In january 2014 I went traveling to India with some people I already knew (which is not something I do often); we went east from Mumbai and then south, to make a round and come back along the coast.
Behind the university in Aurangabad, we followed white marks on the stones uphill, to a small, plain temple. It was a simple round structure, with eternal fire burning inside and orange flags quivering in the blue sky. It was empty. Walking beyond the temple, we got to an even poorer abode of gods. Someone brought fresh petals but now there was only a cow feeding on them. A pair of eyes stared at us from a rock.
We had no rest from the suns agressive glare until we half walked, half fell and slided down the steep slope to some cave temples where tourists were taking selfies. We payed for the entrance when leaving.
I feel the best when I´m moving. When I am abroad, struggling with a new language, unknown culture, figuring whether and how can I say this or that…
“Count no man happy until he is dead,”said Herodotus of Halicarnassus and he meant to say that you cannot know the fate of someone before the chapter of his life is closed. Anyhow, the moments of discovering the unknown hold a golden glow as if of a treasure to be uncovered time after time, the contents of the chest changing each time you lift the lid.
In response to The Daily Post’s weekly photo challenge: “Happy Place.”
Stray story seeker. Hungry hitchhiker. Wannabe polyglot. Aspiring travel writer. Currently bumming around in Georgia.
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