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.