Dear Didi: Five Senses and Some Nonsense

Eye

Didi, I’ve seen too much — sunsets, selfies, and six kinds of enlightenment advertised on the same wall. Half the time I can’t tell if I’m witnessing beauty or marketing.

Beta, relax the lens. Everything looks fake if you zoom too hard. Try gazing, not scrolling. The mountain never edits her filter.

Ear

Didi, I came here for Om and peace. Instead, it’s flutes at 6 a.m., dogs arguing in Sanskrit, and someone’s blender doing kirtan.

That’s Tapovan stereo, bachha — “Cosmic Chaos FM.” Stop chasing silence. Listen till the noise tells you who’s panicking. Then buy them chai.

Nose

Didi, every lane smells like destiny + diesel. Incense, rain, cow, eucalyptus — my nostrils are on a psychedelic pilgrimage.

That’s the real aromatherapy — confusion with base notes of divinity. When it stinks, call it purification; when it’s sweet, call it memory. Either way, keep breathing — oxygen’s underrated.

Tongue

Didi, I keep tasting enlightenment — poha at breakfast, thukpa for dinner, cacao in between. Am I evolving or just bloated with awareness?

Both. Tapovan ascension begins in the stomach. Taste is devotion with digestion. Just chew slowly, so your karma can keep up.

Touch

Didi, I’ve been touched by the wind, the Ganga, the clay at the pottery studio… and a few overly “heart-open” strangers at ecstatic dance. Where does sacred touch end and human awkwardness begin?

Touch is where your body remembers it’s home. It’s the first sense born and the last to die. Let the river touch you without agenda. Let the mud remind you of your shape. And remember, consent is the new mantra.