Part 2 continued

The ceremony came to a close shortly after he left. Now it's time to walk over to another building. The prime minister of this state (i guess something like our Governors) is here and the adults are waiting around to meet and greet him (or just see him). I could care less. I see a playground, "Yo, Ankit wanna play on those swings". "Sure." He replies.
We run around for a while and I am confident in my decision to be a kid. As the two German's join us I go to a park bench and do some reading and my daily meditation.
"You read more than anyone I know" interrupts Ankit.
"Thank you" I smile
"Hey kids come over here" Aman yells. He introduces us to the 'Lord of Lords' (a former doctor, turned wealthy business, in order to give money to charity), and Dr. Ganesha (sorry most certainly spelled wrong) a leading holistic doctor. These men where crucial in the founding of the great hospital. The Himalayan Institute is unique in many ways. Not only is it a fusion of Eastern and Western medicine, it is a full-fledged medical school, and it's all targeted towards the poor of India.
"This is David, He is a chef and is learning how to cook Indian food" Aman proclaims.
"Come to my house I'll teach you to cook" The 'Lord of Lords' says (still not smiling). I half chuckle not sure if its a joke and pose for some snap-shots.
We still have time to kill before lunch and I can feel my stomach churning. We decide to wait at the bookstore. After browsing for a while I turn around and see the kind face of Dr. Ganesha. I shake his hand and start to tell him about my plan for spreading learning's to my family and friends in America. I tell him I want to help heal body and mind by focusing on the question of life and God. I say that the plan would be to start with breathing exercises, meditation, do some physical exercise, talk about philosophy, and then nutrition. He was eager to help and gave me some great suggestions. He said the most crucial thing is to START with nutrition. "Everything starts with nutrition." He suggested a book for me to buy and we departed with a big smile on my face.
Ok lunch time. We make our way to a huge tent and I marvel at the operation. Hundreds if not thousands of people are seated. As flocks of volunteers, carrying buckets of delicious vegetables, curries, rice and bread feed the hungry masses, 25-30 men are preparing jumbo sized portions of excellent vegetarian Indian fare. It's all served on leaf plates, and its all free. As a chef this is magic.
With lunch time done we decide to make the short drive to Riskikesh. More singing ensues. As we are crossing a bridge one of the Germans points out a tree that George Harrison apparently wrote a song "OH shit, watch out!!" A huge truck nearly runs us off the bridge. In India lanes are merely a suggestion. After that I was in the mood for Beatles so I decided to kill everyone with my singing. Lucky for them I fell asleep soon after and didn't awake till we where right next the Ganaga. We reached the holiest river in the world and started to make the steep downward climb to the shore. My head is spinning from the car ride and the narrow suspension bridge makes me feel dizzy and just plain awful. I stumble to the River Ganaga and instead of the euphoric feeling of Hindu pilgrimage I fell like I need to lay in the sand. Thankfully it works and my head feels a whole lot better. A mother and her son come over to talk. I figured they where either beggars or friendly. Turns out both.
As the rest of the group joins me, after their dip in the river, we make our way to a cafe for a late afternoon snack. I thoroughly enjoy the leisurely stroll, nutella and banana toast, plus silly pictures overlooking the river. We look at the clock and decide to trek back towards the car. Rishikesh is a pretty cool town but its nation-wide fame makes it a mecca for Hindu pilgrims and foreign hippies. This strange brew attracts long-haired sadus (holy men) and long-haired guys trying to sell you chalis (hash). Only the orange robe distinguishes them.
The care ride back is dark and much more dangerous. My decision to take the front seat is proving to not be very wise. Luckily Felix is a great driver and got us back unscathed. It's time for the nights closing ceremony. I take a seat in the VIP area (yea I know big shot) and watch the classical Indian musicians warm-up/ tune-up. There is a violinist, tabla player, a percussionist playing a gourd type thing, and a the center of the Quartet, a female vocalist. The deep rhythm, and piercing melody touches the part of my soul that music is supposed to touch. I am moved so greatly that devotion, in the form of words, came streaming to my head. I try to suppress them so I can concentrate on the music, but as my eyes are on the brink of tears my hand scrawls a poem in this notebook. As the performance closes, I have a strong desire to read her the lines. I find Aman and ask his advice. He leads me to her husband who with a smile, tells me she would be flattered. I wait on line as the rows of Indian fans wait for pictures and autographs. With my hands trembling and voice shakey I say "Hello, your voice is so beautiful, That I was compelled to write some words down, I would be honored to read them to you"
"Of course" she replies with a kind smile.

"Perhaps the only thing that could match,
Your voices Power and Finesse,
Is Water.
What else could crash
Like a wave over my emotions,
Or sooth my never-ending thirst.

It's as if I was blind,
And the first color I saw was the vibrancy of a red rose.
Maybe that could match it's subtlety,
Or grace,
Or the delicate taste,
Of Honey.

If the nimble dancer could soar,
Or the artist, turn clay to life,
Then maybe they, could turn the night,
Into Day
Or candles into Stars
Or words into far-
Reaching strokes.
That turn my heart, body, and mind into strings,
And my soul into beautiful music."

As her two hands out-stretch for mine she says "That was very beautiful can you please write me a copy in your own hand writing."
"Thank you you have the most beautiful voice I have ever heard." I say redundantly.
She signs the poem and I scurry off to write her a copy in the shakiest hand-writing ever. The rest of the night is a blurr, but I know I got home.