Surrender. Surrender. Surrender. It becomes my mantra.

I am in Varanasi. The ancient city perched on the banks of the holy Ganges. To get anywhere you have to pick a direction and start walking. The streets, if you can call them that, are tiny alleyways squeezed between decaying brick and cement buildings. Scooters wiz past, their horns echoing off the walls, piercing my ears. The alleys twist and turn. Where are they go, I can rarely tell. 

I am lost. 

I check Google maps to orient myself, but it is basically useless. No cell coverage can penetrate the encircling walls that keep out the sun and house the myriad of families who huddle into their tiny rooms. 

I look around. The alleys are packed with Indians. Women dressed in colorful saris. Men, their bellies protruding beneath their shirts. Sadhus, ascetics who have renounced worldly life, shuffle along in their orange robes and bare feet. Many have ashen markings smeared on their foreheads — markings from the chalk left after the dead are burned in the funeral pyres. I see foreigners. Some tourists with cameras. Others dressed in simple cloth, dreadlocks draping over their shoulders. Comfortable. Many have been here for years. They are pulled here. By what, I cannot say. But they are at home. 

I am not at home.

Varanasi is famous for its funeral pyres. Perched on the steps, or ghats, leading down to the river. Hindus from around the country bring the newly dead here for cremation. To have their bodies devoured in flames, then their ashes tossed into the holy Ganges. In this way their karma is cleansed and therefore are allowed to enter God’s kingdom pure again. They believe the next life will be better. Or even maybe they won’t need to come back at all. 

It goes without saying that this is a deeply spiritual country. You see this everywhere. The prayers. The chanting. Their focus is on God. 

Death is everywhere. You don’t see it, but you feel it. It is the great secret that people keep close to them. Their existence is not so much about this life, it is about the other side of life.

But Varanasi isn’t only about fire. Pilgrims flock here from all parts of this complex country.  They come to pray. To focus on God. To give blessings to the holy Ganges. They bathe in it. They drink from it. They celebrate —  music screams from loudspeakers, drummers attack their instruments, all of it echoing off the water. People dance and laugh. They pray in the temples. This is their life. This is where it all begins. And ends. 

I came to India to discover it’s magic. I came open, without prejudice. I had heard so many stories. Love/hate. But I wanted to discover on my own. So I opened my mind and heart and descended into the chaos. I wanted to try and understand. To embrace.

But being open in India has its downsides. You are forced to confront what is right in front of you. The smells. You hold your breath to keep them away. The noise. Oh my god the noise — I cringe as it pierces my ears. Then the dirt — even in the holy places where you must take off your shoes. Your next step is more dirt. Then the cows. And dogs. And shit you hopefully step over. And the trash thrown in random piles. And the men and women who shovel it up and take it… somewhere. 

I can see why people here focus on God. On the pure. On the other planes of existence. India forces you to do this. 

I want to embrace this. But I fight it. Not that I want to, it’s just so much to take in. I am a baby who looks at the world without discernment. Everything has meaning to me. But here everything is not the same.

I am sick. I’ve basically been sick since I arrived. Sore throat. Clogged sinuses. Cough. My way of keeping the dense, dirty air out of my lungs. I’m not succeeding. But this time it’s different. I spend the night throwing up. All night. Not sure why. I’m exhausted. I want to leave, but can’t. Where am I going to go? It’s not like I can take a direct flight from here to anywhere. So I am stuck. I fight this urge. I am strong. I know I am bigger than this. I say to myself that I am here to learn. To embrace something so foreign… and become at peace with it. At least that is my hope. 

I dig deep and settle back into the chaos. I cannot change this. India has unfolded for thousands of years. What I see could never happen overnight. It is raw, born of chaos. Its father is Shiva, the destroyer. It reveals a temporal world. Only the spirit lasts forever. That is what they pray to. That is how they live.

I do not understand all of this. I am too new. To whipped around by the contradictions. I am both repulsed and fascinated. It is like a car wreak you slowly pass and want to look away from, but can’t. Did someone die? Could that have been me? Be careful. Keep you eyes on the road ahead. 

Back home we have pushed this chaos away. Our western civilizations focus on beauty. We have refined our tastes. We have run from darkness. Even our temples of worship are refined. Beautiful.  But in India, there is no escape.

But there is also great beauty here. How can you look at the Taj Mahal and not see God’s love manifest — like the lotus flower which grows out of the mud. Everywhere the temples point upwards to the heavens — where it is pure. To the promise of perfection. It is there that all civilizations merge. 

I am certain that I will return. That I will have digested my experiences. That I will come back prepared. That I too will focus, not on the chaos, but to the goodness around me. For the soul of India is God. You see it in the people you meet. It is not a country you conquer. It conquers you. You cannot own it.

It owns you.