But after hearing a sharp and commanding "march!",

you get the sword and go east to die.

And you arrange a squad of cheerful and evil highwaymen,

and while marching, they sing something that sounds

like nocturnal cherubic concerts of angels in heaven.

A plain is deserts and kingdoms, ridges, cities,

above which there are only atmospheric thick heights

in the seven hostile heavens, and what comfort or manna is in them!

Only after losing horses and friends, the whole caravan,

with the stubbornness of twisted, broken vines

you will make your way to where the word "rahmanah" is appropriate.

​

So here's a stop for good-byes and letting go,
and the last stone, and the rain, and the bush,
and that's why you squash your pride -
this wall is not the one that highwaymen take.
This wall is a ghost against which
Asia is crumbling with it's sand massif,
the billows are breaking all about her, rapidly,
and above it is already another dimension: there is God, the luminaries.
But you are a stray, and your fate is this:
travel down the path while the river flows
as long as you believe: into the light, as if from a bag,
you can still step out. At the price of a fulish body.

​

A fragment of Yuri Andrukhovych's poem "India".

 

 

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This is history in photos, where you will not see the Taj Mahal, Delhi, or the hustle and bustle of big cities. This is a journey along paths steeped in the authenticity of simple life, from the 40-degree desert of Jaisalmer to the cold Kashmir at the foot of the Himalayas.