Perhaps this site should be subtitled “Idiots in the Land of the Gods” along the lines of Dostoevsky’s Prince Myshkin and others of that venerable lineage of literary lunatics.
The innocent; the obsessed; the intoxicated; the stoned; the lovers of life; the runners from reality; the addicted; the self-important; the self-styled; the gurus; the shishyas; the chelas; the ticket-less; the visa-less.
The ones who threw their money away every evening so they’d start each day with nothing; the ones who walked barefoot from Europe to India, without passports, detouring around every border post on foot.
Those who hired horses and became Afghan tribesmen for the duration, bought the horse in Kandahar and sold it on the Khyber Pass for a small profit.
The ones who walked from Kathmandu to Thyangboche monastery past the base of Mount Everest and became wood-block printers until the rainy season drove them back.
Barefoot babas; naked nagas; on the ice to Badrinath & Kedarnath shivering intoxicated in rude blankets and chillum smoke.
How to tell their stories; how to listen to them? What will be lost and what should be retained?