flickering pictures

I’ve been posting my notes from India, scribbled and scrawled all around the country last summer, while I get things up and running around here. Now that things are humming nicely, I’m spending less time fixing things, leaving me more time to post tasty content. But although I’m not quite so desperate for filler anymore, I’m honoured to see that some of you actually seem to like these, so I’ll keep posting them sporadically until they’re all up. I’ll be away from my computer this weekend, so to keep the content fresh, this dispatch went up today, and another posted itself yesterday. If you like, you can keep track of them on a brand spanking new dispatches page.

Thanks for reading!

-mark

________________________

9:27am Sunday, Jul 29

I was going to write a bit about Varanasi’s burning ghats, but I saw this on the Lonely Planet site and it sums it up better than I ever could:

“In India death — like defecation — happens in public: funeral pyres are open to everyone, and there’s little of the fear or squeamishness ever-present in Western funeral parlours. Little kids rummage through the ashes for valuables that the owners will no longer be needing, while only metres away the devout cleanse themselves in the (slightly ashy) waters of the Ganges.

To begin the ceremonies, the shrouded corpse is carried through the streets by outcasts known as chandal, followed by the deceased’s family, chanting and praying. Funeral pyres are built and tended to all day, and cremations regularly take place simultaneously on the same ghat. The Dom Rajas are keepers of the sacred fire - which is never allowed to be extinguished - and cremators of the dead. Armed with wooden sticks, they poke at the fires, keeping things moving along.”

I arrived in Varanasi three (or is it two?) days ago, and started making friends right away — a bookshop owner named Rakesh, his friend Veyen, and an Israeli singer named Mally. After a chat in the bookshop (where I finally gave in to my constant urge to buy India’s wonderful dirt-cheap books), we all end up with an invite to Mally’s apartment to watch a Bollywood movie. I’m excited to cross off another item on my to-do list, and though I’m told that although there will be no subtitles, I’m also told that this harldy matters since the plot will be minimal and the dialogue mostly superfluous. And anyway, parts of the movie are in Punjabi and Gujarati and are therefore lost even on Hindi-speaking Rakesh and Veyen. The main attraction, as all Bollywood afficionados know, is the pretty colours, the dancing, and the incomprehensible songs! My favourite so far is a Hindi version of Pretty Woman, complete with an Indian block party in New York, loads of people walking like an Egyptian, and a huge American flag waving in the background. Roy Orbison would be proud!

All in all, the company is great, the pizza from down the street is amazing, and I’ve made some new friends. As luck would have it, Mally is planning a sunrise walk up Varanasi’s ghats — the piers where ceremonial bathing and funeral rituals take place — and I ask if I can tag along. This is another thing on my to-do list, and apparently there’s no time like dawn to do it.

After the party, Veyen escorts me back to my hotel, even though I later learn that he lives in the opposite direction entirely. He says it isn’t safe for foreigners to wander alone after midnight, and that unscrupulous types sometimes offer misleading directions to tourists only to lead them places they really don’t want to be… He points out a massive, powerful-looking bull just outside my hotel, and warns me to keep my distance as he has gored a number of people recently. I make a mental note.

Yesterday I woke up feeling a bit ill, with a fresh bout of Niagara Falls down below — fire in the hole if you will. I’ve learned my lesson from last time though, and I decide to stay in bed all day and kill this bug ASAP. When I wake up again it’s almost 8pm, and I’m feeling a lot better. A good night’s sleep, and this morning I’m a little light-headed but all in all more than well enough to do some exploring.

Two days in Varanasi and I’ve hardly seen a thing, so I pick a direction and set off. On the way is more of the sensory overload that I’m starting to get used to — the acrid smoke from cooking fires, the dodging of cows and scooters in the street, the constant harrassment from rickshaw-drivers and hash-dealers (my hash real good! not shit!), and the ten million colours of India. I look for the Ganges with only a vague idea that it’s somewhere to my right and duck into an alley that looks like it leads somewhere. Unfortunately, it leads to the home of a woman in a burqa, standing on her doorstep, who had momentarily taken off her veil thinking there was no one around. She yells in fright, and a furious man storms out demanding to know what I’m doing in his courtyard, staring at the uncovered face of the woman I assume is his wife. He’s pretty hostile, and built a bit like a dishwasher - maybe five foot three but solid and pissed right off. As I backpedal out of the alley, I tell him I’m only looking for the river, and he shouts some angry directions at me as I leave.

I hang a right and find myself at the Ganges. Everywhere people are bathing, selling food and flowers, washing down the ghats with a great big firehose and going about the business of the day. I sit to take some notes, and an old man with an orange robe and a long white beard approaches to say hello. We sit together for a while, and he offers me some yoga lessons, which I decline — something I may reconsider depending on the length of my stay here. He declines my photo request, but I found this pic of him online.

Shiv Shakti and I chat for half an hour or so, and he chides me gently for not being a vegetarian. He warns me too about cheats in the street and asks me not to give to child beggars, as this encourages them to stay out of school — something I’ve been told before, but only by foreigners. He also says that I absolutely must visit Sarnath while I’m in Varanasi. It’s a small town a short drive away, where the Buddha preached for the very first time. I’ve been meaning to go there as well, and I’ll have to find a way to get there. Maybe my friends from the bookshop can help.

Shiv Shakti says he’s been teaching for 32 years, and has had students from 113 countries, including people from Montreal, Toronto, Quebec City, Vancouver, Calgary. I get a vague feeling that he’s scamming me, but I don’t really mind all that much. I get the yogi’s number, and I’m thinking more and more that I just might head over for a yoga lesson, or at least a chai, if he’s willing.

Alright, that’s enough for one day. I’ve got lots to say — about how this place is changing me, about hating it and loving it and wanting to come home and wanting to stay. About comfort zones and friendship and poverty and disease and constantly being on your guard and finally following your instincts and letting your guard down and how bloody good that feels. I’ve got lots more to say but right now all I want is dinner and bed and I’d do an awful lot for a gin tonic. I’ll let you know how that works out.

Take care!
Mark

• plug this post
  
  • Digg
  • del.icio.us
  • Facebook
  • NewsVine
  • Reddit
  • StumbleUpon
  • Technorati