Nasik is a town named nose. Ravana’s sister got her nose cut off here and, in some tellings, her breasts. That really started the whole thing. It is a bit weird to see people venerating images of a man disfiguring a woman, but they do. Personally, I’ve never liked Lackshman. He disfigured my mythical aunt and later killed the mythical me (Indrajit). However, the Ramayana keeps surprising me with its humanity. This evening I sat under a tree where Lackshmana sat for 12 years in penance for killing Indrajit. I didn’t know that. It’s quite a nice gesture.

I had some words but I woke up and they were gone. I have some photographs but they’re missing an awful lot at the top and sides. I was walking the streets of Mumbai at night, let’s start there. No, I was driving the streets, my head hanging out the window like a dog, in awe of all the diamonds in the Queen’s Necklace. I step out of the cab and a child is tucking an infant into bed, on the pavement. That’s Mumbai. It takes you by the heart and slaps you in the face.

Lepakshi is a site supposedly from the Ramayana. When Ravana kidnapped Sita (debatable) only Jatayu really impeded his path. Jatayu was a giant vulture and a demi-god. There’s a classic painting of Ravana slicing his wing off. He tried to stop Ravana but couldn’t and had only enough energy to lay there till Rama came and to say ‘they went thattaway.’ Lepakshi is my favorite spot in India so far, but I don’t think it’s the place where this bird fell.

I was deeply moved when I saw Avatar today. It contains many of the ideas I’ve been working through in my head and experiencing in paddy fields and on the street. I’ll expand on that further, but first there’s one idea at the foundation. That everything is founded on contradictions. That the most important things in life seem to be in two states, often warring. That rather than divide and explain, these contradictions must be accepted for anything to be understood.

I’m on a 750 kilometer train to Mumbai. This is almost twice the length of Sri Lanka, mind-boggling. After messing up a bunch I have a sort of rhythm with this travel thing, which basically involves paying extra and taking a lot of buses. The train is cool, but always booked. You can pay extra and book late, which I do. Barring that, you can catch a bus almost anywhere. A 14 hour bus is beyond my ken, I fear. I’m glad I made the train.

Lately I’m seeing more than photographing, thinking more than writing. Yesterday I just walked through the paddy, fed a goat water from my hands. Before I watched the sunset with a beautiful girl, the light refracted more perfectly through her eyes. I’ve been reading Hesse, Ramayana verse, the Art Of Travel. I’ve been talking with people that don’t know me and tend to tell the truth. I like it here. I also miss home.

I am hot, miserable and constipated. I sleep poorly, most recently in a urban shelving unit with a glass brick view of the hall. I end up lost for minutes if not hours on end, going in circles and getting contradictory directions, missing sunsets and appointments. I book trains late and have to take the bus. I miss the bus.

I was in the Karanji Nature Park (Mysore), watching the birds. In the enclosed aviary one is punching distance from peacocks and pheasants and they don’t much care. I even saw one chicken playing, well, chicken with a security guard. It was early in the morning and it seemed like mating time. I saw a goose penis for example, which was terrifying. More often, however, the male birds were running around like fools while the females paid scant attention.

I had a dream I remember through photographs. I was swimming in a beautiful sunset, the sky shifted from blues to pinks to greens. It started raining in the ocean. I was worried about my camera so I swam back. The sun was going down, had gone down. I’d missed the shot. As I took my headphones out and folded clothes over my camera the rain stopped and the sun came out again. I could see both the sun and the moon, both white.

There’s this giant bull statue at the top of Chamundi Hill, Mysore. We took the motorbike up there, but not for the bull, but to crawl into the cave and chat with the Swami. He was a journalist before he renounced the world and went wandering in the Himalayas, for seven years I think. Then he’d come and taken care of this temple, most of the time in this cave, I guess.