Photo courtesy Prchi Palwe via Unsplash

Po Cha Be Like

Tibetan butter tea is heaven, luxury in a cup, silky like cream-colored satin. Like swallowing a perfect pearl. Flavor like sour and salty and sharp. Milk from humble yaks in the high steep ranges of the Himalayas. The national beverage, common as monks in maroon robes. I procured my homely brew from a Tibetan tea man. A mixture of hot smoky tea with lashings of butter, creamy milk, and salt. Luxury seated at a window overlooking the Himalayas, luxury curled onto a deep, red cushion, clasping a cheap metal cup, every sip going down like satin.

Photo courtesy Anirudh via Unsplash

Equal Opportunity

India’s  

highways a lawless laissez-faire place. There were no 

speed limits, no lanes. I could have reached over and touched 

the neighboring motorcycle 

or cow. Perhaps lawless is

inaccurate. Perhaps India’s highways are Equal Opportunity 

To All. In the US, one would never imagine 

doing business on the highway, yet 

maneuvering between oncoming traffic 

in Kolkata, dirty young boys and girls walked head-on, holding 

wilted flowers for sale. Devotees 

performed agonizing religious acts 

along the highway: men and women held 

their hands in namaste at their hearts, devotedly lay

down on the sizzling asphalt in a full-body 

prostration, touching forehead to ground. Then 

stand up, take one step forward, 

repeat. They must have already traveled some distance—

their knees, elbows, and forehead dripped 

blood. Edged on one side of the expressway, a mountainous 

heap of rubbish loomed as tall as the Taj Mahal. Ancient and dark, a 

skinny Indian man squatted at the heap—

his dhoti scrunched up to his thighs—and picked 

at the putrid rubbish, eating rancid scraps. Next to him, a monkey 

resembled his twin: squatted down, picking and eating filthy refuse.