The Streets of Rishikesh at Night

Last night as Bob and I were walking home on the quiet streets I shed a tear. I think it all just started to hit me … where we really were, how many people lived on the streets, what they had to endure … on the other side of the world in such a strange and mysterious place. As we stopped to buy a chocolate at a small confection stand I heard the sweet sounds of a wooden flute echoing through the streets. Turning to catch a glimpse, a dark figure was hunched over the curb, legs crossed with only a stump remaining below his left knee. His prosthetic leg sat unattached beside him while three cows and a baby calf listened intently to his lonely song. Was his prosthetic limb and flute his only possessions? I was sure he would spend the night like many others on the streets of Rishikesh. Sleeping on top of a vegetable cart, under a Chai stand or on the Ghats by the side of the Ganga River, perhaps within a small alcove curled in a ball. Some covered with blankets, others completely exposed. Did you have your dinner? Where is your family? Scrawny dogs and their puppies wake up to explore the remains of the day while the cows and mammoth bulls curl up on the pavement in their usual spots. To the Babas, cripples, mothers, fathers and children of the streets … I send my love to you.