On the way to and back from Khirganga

Things got ridiculously perfect. Rainbow. Quaint little stream. A quaint little wooden bridge over the stream. Rainbow and stream again. It was all too much and I had no option but to get out.

A shy stream, Khirganga

We didn't walk too far. But we found the stream at the right time. A forceful tongue of warm water bled into a frosty cold column. And the hot spring disappeared just like that.

Old Manali. Down the road.

I am glad you're still working at this age. Selling coffee and grub. It's not too bad. Not bad at all, you know.

Himalayas, Roadsides. Backyards. Frontyards. Everywhere.

How could you? How could you detach yourself from life and fall into a gutter by the wayside? How could so many of you plunge into slush, scar your supple skins on unemotional black tar, shrink and rot? How could you lie there next to plastic wrappers and old water bottles? How could there be orphans among you choking in the crowd of roadside vegetation? It's all so beautiful, but it's certainly not one bit fair.

Naggar, Kullu Valley
On a misty cloudy gray green day.

guess who I met again today? The-prancing-to-an-ascending-stranger-running-around-in-all-directions-and-finally-collapsing-on-the-stranger's-feet-puppy. Kutzo. Apparently that's what the 60day-er is called. He has his joyful rituals. He came running towards me like the other day. Did a few suicidal crisscross on the downward looking upward gazing slopey road like the other day. And then he sat down on my feet. Not at my feet. On it. He sofa-ed the feet, just like the other day. Kutzo you crazy lil' thing.