Hello misses, yes we have a room, this way please. I climb three flights of humid rain drenched stairs while carrying Pandemic The Magic bicycle to my room. The door isn’t really a door, the door is a window, not a window fashioned into a door but an actual window.
The kind of window so often found at grandmas cottage on the lake. The interior of the room is rustic with aging brown ply wood walls. A large, oddly wired ceiling fan hangs from a nail overhead. It wobbles around with an air of stubborn wisdom, and will not give up spinning an appreciated breeze without a dutiful effort. The floor is covered in colorful mats and warm almost wool blankets. It is big enough for at least a dozen people. It is a simple and a perfect retreat from all things “India” out on the street.
Have tea, relax misses. As I chat with the owner and his brother over tea I have to laugh to myself for having to crawl through the entrance window instead of a door seems remarkably appropriate. Is this your first time to India?
Apparently, I am not hiding the shock and awe or the excitement and tribulation of being in India all that well. I have been in India for three days and now sit here at ‘ the windows to my doors of perception guest house’ wondering if my finger tips can unravel a story from my smiling baffled over stimulated mind. After all three days is four thousand three hundred and twenty seconds.
I will sum it up like this. I now truly and whole heartily understand why so many people have been coming to India for so many years either on drugs or to be on drugs. In fact, the next high potency strain of anything really should just be called INDIA.