I was humming the tune of a younglove song we wrote on the roof the other night and have since played for numerous people across the city. (most notably at blue lassi- pretty much our most favorite place here.)
Btw- younglove is the name for josh, aaron & I... So we are technically 2/3younglove here in India sans brother j-ho.
I found myself at blue lassi three times yesterday. After our last lassi before the rooftop jam sesh we orchestrated for the evening at kashi- another far better guesthouse that we would be moving to later on, Aaron tried to give the lassi guys a tip.
Mind you this is India... And Varanasi is India at it's rawest.
Everyone wants your money.The children selling little candles stuck in a ring of marigold flowers on floatable banana leafs down by the ghats... the touts trying to be your guide and show you the way through the mazes of broken alleys and footpaths around the city... The Babas perched on rocks chanting low, eerie sounding "om namah shivalya's" and extending their often fingerless hands to receive your change...
Everyone wants your money.
The guys at blue lassi last night straight up rejected Aaron's tips, smiling and joyful, they touched their hearts and said that they were so happy we were regulars and they knew we had been telling our friends to come indulge in one of their masterpieces.
And I mean- seriously- this place would make a killing in the states.
There is so much love in their little terra cotta pots of yogurt and fresh fruit with pieces of pistachio delicately sprinkled on top.
Aaron and I wrote an impromptu song about blue lassi and sang it for the smiling men.
As we walked past wildly colorful necklaces hanging from nails and incense shops trying to pull us in to buy ayurvedic oils, street food sizzling and spitting oil onto the dung coated cobblestones, back through the burning ghats to kashi i felt like skipping... (realizing of course I would be immediately coated in filth and fluids of the foreign kind... I chose not to skip. Just let my heart do the dancing)
Checking out of shanti this a.m. I looked at the grumpy angry faces of the men working there and just sent them love- imagined myself skipping with them.
I don't know if it broke through the cold exteriors but I sent it nonetheless.
Walking into kashi was like coming home- an old woman with bright orange chalk in the center of her parted greying hair greeted us in the foyer. She flung her sari over one shoulder and called up the steep staircases with steel grates in the center, for someone to come show us to a room.
My room has no bathroom and is just another cell-like room- but it has character and love in the walls somehow.
I dumped my bags and came to the roof- the location of last night's short jam out.
I found my friend sitting on the mattress couch drawing in a sketchpad with charcoal.
He is South Indian and sits with an effortlessly regal-like energy... His orange floaty pants and open chiffon vest... His hair cascading down in the morning sun. He oozes peace.
His Dutch girlfriend was gone this morning. She, a beautiful blonde with a bindi and bright enthusiastic eyes carries a travel-size trumpet and kills it! (as she did last night).
Instead beside him was a bearded, long haired yogi from Belarus who sat on the mattress in similar orange pants writing the Hindi alphabet in a journal.
My South Indian friend and I talked about Varanasi. He said in his soft cooing voice juxtaposed to the speaker blasting someone shrieking over the burning ghats something emotional and intense...
"there is a harmony here. Everything has it's place... Everything gets used and serves a purpose and it's beautiful."
He has been here for a month and a half.
My Indian by way of DC by way to Brazil friend from yesterday that walked with Aaron and I to Assi Ghat said "people either hate it here and leave after 2 or 3 days or just get sucked in."
Aaron and I turned to one another and said "we love it."
Then we stumbled onto some wide stone steps like stadium seating looking out at the Ganges.
There was a street food vendor selling something spicy. We ordered it and sat down on the steps.
Instantly Aaron's guitar was out and we were singing "San Francisco" by the Mowgli's.
A troup of little candle selling girls that couldn't have been more then 8 or 9 yrs old, filed in and sat on the steps above us listening and watching with their chins perched in their palms. Immediately there was a crowd of locals surrounding the steps listening and smiling.
No matter the culture or country, this sound- this song- touches people and lifts their spirits.
I think it's the energy from when it was written.
I remember really clearly for some reason driving in my car up Venice Blv near tito's tacos when Mikey texted me those lyrics from San Francisco.
I pulled over and re-read them two or three times.
I loved moments like this- existing among beings who spoke my language on such a lyrical, soul shifting level.
Being with Aaron has made me reminisce so hard- diving back into old memories as we sing songs that I watched the birth of... My mind is called back into the recesses of memory to pull song words that I once recited like clockwork and now struggle to find.
When I reach the lyric, it pulls with it a crumpled up memory or image that brings tears to my cheekbones. (not all the way to my eyes but they certainly get misty nonetheless).
Sitting in the sun on Kashi's rooftop "night bar" looking out over the harmony of this place, I realize that Aaron and I were always meant to meet up here- created harmonies with our voices that I used to know in another lifetime...
Here in Shiva's city- the place of death- and thus... Rebirth.
I feel at hOMe... Once again.
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