And yet you are homeless in a world that you do not understand in which you do not take part. You live on streets paved with concrete, made ugly with gas stations where you buy gas, drip oil. You travel thousands of miles, miles, miles, miles, day after day though the desolation of hideous buildings built for money to make more money to buy beauty that must be guarded by watch dogs and fences, hoarded, defended. Only for a moment did you live in paradise on the roof, in the heat, in the dust, in India, crying, turning sweet chai to salt tears, to sweat, that evaporated from your skin leaving a scourge for your wounds, leaving salt to rub into your wounds in the heat. O Devayani, the image is instant, the poem is long.
Life is instant, and living takes so very very long.
It is impossible to remember the pain. Only the beauty remains, the music, the stitching. The Wedding in Mahabaleshwar Passing Through Bodh Gaya .