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| Photo by Christine Lilly |
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Bigger is better. Or so I thought, as I climbed aboard a
beaten and tattered bicycle rickshaw for a ride through the
congested streets of Varanassi—a dusty Indian village
situated on the banks of the famed holy river, the Ganges.
Our destination was a religious Hindu ceremony on its banks
at sunset, honoring the gods of the Ganges and marking the
highlight of my two-week stay in this exotic country.
I quickly learned that Survival of the Fittest was the rule
of life on the streets of India. Bigger is better because
the only rule seemed to be: There are no rules. With dusk
rapidly approaching and a monsoon-like wind wailing behind
us, my scenic ride soon became a race to the finish. But my
rickshaw driver, all 100 pounds of him, was up for the challenge.
He wove in and out of the orchestrated chaos like a skilled
artisan creating a hand-woven masterpiece. Only occasionally
would we yield to motorcycles, often piled high with families
of four. The motorcycles, however, always gave way to the
colorfully crowded auto-rickshaws, which in turn gave way
to the smog-stained cars and buses spilling over with schoolchildren
in blue pleated jumpers and slacks. Bicycles, pedestrians,
goats, horses and carts all fought for their place in this
amazing race, only for all of us to be brought to a screeching
halt by an almighty cow. Yes, cows are holy in India, and
they know it.
 As
the torrential downpour began, we battled the masses as though
it were New Year’s Eve in Time Square. Honking horns
and screeching brakes provided the background music for men
who bargained loudly in Hindi over the price of bananas and
candles to offer the Gods. The stench of overflowing, untreated
sewage mixed with choking exhaust fumes were somehow overpowered
by the spiritually cleansing aroma of incense, when we passed
a mosque letting out for the evening.
It was then that I noticed a stunningly serene woman. She
walked deliberately among the crowd. Other women rushed barefoot
in bright orange and purple saris through filthy, wet streets
to make it on time for prayer and meditation at the sunset
ritual. But she moved slowly. How could she remain so calm
and focused amidst the complete chaos?
The wheels in my mind started turning. Maybe this woman knew
something I didn’t. I asked my rickshaw driver to slow down.
He looked at me as if I were crazy to ask such a thing in
this hopeless traffic jam.
I admired this striking woman from a distance. As cows bullied
their way into the open air shops to escape the driving rain,
and throes of devoted Hindus marched steadily in the direction
of their blessed river, this woman took time to smell the
lotus flowers and marigold wreaths that a boisterous man was
hawking. Hand in hand with her husband, her sari flowed gracefully
behind her like the river she was mindfully walking toward.
I watched her haggle with street vendors over some flowers
and incense to offer the gods, while her husband lovingly
steered her around an overflowing pothole. Moments later,
she instinctively grabbed her little girl out of the path
of an oncoming horse-drawn cart loaded with terra cotta planters.
A sense of peace enveloped me as I considered her way of life.
Maybe  bigger
wasn’t better. Why were we all rushing so madly to arrive
at this so-called “place of peace?”
It was then that I realized that she and I were the same.
We may worship different gods, live vastly different lives
on opposite ends of the earth, but we both have the same human
needs and desires. We seek shelter from the storms that life
throws at us. We protect our loved ones from harm’s way.
We have faith in something bigger than ourselves. And we need
to savor our own journeys, to truly appreciate the destination.
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