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.