Its hot here, but India's making it hotter by continuing to pull the wool over our eyes

Numb.
Void of any real feelings of connection, attachment or semblance of love. It is strange for both of us. We have debated, unpacked, repacked and discussed how to tangibly quantify how we feel so far about our time here. We realize that rushing to judgement, putting that generalized stamp is the last thing we want to do- but we still feel there is a void to describe what it is like to be here after a week. Currently we are in Khajuraho- the place famous for temples that would make any nudist blush. Here sexual positions, sensual men and women etched into the stonework call lustily from the walls. This place, it seems, is also famous for this saying- What is there to do in Khajuraho besides exploring the temples?-
Zero- Nothing
Yet we have remained for three days. I think, for me, it is good to step out from the rush. In Varanasi, we watched bodies burning before the mighty Ganga, we floated in that water's blackened sludge and witnessed men, women, kids of all shapes sizes dip themselves, immerse themselves, melt into the water to receive the power and the cleansing of that mighty river. The city itself is a labyrinth of small stone walkways- not unlike the streets of a medieval city in Italy- populated by vendors, colorful stores selling silk, cafes and travel agencies. Pedestrian traffic is dense, but it is not totally over populated by people. There are dogs, monkeys, and the king of all space-Cows. The amble by you on the main street, on the cramped walkways aware of their space or completely aloof of their power. The stop in front of stores to munch on plastic, their hairless, leathery bodies flinching at the swarm of flies above them. You have to slither by them in order to proceed. They are everywhere and it seems impossible, but they have melted into the scenery. I remember sipping on Chai in a stall as people walked by, motos tooted and sped by- at speeds that would have any mother gasp at- and then the cows came. It wasn't that 15 walked by, black, bony, leathery within an alleyway- it was my reaction that was indicative of being in Varanasi. I watched for the briefest of moments then turned back to enjoying Chai. They are the city as much as the sadus, the worshipers and the river. The city is filled with noise: moos, bells clanging around cow's necks, the slap of clothes being washed in the river, the harrowing cry of prayer from a scratchy loud speaker reverberating throughout old Varanasi, the cries of Hello!Hello! just look, no price for looking! You walk along the river, moving up and over stone stairs some painted like a candy canes or cotton candy. You stumble to avoid the poop, urine, cricket games, typical hippies and paan juice that stains every free spot untouched by the other obstacles.
The city, from the river, looks like a walled fort- it purpose is not to safeguard the people within, but to warn the people to stay out and keep praying along the Ganga- a strong walled arm pushing you to the river. The places oozes of religion and it is here that many foreigners find their essence, their purpose to coming here.
The sights were great. However Sam and I feel like an alien. Moving through towns like a ghost. We can't explain it. Connection has not been attained with India. The overriding aspect is poverty- the constant reminder that we should give money. Every turn we feel someone is out to fleece us. There is no trust: we have yet to construct that foundation. We are not angry at it, no, yet it is confronting and frustrating to be frank. We just don't know who to trust or what their motives are. Do they see us as us? or do they see us as just an endless pot of cash. We have yet to achieve the enchantment that so many fellow travelers have spoken about.
As for now we are grappling with our feelings, but we have seen a lot. We have talked to people and in some effercent flashes, we have seen why people return. There is hope for that void to be filled: it just remains to be seen.