“What took you so long to get to India?” The swami regarded me with an amused gleam in his eye. Below us the Ganges, or Bhagirathi, as it is called at that point, boiled through the glistening ravine, knowing no respite as it carried its timeless message down through the world’s greatest mountain range to the ocean at Ganga Sagar, 1,500 miles away in the Bay of Bengal. I had turned 40, it was true, yet here I was, a solitary wanderer, some 20 years after the trickle of seeking, footloose Westerners became a tide, ebbing and flowing across the subcontinent and Southeast Asia in the 1970s.
Wisps ...
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