Four weeks and one odd curry-filled Christmas later, I find myself in the heart of madness: Varanasi. They call it the holiest city in India. I call it the fece-ist city in India. It's the type of place that even the savviest world traveler can feel lost and humbled to.
The city hugs the spiritual Ganges river. A place where you see dead bodies burning and people bathing just 75 meters away from each other. The place has a soul of it's own - betelnut spit stains the street a blood red, you break your cup of chai on the pavement after you finish drinking it. It’s cold and loud and pushy and vibrant. But the sights and sounds make you feel present, it reminds you that you are here and it is now.
And because of this you feel grateful, especially to Ganesha - the destroyer of obstacles, for letting you see and feel the beauty past the constant chaos.
