Varanasi Pt. 1

Nov. 2, 2011

Because Mama had come so far, I wanted to make sure that she saw more than one part of India. Time was limited, so we didn’t have too many options of where to go. It was down to Varanasi and Darjeeling. I had been to both places and had enjoyed them both, although they are completely different experiences. I felt that Mama would really fit into Darjeeling well and would appreciate how different it was from Kolkata. Varanasi, on the other hand, has a different magic to it and has some things that you just won’t see anywhere else on earth. We discussed the two options, and ultimately decided on Varanasi. My previous impression of the place was that it was a nice respite from Kolkata. Most of the neighborhoods along the river had narrow streets that prohibited cars from entering. I remembered it being quiet, calm and atmospheric.

Although I was used to going in the 2^nd class sleeper class trains, Mama, understandably, felt more comfortable going in one of the higher class of trains. We got on the tier three first class, which is the lowest of the first class trains. The difference between second class and what we were on was that it was air-conditioned, a lot cleaner, bedding was provided, and the fellow passengers were of a much higher social class. As much as I didn’t want to admit it, this train was really comfortable. Our car was not very crowded, but there was large Sikh family near us with some rambunctious kids that made a lot of noise throughout the trip. It was a 12-hour overnight trip to Varanasi. When we arrived, we went directly to the ticket office designated for foreigners, so we could buy our return ticket. While we were waiting, the power in the station was cut, making the enclosed office even hotter. The power eventually returned and the computers came back. We should have bought the return ticket when we had bought our ticket to Varanasi, but we weren’t sure how long we would be staying. When it was our turn to buy tickets we found that there were no first class tickets available. We were put on a waiting list and would have to check back the day of the train. Otherwise, we would have to be in the second-class sleeper. Mama was nervous about the thought of it. I told her that we would probably get in the first class, and even if we didn’t, it would be fine to take second-class for the experience.

I dreaded the moment we would exit the station. People had already been harassing us, trying to get us to follow them to taxis or rickshaws, promising great hotel deals. Upon stepping outside, we would be big hunks of bloody bait for the hustlers. We shoved through all the taxi and rick shaw drivers, and found the pre-paid rick shaw stand. This would be the safest way to get to town without being ripped off. I explained where we wanted to go, and although I didn’t completely trust them, it was still our best option so we went. The streets seemed far more crowded overwhelming than I remembered. The air was thick with pollution. Was this really the calm city I remembered? No. I don’t know what city I had been to before, but this ancient pilgrimage city with a population of over a million was quickly overwhelming me more than Kolkata would on an average day. Perhaps it was because I wasn’t familiar with this place, but there was something out of control that I had not remembered. After a long, gruelingly slow ride, the driver stopped and just told us we were there. I knew we weren’t “there”. I argued, but he insisted that this was as close as he could get us to our part of town. I started to remember that a big portion of the city is not accessible by anything bigger than a cow. I begrudgingly got out, pointing out that other rickshaws were continuing in the same direction he told us to walk.

The streets were absolutely crammed with pedestrians, cycle rickshaws, auto rickshaws, food vendors, clothing vendors, cows, children, and lots of etc. Men started to approach us, offering us their services to find a hotel. I was just trying to keep pace with the crowd, keep my cool, and look after my mother. I was trying to shake off one hustler, when I suddenly felt a bump on my right leg, followed by a sharp pain going up my foot to my ankle and calf. I turned and realized that I was in the process of being run over by a cycle rickshaw. The driver felt the resistance, and the passengers saw, and I yelled out, but he continued to force his way over my leg, just about knocking me to the ground as I buckled underneath the weight of the passengers. I wanted to lose my cool and get irrationally angry or violent. Luckily, having Mama with me reminded me that that kind of behavior would not be good for anyone. Soon, we ducked into a side street and got away from the traffic. I knew we were now one step closer to our destination. As we walked through the tiny, quiet streets our backpacks attracted the attention of anyone that makes a living off tourists. The most persistent of hustlers couldn’t have been older than 12. He had street smarts, which I respect, but not in the circumstance in which he is trying to use them to take advantage of me. I tried to outsmart him, telling him names of hotels we weren’t going to and letting him lead, only to duck down a nearby alley. He would eventually catch up, and then embarrass me by warning me of a pile of cow dung right as I was stepping into it. The truth was, I knew we were close to the hotel we were planning to go to, but still couldn’t find it. Most of all, I didn’t want this kid showing up with us because it would get him a commission for bringing us to the hotel, which raises our price, and also encourages children to make money off the lucrative tourism industry rather than staying in school.

We finally found our place, the Alka Hotel, but I didn’t go in because the kid was still following us. I told Mama to go in and say we needed a room while I lured the kid away. It worked, and she had already gotten a room reserved by the time I got back. It was the same hotel I had stayed in the last time I was in Kolkata. It’s not the cheapest place, but an incredible value for its location and view. We took a table on the large terrace and looked over the Ganges River. While I usually shy away from restaurants at hotels, we were tired, hungry, and waiting for the room to be cleaned. The menu was predictably inflated, but it was reasonable with the view we were enjoying. When our food arrived we were pleasantly surprised. Mama had gotten the biryani, and I had gotten a thali, which was actually a good deal. And I expected the food to be bland and of poor quality. In fact, it was impressive. This restaurant could definitely get away with putting far less effort into their food, and just rely on their hotel guests and the view. And Mama’s biryani was easily the best I had ever had.

After getting settled in, we started to just wander the city’s alleyways. I was less intrigued by it than I was the first time I had visited. It seemed difficult to walk through most parts without being bothered by people wanting you to come into their shop or trying to sell you drugs. Most of the businesses seemed geared toward tourists. Clothing shops, yoga centers, bakeries, etc. We went to the popular German bakery/café. What I had previously found to be a relaxing and funky little spot, now seemed overpriced and out of place.

We wanted to go to the Vishnawanath Temple, also known as the “golden temple”. You could walk through the streets that surround the huge, 200+ year old structure and not even realize it. The only tip-off is that all of the alleys leading up to it are heavily guarded by soldiers with large rifles. We tried at several different alleys to get closer, but all the guards turned us away, pointing us in different directions. We finally found an entrance where we could get in. They did not allow any bags beyond that point, so we had to check them in at a nearby locker. We also needed to carry our passports with us and show them to security as they gave us pat downs. And in the end, we could not even enter the temple itself. The compound was guarded and we were told, “Only Hindus!” I wonder what western Hindu converts would do if they came here on a pilgrimage. There was a spot where we could see over the walls and get a glimpse of the temple’s dome, which boasts nearly 2000 lbs. of gold plating. We could see through one of the entrances and into the temple compound, that is, until the guard saw us and decided to just shut the door. It seemed very intentional.

In the evening, we went on the obligatory boat ride on the Ganges. We strolled the ghats as men followed us, offering services from boat rides to shaves and haircuts. One man aggressively offered me a massage. As I walked past him he grabbed my hand and started rubbing it, giving me a small sample of his hand-massage skills before I yanked it away and went on my way. My rule about negotiating in this situation is to try and get a deal from someone that you choose and approach rather than one that approaches you. It was hard, though, since anyone you made eye contact with would run up and offer rides for exorbitant prices. I wanted to talk to the actual boat driver, rather than a middleman. This turned out to be nearly impossible, since the drivers would sit quietly somewhere where you couldn’t see them and usually didn’t speak any English. Anyway, after some hard negotiations, we arranged our ride and hopped in the canoe. The boat was too big, and the man not too strong, so we didn’t make it very far. Either way, a ride along the ghats is undeniably magical, especially at sunset. People from all over the country were making their pilgrimages, dunking themselves in the terribly polluted, yet holy waters. Some groups of more affluent Indians, that seemed more like my fellow tourists than pilgrims loaded their families in the boats and cruised along the river beside us. The city seemed to tower over us as its ancient buildings smashed alongside the river. It was a daunting task to absorb it, and the significance of its history as India’s holiest city.

Flying a kite from a boat.

The boats have become vessels for advertisement.

Afterword, we walked to one of the burning ghats, where cremations are performed. A dark path led us closer to several funeral pyres. We approached slowly and quietly as the flames accentuated the darkness around us. We simply wanted to peacefully observe the cremation process and the ceremony at a distance, but since this is something of a tourist attraction, it was too much to ask. We were quickly approached by a man who greeted us with “namaste”, a word I had come to despise because of its incessant use on foreigners in touristy areas. I had a pretty good idea where this was going so I was immediately cold to him. He said that he wanted to explain to us what was going on here. I said I was already familiar with the procedures and would not be needing his help. He tried to call my bluff and said, “if you know so much, what is the most expensive and prized wood used for cremation?” I told him it was sandalwood, which is true. He responded with a lie, saying, “No, it is banyan tree. How can you come here and experience our culture if you know nothing about it?” Then he tried to cultivate the new guilt that he knew must be welling up inside of us. He told us that he worked at a hospice just above the ghats, as he pointed in a general direction. He said that it is difficult for the poor people there to afford the most expensive wood, which happens to be the only type of wood that can assure passage into nirvana, he says. I couldn’t believe they were still doing the same scam five years later. There is no hospice, and virtually nobody (even the rich) use the most expensive wood for cremations, which is sandalwood, not banyan. The idea is that I would give him lots of money to help these poor people reach nirvana. During his whole pitch we tried to tell him to go away and we weren’t going to give anything. When he finally realized he was wasting his time on us, he insulted us for being ungenerous and for not wanting to learn about his culture. I wanted to insult him for exploiting his culture even more than the tourists that come here with their cameras. He walked away, but returned a couple minutes later telling us we had seen enough and that it was time for us to leave. We ignored him and he eventually left again. We sat down on a stone step and watched a bit of the process. Pedestrians, filthy dogs and goats wandered in our midst as we looked on. The fires illuminated the small area around us, making us feel secluded from what was beyond the light’s reach. That we had somehow managed to arrive here when no other tourists were here was nice, but something felt a little sketchy, and I thought about the dark path that we had taken to get here. When a man started to throw up next to us, we decided it was time to head on our way. On our way out, a scrappy young guy approached us and started to give his spiel about how he works at a hospice. This time, Mama forcefully told him, “No, go away!” He was taken aback and said, “oh, ok…Would you like some hash? I have good hash.” I yelled back, “Hey! I’m with my mother!” “Oh…so sorry,” he said, as he faded back into the darkness.

Meditation and Kali Puja

Mama’s time in Kolkata was limited so we tried hard to see as much of the city and get as much culture as possible when we weren’t volunteering. I realized that I had somehow made it through my first trip and half of my second trip to Kolkata without getting up close to the Victoria Memorial. The 90-year-old building dedicated to Queen Victoria, Empress of India, is Kolkata’s most famous colonial era landmark. Today it houses a museum that features colonial era art as well as touring exhibits more oriented to Indian artists and culture.

Entrance to the museum was expensive and I had heard that it was not that impressive. Luckily, we found plenty of interesting things in the surrounding gardens and on the steps. There were a couple of men working on one of the walkways in front. They were removing a large tile and replacing it. Mama found this fascinating. In fact it was actually pretty interesting to watch these men at work, but also something that I normally would have overlooked. We were going to get up and walk around, but we decided to stay a little longer just to watch them finish their job.

Since it is not only a major tourist site for foreigners, but also for Indians, we became part of the attraction. Indians coming from smaller town or villages found the sight of white people to be quite the novelty. A couple times we noticed people discreetly and not so discreetly putting us in the frame of the photos they were taking. At one point a group of giggling teenage girls came up and asked to take our picture. We abided. 

The Victoria Memorial

Fixing a tile.

My fellow tourists.

One of our other “cultural experiences” was when we decided to go to a nearby meditation center called Sri Aurobindo Bhavan. I had tried to go once before for an open meditation session, but I was misinformed of when they were. I wasn’t exactly sure what to expect, but I was under the impression that it would be some sort of guided meditation. I have done some meditation before in different scenarios, so I know there are many practices and methods and I was curious what this would be like. We entered the compound the compound one night and walked around the building to a courtyard in the back. There was a concrete gazebo-like structure with pools of water around it with an altar. A few people were taking turns paying their respects at the altar to a guru for whom this center was constructed in the honor of. They carried out ceremonies with incense and garlands of flowers. It was completely silent, save for the slightly muted street traffic from beyond the compound. A few people were already seated, getting into meditative poses. There was a man there who appeared to be the leader of the meditation session. I glanced at him occasionally, awaiting instruction. Promptly at 7:00, he got up and turned off all the lights, then went and sat on the steps near us. Mama and I quickly realized this meditation would have no guide and we were on our own. I got into my most lotus-like position and meditated like I hadn’t done in years. Which is to say, not that well. It was a generally peaceful setting, but as much as they tried to make it tranquil, there is no escaping the street noise and occasional post-Diwali firecracker that sounds like dynamite. For the first fifteen or twenty minutes I had managed to get focused as well as I could have hoped to, but towards the end I was getting distracted by my aching legs and the bombs. A few minutes before the thirty-minute session was up, some sort of caterpillar-like bug fell on me from somewhere. I silently freaked out, flailing my legs and arms, trying desperately to rid my body of whatever mystery creature had so disrespectfully interrupted my meditation. Needless to say, I was at least a little relieved when it was over. In the end, I did feel refreshed and relaxed. There was a small part of me that was disappointed that I hadn’t learned much, but another part that felt revived to have experienced that small bit of relative peace in the overwhelming city. On the way out, we saw that there was a sign that explained the upcoming meditation programs. It said that there was a beginner’s meditation class in a few days.

So we came back to attend the beginner’s class. It was inside the building, up the stairs in a stuffy brown and book-filled room. There were a couple dozen folding metal chairs set up in rows. We took our seats towards the back and everyone else filled in around us. A man came up and began speaking to the group. He spoke in English, although we seemed to be the only foreigners there. It seemed to be an interesting group of people of different ages, genders and social standing, although most looked like they were probably educated. Although the man was speaking English, we could not understand anything. His accent, his mumbling, and the cacophony from the streets coming through the open windows made it impossible for us. We waited patiently to at least get into some meditating but after fifteen or twenty minutes, we saw that we wouldn’t be happening. It didn’t matter, though, since we were pretty much zoned out into our own meditative states the entire time. After 45 minutes the instructor was showing no signs of slowing down. We had no other choice but to get up and quietly walk out. As soon as we were out of the building, we just looked at each other and started laughing. It really just seemed like this whole meditation thing was not meant to be.

Another night, we went down to Baba Ghat on the Hooghly River to witness the celebrations for the end of Kali Puja. It was very similar to the end of Durga Puja. People from all over the city piled into the backs of pickup trucks with statues of the goddess Kali, drove down to the river, banged on drums, danced, then carried the statue to the river and pushed it into the flow. While I was under the impression that Durga Puja was the biggest celebration of its kind in Kolkata, I had been disappointed at how calm it seemed. The less famous Kali Puja, on the other hand, blew me away with how raucous it was. Also, there were not nearly as many foreigners there. The people seemed far more upbeat (to the point of out of control) and it was much more crowded. My favorite part was Kali herself. She is probably my favorite Indian deity (in a close battle with Jaganath). While she is the goddess of empowerment, she is more well-known as the goddess of death, time and change. She is usually represented as a black figure with read eyes, tongue sticking out, dawning a large necklace of human heads and standing over the dead body of Lord Shiva.

For whatever reason, there were a lot of police and security there. They prohibited us from actually going up to the water where the statues were being pushed into the water. I was a little annoyed. I mean, it made sense in a way, since it was so crowded with the people carrying the figures and the slope down to the water was dangerously muddy and slick. But at the same time, this is India, where most things like this tend to be something of a free-for-all. Just when we had gotten our fill of Kali-carrying, the biggest statue of the night, at least fifteen feet tall, arrived. I needed to see how they were going to move it from the truck and down to the river. It took about a dozen men to move it from the truck to the ground, and then pull it down to the river. I was able to sneak past the security and get a closer look, but there were still too many people around it to get a very good look.

 

As for volunteering, Mama had wanted to work with children. Unfortunately there is a policy about committing to at least a month or two for most of the orphanages and homes for children. So she ended up volunteering at Kali Ghat, the home for the dying and destitute that was temporarily located in the same compound as Prem Dan, where I had been volunteering. After a few days, she felt that there was not much need for her at Kali Ghat because of the abundance of volunteers, so she switched to Prem Dan. It seemed to work better for her, since she had more opportunity to be useful and connect with the large number of sick and disabled women. I can’t really speak for what she went through there, but I can imagine that, like for most people, it was a powerful and life-changing experience.

Although we could not volunteer at any of the homes for children, we were free to spend a day visiting and volunteering during the afternoon. We got a guest pass from Sister Maria to go to Daya Dan, a home for disabled children. We were a little confused when we arrived, since the building was not really well marked. Some people in the neighborhood pointed us to the wrought iron door and we rang a buzzer. Suddenly a rambunctious small child ran up to the door and started reaching through the bars, trying to grab my water bottle. It was a few minutes before one of the massis (female workers) came and took control of the child and let him in. We explained that we wer there to volunteer for the day and showed our not from Sister Maria. She didn’t seem to care much and directed us to sit down and wait. Then she left. We sat and waited for a while, wondering if we should just leave. After about twenty minutes, we were getting ready to leave, when one of the sisters came down the stairs. She seemed surprised to see us and asked what we were doing there. We explained again and she told us to wait. She opened a nearby door and the same kid that we had first seen came running out and went right for my water bottle. He grabbed it before I could react then shoved it into his mouth and started chugging. When he was done, he pulled it from his lips, strands of spit clinging like spider webs for a good eight inches then handed it back to me and ran away. I guess I’m just generous like that.

Mama was instructed to go upstairs to be with the girls and I was to stay downstairs with the boys. When I walked in, I had a similar reaction to when I first entered Prem Dan. Apprehension mixed with shock from the condition of the people there. The kids had a wide range of mental and physical disabilities. My task was simply to play with them. I also assumed the role of conflict mediator, as it really seemed like some of the kids were constantly trying to clobber some of the more vulnerable kids. One boy, who was a little bit bigger than most of the others, and a lot less disabled was constantly having one-way pillow fight with a small boy who couldn’t speak but had a permanent smile. Basically, he just kept throwing stuffed animals at the boy, who continued to smile the whole time. I was pretty lost the whole time, wondering what exactly my role for this couple of hours should be. It made a lot of sense to me why the organization requires volunteers to commit for a longer period of time. First of all, I knew I was pretty useless as just a volunteer for the day. Second, it is not good for the children to have a constant stream of different strangers caring for them. It will surely be an situation of unhealthy attachment issues. The afternoon continued with meal time. This was, predictably, a terribly messy event. At least, though, I felt like I was helping the sisters out with feeding the children who couldn’t feed themselves. Food was everywhere, and some of the stubborn kids were being force fed by the sisters. As nasty as it got, I could still step back and look at myself and laugh at what I had gotten into for the day. And as serious as the circumstance is for these kids, sometimes the only way to get through these difficult days is to look at it with a bit of humor.