I like to be lying at sunset. Alone.
For a while, however, tourists from all over the world do not stop arriving. To vary. And it is that there is little to the beginning of the Aarti Ganga ceremony in my city, the oldest in the world: Varanasi.
The truth is that every time I endure less. Those tourists who spend time judging my country. There are different types: the ones that "the air of India smells like incense, flowers, poop, curry, fritanga and jasmine together." What if "the food here is very spicy and I got an attack from Delhi Belly." That if "God is hot, is full of flies, and children do not stop asking me for money." Too heavy. And then there are the others. Those who arrive dressed in their jeans and lifelong shirts and suddenly discover wanting to wear only orange wide pants and tie-dye shirts and stand in front of the Ganges looking at the sky for hours and hours. What are you looking for, I don't know. Maybe they miss their country and from here they try to find it on the horizon. Too weird.
I'm tired! Why gentlemen very heavy, and gentlemen very rare Open well the ears that things are like this: India is not hell and neither is paradise. Of course, it is a unique site, of this I am sure. Mine is not a country. It's a world. A universe.
And I think that this universe fits me perfectly, like a Valentino suit (this Valentino has to make very expensive suits because once a lady hit me because I unintentionally dirtied her red dress with a bit of poop.)
Start the day with the lights of the dawn on the river, hit me in the Ganges with all the very heavy and very rare that take photos and raise my self-esteem, go to breakfast ... with a little luck there is always someone who He lets me try a little fruit or a child who secretly throws me a gulab jamun without his parents seeing him. And when I get bored I go to the main street and I cross it driving the tuk tuks crazy, the drivers screech at me but I know they love me, sometimes they even give me flowers.
The very heavy and the very rare look at me with a face of compassion. They believe that I have nothing, that I am very poor, because I sleep on the street and live from the compassion of my countrymen.
Luckily there is a third type of tourist that I like. They are the ones you see on the street marveling at the wonderful wonders of my country, who are curious, who try new dishes and whenever they pass by my side they wink at me and smile at me amused. They have understood that I am sooo happy.
Maybe, in another life, they were also sacred cows from India.
