George Harrison´s original lyrics of ‘Here comes the Sun’.

I travelled to India, first time in my life, in October 1995 with a friend and few other strangers to witness the total solar eclipse.

First time in India, first solar eclipse.

There were many firsts during that trip: the Taj Mahal at sunset with people writing poetry on the marble, praying and crying. All for love.
Witnessing an Italian elderly writer falling in love with the handwriting of a message someone passed him under his room door somewhere in Rajastan, without ever meeting the person. He had fallen in love with the calligraphy .
There was the first time I spent a night matching the colours of bangles with a seller in Khajurao, the first time I witnessed a teacher travelling from village to village to teach children who looked like toddlers to me in the living room of someone´s home.
The first time of a rickshaw and an elephant ride (which I now terribly regret), the first real fear of catching malaria and a building paranoia of monkeys.
The first time I saw what abandoned children – toddlers, again – looked like, how they moved, lived.
The first time of X-ray hung on laundry line in an afternoon transformed into a little, temporary, tragedy.
There were the first encounters with sadhus, India’s wandering holy men. Everywhere. In railway stations, market places, in the middle of nowhere. Some gazes are still with me. First and everlasting.
There were all those temples and mosques to write about and photograph because the trip was the first time of abundance at eyesight. Along with the Namaste: I honour the soul I recognise in You. 

Truth is I did not want to be part of that trip. It was the first time I was not ready to pack and go.  ”I am not ready for India” I used to tell myself and others.

The total solar eclipse was worth all the firsts of the world, even if the eclipse, itself, lasted only 40 seconds at the end of which the team of National Geographic documenting next to me  blasted one, just one, song: Here Comes the Sun.
It was 1995. Many trips followed, friends changed. The Italian journalist passed away and other co-travellers remained strangers.
I changed jobs, many countries of residence and returnt to India other times. I would always return to India.
That day in October 1995, while we had all just honoured the sun being covered by the moon, George Harrison was telling me ‘Little Darling, it´s alright’.
Today, seeing the original lyrics, I say the same, It´s Alright.