is seen through a haze you can nearly touch. It lingers on lips and eyelids, like cleaning out a long-neglected garage. How can Vishnu and Ganesh breath-in the deep devotion?
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