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T H I S+W E E K > Banks of forgiveness
D E P A R T M E N T S The Surreal Gourmet
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Passages Readers' Tips and Tales
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Tuesday, July 29 Crime takes a holiday
A full list of all
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________I M M E R S E D+I N
to ease the stress of the journey, the cabbie prepares himself a hearty portion of paan -- a mixture of betel nut and spices wrapped in a betel leaf. One eye on the road, one eye on the paan, his hands move dexterously between the two tasks. Then he chews the concoction desperately. We continue past miles of stalled trucks until we reach a fork in the road. Our driver mumbles something in a mixture of English and Hindi. Through his thick accent we understand "short-cut." We're in no position to argue. The hefty old Ambassador crawls onto a pontoon bridge, taking us closer to the surging Ganges than we ever hoped to be.
Indians come to Varanasi not only to bathe in the Ganges, but to die. One look out the window tells us that: Muslin-wrapped corpses are being carried to the river on bamboo palanquins. So holy is Varanasi that it is believed that those whose bodies are cremated at one of the funeral pyres that line the Ganges will attain moksha, breaking the Hindu cycle of birth, death and rebirth. From the road we see a gentle light emanating from the Hotel de Paris. We pay our driver more than he asked after he delivers us, nerves frayed but unharmed, to our hotel door. Never before have we been so happy to see a weathered, mildewed hotel. We are quickly escorted to our room and order a hearty meal of Indian comfort food -- mulligatawny soup, spicy potato curry, chicken tikka, naan bread and a few local beers -- and settle in for the night beneath the gentle whir of the ceiling fan. As in every city along our journey, a relentless local waits outside our hotel in the morning to explain how we must have a guide to show us the sites. His name is Khan and although he speaks good English, he pretends not to understand when we say that we don't want a guide. His persistence pays off. After several minutes of haggling we acquiesce. By motorcycle rickshaw he will take us on a half-day tour of the city, its famous ghats and beguiling marketplace. We squeeze into a tiny rickshaw -- my father and I in back, Khan next to the driver on a tiny seat that straddles the motorcycle. We fight our way through chaotic streets mobbed with all manner of traffic, horns honking at the slightest delay. Only the cows are motionless. In this holiest of cities, the holiest of animals -- Indians are prohibited by Hindu law from harming the beasts -- clog the streets, plopping down peacefully wherever they please, usually in the middle of traffic. Drivers steer around them. We make our way through the tumult, choking on dust and exhaust, dodging bicycle rickshaws and napping cows, to the Chowk, the heart of Varanasi's shopping sector. The Chowk Bazaar is a dizzying maze of merchant stalls. On one side we are tempted by naan bread fresh from the fire and rich Indian sweetmeats. On the other side vendors sell brassieres, leather-soled slippers and brightly painted puppets. Up ahead, a young man peddles used locks, a basket of orphaned keys at his feet. Next to him is a stall bedecked with rows of silver bracelets and earrings. As far as the eye can see, a rainbow of colorful products fills the ancient arcades: perfumes, soaps, henna shampoos, plastic hangers, cotton shirts. The narrow alleyways, cloaked with white canopies to keep out the blistering sun, taunt us, daring us to find our way out of this labyrinth. Dazed and vulnerable amid the teeming crowds and constant calls of "sahib" and "memsahib," we are actually glad to have Khan guide us. Suddenly we come upon a kaleidoscope of sumptuous silk, bolts of turquoise blue with vivid green flowers, majestic crimson with golden borders, bright orange dotted with fuchsia paisleys. At one shop a silk merchant sits crossed-legged on the richly carpeted floor entertaining customers with small talk and cardamom-spiced tea, yards of fabric stretched before him. Khan tells us that Varanasi silk has been renowned for centuries, and that well-to-do young women and their families still make pre-nuptial pilgrimages to the city to buy saris for their trousseau. Sitting serenely among the tangled alleyways of the marketplace is the Temple of Vishwanath, also known as the Golden Temple. This is Varanasi's architectural and spiritual jewel, revered as the home of Lord Shiva, the Hindu god of creation and destruction. Since it is believed that Shiva resides in the temple, the site is too hallowed for non-believers, who must resign themselves to a view from the shop window across the way. We climb three cramped flights of stairs for this view, which Khan assures us is the best way to see the temple. Much of India is not built for men my father's size and these stairs are no exception; he bends to a 45-degree angle and slowly makes his way up. But the view is spectacular. The Golden Temple seems close enough to touch. The heady scent of sandalwood mingles with the dust and heat as we watch the flowing saris of the faithful slip behind the silver doors of the temple. We make our way out of the market into the open air, passing Buddhist monks clothed in rich saffron and crimson robes, many of whom are making the six-mile trip to Sarnath, where Buddha gave his first sermon. Muslims are also well represented in Varanasi, Khan -- himself a Muslim -- informs us. But Hinduism clearly takes center stage here. We pass rows of women squatting in the street selling marigold- and scarlet-colored powders and rosaries of dried lotus seeds to worshippers on their way to one of the city's more than 800 Hindu temples. The pantheon of Hindu gods is well represented: There are temples dedicated to Hanuman the Monkey god; Lolark, the sun god; Rama, the hero of the Indian epic, the Ramayana; and my favorite, Ganesh, the god with the head of an elephant. We walk through a humble vegetable market until we find ourselves looking out on the Ganges. Khan suggests a stroll along the west bank, where worshippers young and old throng the city's famous ghats -- stone steps that lead down to the river. My father decides he needs a break from the heat and humidity and sits at the top of the stairs to rest in the shade while Khan and I meander along the river. The water is filled with women soaking unabashedly in clinging saris and men in dhotis and loincloths immersing themselves in the water, some gulping mouthfuls. Besides bathing and drinking, Hindus come to the ghats to sit beneath tattered straw umbrellas and listen to holy men preach from the Vedas or Bhagavad-Gita or to sages recounting stories from the Ramayana. There is an aura of serenity about this place. Buildings look timeworn and forgotten, but the fervent quest of these people keeps the city alive. We pass a group of women dressed in white saris with freshly shaved heads. Khan explains that they are widows observing the traditional practice of shearing their coveted locks after the death of their husband. They stroll along the riverside seemingly at peace with themselves and their fate. They've been spared by modern Indian law from sati, the ancient custom of wives throwing themselves on their husband's funeral pyre. They will live out their lives in religious devotion. When Khan and I return to the stairs we find my father surrounded by excited boys in short pants eagerly asking him where he is from and what he thinks of their city. He is a big man among Americans and a giant among Indians. He tells them stories of his boyhood in Calcutta and his love of Indian food, and as we rise to leave, they call out, "Have a good trip, burra sahib!" -- and wave and smile at "Big Sir" until we are out of sight. The next morning we wake before dawn, eluding Khan, and wander in pilgrims' footsteps to the river. The chaos of yesterday has given way to calm. We make a deal with one of the many boatmen along the river and climb aboard a wooden vessel, not very seaworthy and barely big enough for the three of us. As the boatman looks toward the sky, we quietly hope that the rain clouds won't go through with their threat. As if racing against the clouds, our guide rows energetically up the river, past other boats filled with Indian tourists, past hundreds of bathers, as the day dawns around us. We float past a beautiful mosaic of Indian fabrics laid out on the river's edge, the product of dhobi wallahs who wash the day's laundry in the river, wringing the cloth into tight knots before laying it out on the banks to dry. There is no sign of the much-talked-about bodies that float in the water, the remains of funeral pyres that don't have enough fuel to finish the job. We see only boats and rejected garlands of flowers. The sun rises like a halo above the city, illuminating the countless temples that form the west bank's skyline. We glide past edifices so worn and haggard that they look as old as the city itself -- though in fact they were built in the 18th and 19th centuries by faraway maharajas who wanted a residence on the sacred waterfront. These once elegant homes now have brightly painted ads on their walls marketing yoga classes and youth hostels. The rains arrive and we are forced to abandon our tour for the shelter of a houseboat moored in front of a temple. We don't get to see the famous doams at work, the untouchables who preside over the burning of the dead. But as the temple bells peal through the moist morning air and the river's edge comes to life with pilgrims unhindered by the rain, we feel that we have been touched by India's soul. There is no Taj Mahal here, no ostentatious monument to the British Raj. There is simply a feeling of peace, a spiritual beauty that has sustained India and her people through centuries. For my father, this epiphany is bittersweet. Far away from India for so many years, his imagination -- stoked by the works of E.M. Forster and Rudyard Kipling -- created a world where the best of Britain and India lived together: Hindi nursery rhymes sung by his ayah, warm chapattis with marmalade for breakfast, tea at 4, freshly painted buildings and well-kept streets. That was over 50 years ago -- before an "upstart" named Gandhi ran around making noise about independence. Walking the streets of Varanasi today, the tattered vestiges of colonialism that remain only serve to remind my father how much time has passed since his boyhood. His India has ceased to exist -- and in its place is a dynamic, chaotic land with little nostalgia for the way things were. After a relaxing lunch back at the hotel, we are whisked away by Khan to the train station. This time he drives a "proper taxi," the ever-present Ambassador. The rickety pontoon bridge that carried us across the river two days earlier is now underwater. The streets outside Varanasi are clogged with more trucks than before, and joining them are city buses with commuters spilling out the windows. We sit in traffic for half an hour until we realize that we will miss our train if we do not act. Khan suggests that we walk ahead past the jam and hail a cab down the road. This turns out to be a horribly muddy decision, but we follow, certain that he knows the ways of Indian traffic jams better than we. There are no cabs up the road. There is only one option: My
father and I cram ourselves and our luggage into a city bus. Without
being able to see where we are going, we head slowly down the road to
Mughal Serai, pilgrims to the end -- immersing ourselves in another river
as we bid farewell to the mighty waters that wash away sin, and the
occasional bridge as well.
Felicia Clark is a freelance writer who lives in San Francisco. ________- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - India is said to be one of those countries that either seduces or repels travelers. Have you been to India? What was your experience like? Join the discussion in Table Talk. ________- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
________- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - PHOTOGRAPHS BY PHOTO 20-20 |
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![[Photo of Varanasi]](india970805.jpg)
We check to see that the doors are securely locked and cross our
fingers. Our driver is silent. Concentrating. Perhaps praying. With each
dip in the bridge we slide wildly from side to side across the red vinyl
seat. Pinned between my father and the door, I thank God my mother
elected to stay home and wonder why we didn't opt for a tour with
air-conditioned buses and pampering guides. Another dip and I slide back
into my father, forcing a smile to calm him and myself. Oh yes, I
remember: We wanted adventure. The planks of the bridge ripple beneath
us like piano keys as the car presses onward. When we finally touch
terra firma, my father throws me a why-am-I-here? I'm-too-old-for-this
look and slumps back in his seat.
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