Trail of Ants

A young sweaty rickshaw-wallah passed me down my backpack and insisted I follow him on foot through the narrow alleyways that buffer the Varanasi ghats (wide riverside steps). As respectfully as I could, I squeezed passed a convoy of the dead being carried to their flaming finale on the cremation ghats. As we arrived at my hotel the young wallah placed his hand on my shoulder and softly warned me, ‘don’t go out at night, you’ll be mugged, at gunpoint’. My eyes widened. I paid him his fare and silently turned away. He placed another hand on my shoulder, turned me around and looked at me once more, deeply in the eye. He looked away, taking a moment to compose himself before issuing his final statement, ‘tip, sir?’. I couldn’t possibly deny this morbid messenger, if he would of hugged me, I wouldn’t of let go. Where, I sobbed, was my mother when I needed her. I scurried into the hotel, and prepared for the evening lockdown. Continue reading ‘Mother India’