A story about 30 rupees. The raw reality of a holy city.

Varanasi is a city on the banks of the Ganges River.
For Hindus, releasing one's soul here at the moment of death means liberation from the cycle of rebirth. But this city is more than just that. It is a place where children play in the water and a place of daily life where women do their laundry.
Life, death, and the everyday are all jumbled together, creating one great flow.

The center of the city was filled with narrow, maze-like alleys made of cobblestones.
People, cows, motorbikes, and monkeys crisscrossed the cramped space, and the sound of horns and the clamor of people rang incessantly in my ears.

I had a secret purpose.
It was to have children draw pictures for me. A clear and simple wish.

I decided to walk through these back alleys in the evening when it had cooled down a bit. I tried talking to one or two children, but they were shy and wouldn't draw for me. However, when I took out drawing paper and crayons in a place where several energetic children had gathered, their eyes sparkled and a cheer went up.

"Let me draw too," "Let me draw too," they said, and the paper and crayons were in high demand here as well. When I held up my digital camera, even the adults made a fuss, saying, "Take my picture too."
I couldn't even tell who had drawn what anymore, but I managed to get a lot of pictures drawn.

When the children calmed down and the commotion subsided, I tried to give some money to a slightly older boy who looked the smartest as a thank you. 30 rupees (about 100 yen). But he flatly refused. He said he didn't want it.

I was surprised by his unexpected reaction.
I see, was my assumption that everyone would want money just my own arrogance? I was struck by his attitude of not having drawn for money, and I reflected on my own shallowness.
In the end, I just wanted to feel good about myself by giving charity...

And it was the very moment I tried to put that money back into my wallet.

Many hands reached out suddenly.
"Give it to me, give it to me," the children around me swarmed me all at once. Small hands covered in crayon, dust-covered palms. Not just my wallet, but my digital camera, the water I was holding, and even the clothes I was wearing—everything was being pulled at.

Even when I shook one child off, I was grabbed by the hand of the next.
I pushed my way through the crowd, trying to get away from the spot. The calm atmosphere from earlier felt like a lie.

Varanasi was a holy city, a city of daily life, and a place where desires were laid bare. Is money, after all, the cause of conflict?
Goodwill and calculation. Purity and desire. All of these things coexisted in this city.

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—Ah, once again, a soliloquy in a strange foreign land.