being human is an art.

“Being human is an art.”

But not everyone is familiar with the medium.

Not everyone can claim to be an artist.

It takes craft and skill to polish one’s own work.

It takes fine tuning to chip away the imperfections, the flaws.

My life’s work is far from complete.

Perfection isn’t the goal, but the desired object of completion is

something to be proud of.

A life worth living. 

the ganges.

Varanasi, India.

I cringed when Collin pointed out the bloated carcass of a dog,

floating in the Ganges.

I cringed when I saw a young boy, no more than the age of twelve, row two grown men on an Indian gondola on the Ganges.

I cringed when I saw a dog, recently dead, blood pooling fresh from its nose and mouth, and I wondered if the men who stood nearby working ended the animal or if disease did.

I felt odd when I saw a body hoisted onto the shoulders of family members, incense trailing behind reaching us in our high seats on the back of a tuk tuk, and I thought of who that person might be, but it wasn’t that person anymore.

But.

I did laugh when we went to the chemist for pain relievers and he tried selling me toilet paper, hand sanitizer, and all the necessities a westerner would need while in India.

And I smiled at the vegetable and fruit vendors, and marveled at the colors.

And we both laughed at the massive rama bull who kept getting swat at by vendors to keep it away from their goods.

And we smiled at the cows who were lucky in their positions in life to be fed fresh greens at the vegetable market.

And at the nightly riverside puja, Collin and I smiled, laughing to ourselves that even while our hands were clasped a young man flirted with me.

Equal pain, equal joy, equal laughter. 

four cities.

Visakhapatnam.

A glass coffin tethered by electricity,

creating a refrigerator to preserve death

until far-away relatives could pay their respects.

But the cold couldn’t stop the smell of decay,

which hung in the night air.

An intrusion of intimacy drifted toward

the American foreigners who walked by,

chancing upon the porch-side reverie.

Not knowing how to pay our respects,

we continued to walk by.

Varanasi.

Bloodied goat hides smattered along the sides of the roads,

preparation for an Islam holy day.

If not for the binding traffic and the sudden

stops of our tuk tuk driver,

struggling against our weight,

I might’ve missed it.

A body raised high on a platform

above the heads of those who carried it.

The heat of the incense and the weight

of the mantras sung in the air lingered far longer than the

tight traffic our tuk tuk driver muddled through.

Chennai.

The flash of the ambulance lights,

pulled far to the side of the road.

Several other cars followed suit.

I saw sneakered feet sticking out into the road, limp and strangled.

Don’t look! as we drove by.

Too late, my mind saw what I didn’t want it to.

A young boy crashed his motorcycle,

looked far too young to be driving,

in my country as well as this one.

Stones outlined the stilled body,

And the paramedics made no attempt to breach the fortified circle.

It was too late when they got there.

They just stood and stared.

Everyone just stared.

Jaipur.

Like Varanasi, but these streets didn’t narrow you in

with crumbling colonial facades.

Rather you were narrowed in by the expanse of the roads,

cars stalled endlessly on the dusted highways.

The walking procession weaved their way through

the otherwise impenetrable traffic.

The shrouded body swung lifelessly

to the rhythm of the mourners,

carrying their bereaved burden on their shoulders.

The chants absorbed into the broiling aluminum of

motorized transportation, forever sealing that moment of grief,

trailing behind.