Here's something that guides don't say about India...

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The organization of the trip to India is difficult and millimeter, when you decide to travel on the trains, those are booked weeks in advance, you have to be first class if you want to avoid surprises.
The guest house in Delhi was in a frightening, almost in a street under construction, dark, all potholes, puddles, debris, scaffolding and stray dogs.
With the light, everything started to look less difficult people, here in this small guest house, had something strange: they were friendly, helpful, friendly, concerned that I had everything that you need to be happy, that I knew how absurd move in the city.
Because Delhi is hell.
Clusters of people trying to sell you anything, roads choked with vehicles of all types of locomotion, cows, dogs, sheep, rickshaws, bicycles, mopeds, tuc tuc, coaches and everybody's play on the horn continuously, or whatever it is able to issue a noise nuisance.
The old part, a warren of narrow streets filled with the smells of those who live there, full of color kite stuck somewhere between the thousands of wires that surround every home in bulk, filled with men who seem to have 200 years of women wrapped in colorful saris, if you walk into a courtyard you can find a girl who piles of ironing shirts with an old iron grill, or a man intent to pray facing the wall, that wall is a large crack, and a large crack small temple with a tiny red figurine mocking smiles.
The new part, a continuous and endless construction site, the strenuous effort to look like another city, without understanding that there is no road, there is no corner that does not have potholes, which has workers carrying piles of junk larger than the planet.
And everywhere, clinics, hospitals, modern facilities with the most advanced equipment, and you wonder how it is possible that this, can live with that.
Roads, highways are always clogged and crowded with human beings and animals, there is no right or left, does not exist previously, there are no rules, traffic lights are there for purely decorative purposes, we simply throw it in the street, at the maximum speed possible, we stick to the horn and prays to arrive on time, arrive at your destination, you arrive in one piece, but also just arriving.
India, in the early days, is all that you can not predict, it is almost always lost air, you do not know why, it is always taken literally trains on the fly, because it is not true that the trains in India are always late, they are on time, are you that you never arrive, you find a taxi that fails to unravel intricacies of cows, and it started to rain and the puddles are streams, you who have not understood that Delhi has two stations that have the same name and you're in the wrong one, you who do not know that the trains have wagons and 1000 km long, and you will never in your compartment.
Sometimes stations are a guardian angel. An old man who weighs less than you, but that has more than 1000 years, when I watch it wet with sweat and tears you down for not being able to figure out which of the 600 tracks around you is the right one, fleeting glances with your reservation, you load your luggage of 30 pounds over his head and starts running at lightning speed, up and down endless stairs, including camps for children and luggage trolleys, including cattle cars that contain human beings and women clinking bracelets that arrange the sari on my shoulder, and instantly you're on the train, only by the guardian angel.
And then you find yourself on the trains in a tiny bunk above that of a minister who travels with his wife, who soon will be greeted by the conductor with a military salute, which will offer their snacks, which come down from the train at dawn, do not wake up and dress themselves up, without turning on the light.
Suddenly one day you come to the Ganges, Varanasi, and your priority scale collapses.
Only in Varanasi you can tell what the colors are really, what are the smells, what can one say really look.
Arrivals on the shore of that great muddy river that looks like the sea, a sea of ??brown, wipe the surface and see the corpse of a sheep, and you realize, at dawn, thousands of pilgrims who have arrived here, after days of walking, to bathe in those waters smelly.
And everything turns orange.
And then you realize that believing is simply let go without trying to understand, is an explosion of color, infinite, which is a song you do not know where it comes from, is a column of buffaloes bathe, is the immense staircase of ghats covered with clothes hanging there to dry, is under the umbrellas of bamboo with very old Brahmin, that bless thee among the fumes of incense, the barbershop is made only of a mirror, a brush and soap there in the open in the middle of nowhere, in the midst of it all.
In Varanasi, we are the gods, there are thousands and you seem to hear them, emerge smiling from small shrines in every pertuglio and accompany you on your journey through the streets narrow, and if you meet a cow that you always have to go back.
In Varanasi, there are colored women, sitting on the threshold of their houses made of nothing.
In Varanasi, the children are beautiful, with huge eyes and white teeth blacks, barefoot, in rags, barefoot in rags, playing with the air.
In Varanasi, burn the dead, the burning pyres kidnap you and you can not not look when the skin and the flesh now there are almost no more, and people are folded back on themselves, like sweaters.
In Varanasi, there are the ceremonies with prayers, incense, and lights the fires of a thousand candles resting on the River.
In Varanasi, there is hope, there is the awakening in the morning to arrive in the evening, with nothing in between.
You've got to go there if you do not want to be kidnapped, if you do not want to start to want to spend the rest of your life and forget forever the tube that drips, the bill to be paid, calendar appointments, birthdays of friends, the 'fall, winter, Christmas.
When you arrive in Rajasthan, you seem already to have it happen in India, perhaps a small one, of those gods, magical and diverse, has come with you, he stealthily slipped into your pocket and decided to keep you company.
You sprinkle the blue colors of the city, the city's white and pink city, you learned to speak with people, you learned that you can not be afraid of that misery, hopeless misery, the misery that is infinite dignity that you will never, there is peace and there is a resignation, there is the shadow of centuries of oppression, of slavery that has left scars on the faces of people, but in the middle of eyes laugh.
Talk with them, with children, trying to convince them to go to school because the school is more important than the 4 postcards sold to tourists during the day, but their arguments are stronger your, their arguments are hunger, are their 5, 10, 100, I am their dad who has found work in a distant city for a month and sleeps every night on the asphalt in front of the yard, not to lose it.
And their hunger has an open smile of your disillusionment.
All of this, the guides tell you that.
Hundreds of pages that can not tell me how you melt your heart, and smiles of children in India, and colors