Turning a corner in Berthod Pass I notice a disheveled frail looking woman squatting on the side of the rode under trees. Her hands are in prayer. I ask Michael to stop the car, he slows. She looks dead in her sorrow and thinness. I notice more women next to her, all crouched down, folded into themselves, surrendering with sorrow in their faces like the woman praying to the Ganges in tattered saris. We drive forward. I see these women again when we stop the car. They are all dressed up in the latest fashion, makeup on, hair styled. They are American Asians. I realize we are in a spiritual version of Disneyland under a patriarch of men in gold.
