Dodging Cow Patties - 1

It was too hot for anything other than the little slip dress she'd purchased at an outdoor market in Berlin. It was light pink with a yellow hemline. The straps were tied into little bows above the shoulders. A man with a handlebar mustache had watched her slip it over her blue shirt and denim jeans. He'd been eating something out of a Tupperware. It looked like eggs but smelled like cabbage, and the girl had taken a few steps to one side, presumably to gaze at herself in the little oval mirror. The smell made her stomach roll.

She was sensitive to scents and preferred the smell of moss or rose water. Anything stronger was displeasing. The man watched as the girl collected a few slips of paper money from her purse. She paid the woman who managed the stall and rolled the dress to the size of a kerchief to place in her purse.

This particular dress was one of her favorite pieces: it never looked wrinkled, no matter how little she washed it or how tight of a space she rolled and stuffed it into. She had three backs with sixteen pockets she filled with all sorts of non-essential items.

There was a bag of chocolates, for example, that she'd purchased in France. She didn't like the chocolates, they were too sweet. Each chocolate was wrapped individually in gold paper. She enjoyed handing them out to strangers she'd met on the road. The sweet dissolved on the tongue, and by the time it was gone, she'd made a new friend.

One small pocket contained three small spools of thread (white, grey, black) but no sewing needle. Another held a pair of wool socks with matching gloves.

The largest pouch was on the smallest bag. It contained a small green ceramic bowl, iodine pills, a small notebook with no blank pages, three cords (none that fit her electronic devices), a large green stone that she liked to put in the freezer and hold in her palm, a bottle of probiotic gummies that tasted like fuzzy peaches, a silk headband that needed a good washing, and a book of poems by Adriene Rich.

She couldn't read the poetry because the book was in Turkish. Another purchase at a Sunday market. In Istanbul, she'd spent all afternoon wandering beneath the white canopy where vendors sold produce, clothes, and premade meals. She'd ordered a plate of kuru fasulye, nohut, and pilav. She liked how the words sounded and assumed the dish would be just as tasty. She'd sat on the rim of a fountain with others perched to sip Kahave and savor their food.

Sitting alongside others to eat was not entirely foreign to the girl, though it had been a long time since she'd dined with anyone other than strangers. She liked to listen to the rhythm of the conversations, the tempo to 'How are you' and 'I miss you.'

These two phrases she always learned no matter what country she was visiting.

Walking was another one of the preferred pastimes the girl held to whittle down the daily hours. The hardest part of the day was between two and five in the afternoon, when the sun was high, and everyone lounged with a cup of tea and biscuits to sweeten the mood.

Conversation drawled during these hours: not much was spoken, and the communication blossomed inside gestures. A tilted chin. Palms that reached across a table. Lowered eyelashed. The girl witnessed it all and could see who was flirting and receding further into themselves.

It was easy to spot those who were disengaged. You could tell by how much light was reflected in a person's eyes.

The girl needed to move her body to break through the tedium. There were so many ways to be buried in this world, and she refused to suffer the intoxication of disenchantment!

She wanted to be enthralled by everything, at every moment, no matter who she was with or where she wound up in the world!

She was often alone, and her solitude never disappointed.

So, on this very hot day on an afternoon when she had no plans with anyone in particular, she donned her little slip dress and a light scarf for her head to walk toward the Ganga. She took a small satchel that fit her water bottle and chose her yellow espadrilles.

The owner of the studio was sitting outside of his shop painting a wooden desk blue and purple.

Where are you off to? He had a nice smile. He was from Brazil, a small town outside of Sao Paulo, and had moved to India twenty-five years ago. He owned the apartment block and liked to hike, sail, and cook. He made furniture in his free time and had a staff of six that assisted him with managing the apartment units.

To the Ganga, the girl replied, not missing a beat as she climbed the twelve stairs toward the heavy wooden door that took her outside of the establishment.

The streets were bustling. Women with their hands full of bright scarves, men on motorcycles, and horses with large bags of sand tied to their backs. A group of four small donkeys with rainbow pompoms tied behind their ears. Cows munching on the piles of garbage: squash, bread, pumpkin seeds, apples, and green leaves. Monkeys that stood with their palms out, for they knew how to beg. There was too much of one thing and not enough of the other: the girl stood out, striding up the narrow street with her toes painted green. Her hair was matted to her back within minutes.

Beggars lined the sidewalks in dark clothes and light kerchiefs wrapped tight to their foreheads. They held their hands out as the girl passed, two reaching for the hem of her dress. Their toenails were blackened, their eyes dusty and dim. One lone calf sat and cried on the corner, braying for its mother. A man with only a torn pair of shorts sat beside it, patting its hide with a claw.

Is pain the root of knowledge? The girl was in the practice of self-discovery. Whatever was advised, she tended toward the opposite.

On the walk toward the Ganga, she stopped for a rishi coffee at a cafe with a teal awning. Throngs of people, locals, and tourists waited outside the cotton-candy pink temple to be blessed. Individuals slipped their shoes off and left them on the dusty red stairs as they entered. Those who exited held their faces toward the sunlight to catch the warmth on the circles of gold (shaped like a thumbprint) stamped between their brows.

The girl wished for one thing: the grace to transform.

Photo source.