October first turns the page, 8 am, my body salutes the sun next to hundreds of other western, middle-eastern ramblers. Nestled in the Himalayan foothills, each of us stands alone in our zen, yogi minds, but the collective consciousness awakens. This wave flows from the mountains, down the Ganga, across the continent in all directions, reaching every waking and dreaming mind across nations.
Some 10,000 kilometers West, a family mourns their young son, brother, cousin, lover. Same radius, Portland College recluse, driver of death, faces incarceration. Fellow students mourn their pride and invincible identities. One fatal act affecting branches of communities, extending out on the same path of the wakening breath in the land of Hare Krisna, Hare Ram, Shivaye, Om Mani Padme Aum.
News reaches Laxman Jula, same day, 17 yr old boy killed by bus. Hit and run, too. Two. No justice for India, don't even call the police. This driver of death gets behind the wheel next day. Neighbors close shop, and across the world, all feel the heavy weight. All night, the busy street hushed, but "don't say sorry, it's destiny" is on the lips of new friends. Our story becomes their story, becomes one story, blending the human experience.
The world is vast, but its network woven strong. The more one sees, the less space between. Know someone for one day, know them for life, lives. This existence is impermanent, but existence eternal.
I've been sitting atop this cafe my whole life, and I'll never leave. I'll be here forever, I'll be everywhere forever. Today has been a year, these words encompassing more than the moments I wrote them.
Bidi smoke rising above the prayer flag-clad tree outside this terrace, Ganga rushing below, music-makers playing within, and lovers manifesting throughout. The sweet Indian breeze sewing all into one.
1 October 2015 Rishikesh, India