Life Crossings.....

Blogger friend Dhiren aka Hitchwriter was recently the official blogger for the MTB Himachal Cycle race, a difficult trip through the mountains and hills of Himachal Pradesh. Despite being part of a priviledged group that travelled in a four wheeler, observing stuff, there came a time when they had to traverse certain areas on foot, and climb through jungles at night, after finding the bridge below, in pitch darkness.

As he says,

"...this was by far the most eventful two days during the trip... a trek from Tandlu the last motorable point at 11.30 pm on a moonless night trying to cross a river and climb a mountain to reach Janglik at 1.30 am !!!! The trek was shit scaring however no one mentioned anything till we reached. Once we reached we realised that even in 2-3 Degree temperature we were sweating like hogs !!!!!

A super super adventure trek... too bad it was too dark to click pics ! but then something are just in the heart !"

See the other pictures here . 


Naturally, some old lady thinks there is a lesson to be learned......

(photograph by Dhiren)

 

Many crossings in life
(across
difficulties and problems
in full flow
and spate),
are made,
simply,

thanks to 

the age old
carefully prepared
and structured
piles of
"PuNya"***  support
of your ancestors,
regardless
of the
shaky dark paths
ahead of you.......

*** PuNya : Good Karma of your ancestors benefiting you....

Oh Kolkatta !

Braja Sorenson, my blogger friend, lives in the village of Mayapur , in West Bengal. Besides, prayers, chants, temple bells, and writing another blog, and publishing a book, she is fond of cows, calves, walking through fields, photography, and the river Ganga.

This is a recent posting on her photo blog , Braja's India .

While us ordinary types, travel in rickety taxis through potholes , she sails in golden splendour , at dawn, being rowed across the Ganga, on her way to catch a train to Kolkatta


(all photographs by Braja Sorenson)

Ganga Devi's morning
makeup routine,
sprinkling the gold
watched avidly
by the Sun
from behind the mists.

Way
on one bank,
another braid
of flaxen gold,
and she leans back
in the wood
as old as the river,
while
being rowed across.

She steps off,
looks back,
as the Sun
nudges a rippling Ganga,
asking
"Where's she off to?"....

The wind
shakes the mist,
snaking through the green,
takes a guess,
exclaims,
"Oh ? Kolkatta ? ".....