Yumthang Valley, North Sikkim.

Once independent from India, Sikkim is nestled in between the Bhutan and Nepal.

Operation Smile- GuwaHAAAWWWTI.

Screening. Pre-Op pretty baby boy. A solid example of when you are fortunate not to be able to read English:
Fact: wisdom comes with age.
Beth and Mel.

Burn patient. Skin graph taken from patients stomach to give movement to her arm. Spirit.

Yasi and Asil.

Contemplative waiting for her sister...

Fisherman at sunset on the Bramaputra

with stunning colors and better company.

Two hundred and twenty six safe surgeries...

not that numbers should matter.

The Royal Enfield Adventures.

15 days, 2500 kilometers through Goa, Karnataka and Tamil Nadu.

Ate eveything. Danced through palaces at night. Got really dirty. Watched wild elephants mate and made friends in low places. Walked through villages and slept in rose gardens. Prayed in mosques, temples and churches. Felt so sad I was sick. Ran out of gas- twice. Camped under the stars, due to a lack of gas- twice. Closed my eyes and pretended to fly. Nearly crashed. Developed a whiskey habit. Threw poop with kids. Hiked through Bandipur National Park. Searched for tigers, ran from tigers. Spashed in waterfalls and fell in

love

every single day.

GOA

42 hours across the country.

Varanasi

Whether it be sitting atop of Shanti Guest House watching water bison swim through the Holy Ganga, drinking chai on the burning ghats gazing at ashes fly into nirvana, purchasing 'charas' or hash from the government shops located inside temples, memorized by nightly pujas and candles floating into this spiritual river... This entire place also known as "Benares" is high. I was struck by an energy whether it be opiate or auspicious I am still unsure. Few places are as charismatic, colorful and spiritual. It is here that Hindu's reach 'moksha' or liberation from the cycle of birth and death. It is here I watched this circle unfolding beneath my eyes revolving around the Ganga- the people bathe, drink, wash, defecate, birth and die in this river.

From ashes we come to ashes we will return.

Bodhgaya

It was here, 26 centuries ago, Siddhartha Guautama attained enlightenment beneath the Bodhi tree and so became Buddha.

helping hands

salud.

against the burning red wet sky
my song spills over turqouise and silver stitched silk
sounding olive branches, certain peace,
rebirth and loss

he has young birds to cage
and I've already flown away.

Digha

Where sand kisses the lips of the Bay of Bengal.  
  
 
     


                            

uncensored scribbles

on how her heart behaves

crowded trains of raging thoughts rush like rivers. feelings flood my furiously tempered heart as monsoons do the streets. i anxiously await the onset of the rainy season. emotional storms that take an entire city captive. fluctuating tides that on every sun rise and moon set carry my heart out to sea, never to return finding her laying listlessly as a battered woman by pearly green bubbles. left for me to recover daydreaming of the depths she has discovered. i know what her soul has uncovered. i do not choose to control the canvas. her path stormy and surreal, sleeping at wish of free will. awake, alive, vibrant, beating with a ferocious energy. i do not seek to tame or know her ways. i will follow her intuitions into the deepest mosquito ridden steamy estuaries. i follow through the darkest oblivion and when my mind has convinced my body that escape is an unthinkable position... the unencumbered whole of my being is surrendered to the point of dissolution and dissolvement. I accept the loss of every soul I have every loved or grieved or conceived. I find her guidance has given me greater gifts than God gave Sodom and Gomorrah, Gabriel or Genesis; a clean and fiery slate, a message of his coming, a new beginning of worldly creation.

the banyan tree

O you shaggy-headed banyan tree standing on the bank of the pond,

have you forgotten the little chili, like the birds that have

nested in your branches and left you?

Do you not remember how he sat at the window and wondered at

the tangle of your roots and plunged underground?

The woman would come to fill their jars in the pond,

and your huge black shadow would wiggle on the water like sleep

struggling to wake up.

Sunlight danced on the like restless tiny shuttles weaving golden tapestry.

Two ducks swam by the weedy margin above their shadows,

and the child would sit still and think.

He longed to be the wind and blow through your resting branches,

to be your shadow and lengthen with the day on the water,

to be a bird and perch on your topmost twig,

and to float like those ducks among weeds and shadows.

r.tagore.

i find comfort under the shade of his dreadlocks.

swinging like a child, holding onto his nappy roots

loosely landing in the leaves below.

i smile at

the simplest things

banyan trees

and small scrapped

knees.

confessional,

i wink
at men who burn
through my clothes
with their burdened brown eyes
to illicit
more interesting faces
in
photographs.

oysters near the babughat

navigating the intricacies of this city

having never seen a street sign

North to South

Hooghly to Howrah

thirty-two distractions in eighteen different peripheal views,

it's nine thirty pm and i'm whispering to roving correspondents

Sunday's news.

on the metro between Tollygunge to Esplanade

i fumble into a friend with wife and two giggling girls

deep within the City of Joy,

I'm found

diving for her pearls.

Mother Teresa- Bridges over Band-Aids

Last Tuesday I volunteered with Mother Teresa's Missionaries of Charity. They have had a huge impact in Kolkata since established in 1950. On Tuesdays they happen to give electric shock therapy to the women who are supposedly suffering from mental disorders.

Think:  One Flew Over the Cuckoo's Nest 

My job was to console the women as they screamed after electric shock had been administered. 

I have never heard such cries, I have never felt so helpless. 

I no longer volunteer with Mother Teresa Missionaries of Charities. 

I believe in giving the people necessarily skills to be able to lift themselves from poverty not becoming reliant on charitable deeds.  I feel Mother Teresa's keeps the charitable needing charity. On many discussions near disputes with devout Catholics and others who volunteer at Mother's religiously (no pun intended) I find myself entangled in the same conversation. Our Western ideas of sustainability and development can not be applied here.  Impoverished Indians need a refuge to refresh the soiled yellow beaten bandages, they deserve a dignified place to die, the children need their bellies full and a hair washing.  And this all needs to be done by floods of volunteers coming to Mother's every single day.  

I pass no judgement. I applaud others overarching humanitarian efforts, I respect others definition of service. With all the growing pains naturally accompanied by living-We begin to realize where We Fit and after all imaginable efforts where We Will Never, Ever Fit. 

Of interest I recommend: The Missionary Position: Mother Teresa in Theory and in Practice by Christopher Hitchens 

on contrast read:

In My Own Words by Mother Teresa