I exit a holy house painted orange, the mystic inside has just told me of my past, my present and my future by looking at my palm. I am in Varanasi, India’s oldest and most holy city, walking towards the sacred river Ganga and processing the information that has just been shared with me. I sit on the ground in a park. I am surrounded by Sadhus, who sit cross legged, in deep meditation. Their brown skin is contrasted by the white ash that covers it, their gray beards grow long and unruly, and orange scarves drape over their thin bodies. These men have given up all material possessions and let go of all worldly ties, in pursuit of spiritual enlightenment. They sit across from me, perfectly still, and we occupy space together. 

A family approaches me shortly after I sit, a mother and two children. “Rice,” Mom says. Her little boy smiles at me, he must be about six, and a baby sleeps in her arms. I open my wallet to look for cash but Mom motions for me to follow her instead. She points to a shop a ways down the road. I stand and brush the dirt off my skirt and, together, we walk.

Tuk-tuks lay on their horns until the path in front of them is clear, vendors sell produce along the side of the road, cows wander aimlessly, and stray dogs nap in the shade. Sadhus meditate amongst the chaos, a stark and still contrast to the bustle of life around them. The little boy holds his mother’s hand and we weave our way through traffic. We reach a small shop, a hole-in-the-wall place, where fresh fruit and vegetables are displayed on a table in the shade of the front awning. We enter through a narrow doorway that leads us to a dimly lit space where items are stacked on shelves around us. A man in the back of the shop eats lunch with his hands, greeting us with a smile and a wave when we enter. We return the gesture before facing the shopkeeper who stands behind the counter that separates us. Large tin containers sit atop the counter, each filled with a different type of rice. Mom points to one container and asks for five kilos. The shopkeeper begins measuring grains with care, one kilogram at a time.

There is a language barrier between me and the family. They don’t speak English and I don’t speak Hindi. We talk to each other anyway, both knowing that the other will not understand but still wanting to speak the words. We smile when the other finishes speaking, acknowledging the words without knowing what they mean. We communicate most effectively with our faces and our bodies. We smile and point to items around us. Mom moves closer to me and introduces her sleeping baby. I hold a tiny hand and tell her that her child is beautiful. The words don’t hold meaning to her, but she understands.

The little boy points to a container of toothbrushes behind the counter and says something in Hindi to his mom and the shopkeeper overhears and hands us the container. The little boy picks out his favorite color – red. I grab one more toothbrush for Mom before handing the container back – blue. Mom then asks for two bottles of laundry detergent and a jar of cow ghee and we stack the items on the lid of a rice container. The shopkeeper finishes measuring rice and places the plastic bag full of grains on the counter.

Before paying, I take two chocolates from a jar on the counter and offer one to the little boy and one to his mom. The little boy takes his chocolate, smiling, and quickly stores it in his pocket, but Mom politely declines the chocolate, insisting that I have it instead. I say thank you and put it in my pocket. I should have gotten three.

As I pay, Mom balances the bag of rice expertly on her head and tucks her new items into pockets. We wave goodbye to the shopkeeper and the man eating lunch and say thank you. The boy touches my camera curiously as we exit. Until this point, it’s been draped around my neck, forgotten. I snap a quick photo of him and show him. He smiles and shows him mom. Before long, she is posed for a photo too.

We say goodbye there in the street, exchanging thank you’s in our own languages before parting ways, most likely never to cross paths again.