Sweet and Spiced India

They add to the general din that is India, these chai vendors. This sweet, spiced tea is in every alley and on every train. The salesmen call out their wares, making it hard to resist.
I can never quite get enough.
This slap-together chai shop in Varanasi is my personal favourite. I perch on the ghats beneath it, a tiny thick glass clutched in my hand. It's peaceful, for once; the sun rising over the Ganges. Women glide by, partaking in their own morning rituals—one has already begun beating the city's dirt from her laundry. They're wrapped in blue, orange, and green. Thick dark braids trail down their backs. They're all so beautiful.
A barefoot child dabs red on my forehead, "for blessing." Below us another traveller walks to the edge of the river. He starts spinning poi, a graceful dance that I could watch for hours.
The row boats are out already, owners searching for tourists to paddle slowly out into the sunrise. It's tempting but, for the moment, I'm glad to slowly sip my milky chai masala and observe. Locals are bathing—dipping themselves into the polluted holy water. They emerge wringing water from the cloth around their waist. They're cleansed somewhat in body, thoroughly in spirit.
At every turn India assaults my every sense. This morning I breathe in its hazy depth, and ponder. It's never simple, this country. I'm generally in a state of confusion while I'm here. I will always be haunted by the deep dark eyes that look into mine, hungry in ways I will never know. I'll always remember the heady scent of incense, curry, and chai. I'll always miss days of discovery, the life that encapsulates the culture, and the learning experiences I collect while I'm here.
I drain the last drop of now-cold chai from my glass as the air warms, and the day truly begins. I'd better try to keep up. India will go forth in all her vibrant, colourful, fascinating glory. She has her sacred cows, rupees, saris, chai—and the occasional traveller trying to take it all in.