Monday, August 14 Varanasi, People-Watching, Smoking with Sadhus, Train Delays

I woke up in a sweat from no electricity. Literally four seconds after I stood up out of bed the power and fan came back on. Of course. I went down to Dasaswamedh Ghat to people-watch. I took a picture with a chalk-covered naked sadhu, whose profession it was to pose for tourists for money. He gave me a bindi and a blessing. Everyone was outside; people young and old, many of them coming before a day of work or prayer, the Ganges purifying them. Priests dressed in white cloths and horizontal lines on their foreheads blessed everyday Hindus with a bindi and chant. People sold and offered prasad, rang bells at the Shiva temple, and watched their children run around the steps. Boys shaved all the hair, except for a little tail, off mourning men in white loincloths on the steps. Sadhus sat around, smoking and reciting prayers. I took a walk through the Old City north towards Manikarnika Ghat, the main burning ghat. Until only recently it was only open to Hindus. Non-Hindus still cannot be cremated here. It remains the most auspicious place for a Hindu to be cremated. It had firewood everywhere, and many viewing balconies. I was invited to watch from inside a hospital, where the elderly, lepers, and other sickly people await death. They are waiting to die in Varanasi so that they will gain moksha. A creepy dom with a glass eye explained the cremation grounds to me. Mother Teresa helped the hospital, and opened it up for non-Hindus to view the grounds. This decrepit old woman hobbled over and the dom prayed to her like she was a goddess. Then she blessed me. The dom explained how guests are asked to contribute money to pay for cremation wood for those who can’t afford it themselves. This is supposed to bring good karma to the donor. The two of them had me literally blocked off in a small corner, while a crowd of Indians looked on at us. They were both looking at me deeply with their bloodcurdling piercing eyes. The pathetic wrinkly woman kept chanting and touching my head. I told him I already donated to Harishchandra Ghat, so I had no obligation. Then they appealed to the spiritual, saying I wouldn’t have good karma or blessing if I refused to give. I offered 10 Rs, which they denied because they only want donations in denominations of 150 Rs “for cremation wood”. So, on the verge of exploding with a primal, furious, rage, I reluctantly took out 150 Rs and threw the bills in her face. I marched out of that building cursing incessantly. Why this makes me angry: 1) I’m tired of dealing with touts in the first place, 2) the money does not go to the hospital, 3) even if it does, I’m not paying for some old man’s hospital bill and room and board and funeral ceremony while most Indians can’t even afford to get to Varanasi, 4) There is no way to say no; who wants to risk having bad karma or a Hindu curse being placed upon them?, and 5) I am cheap. I walked through the Old City, snapping at hawkers offering to take me on their boats or to their shops. I was in a horrible mood, and was extremely upset, which again, only happens on rare occasions. I walked over to Scindia Ghat, which is an old temple that has collapsed and fallen into the river. I walked through the shops, and decided to buy god posters because what better place to get them than in Hinduism’s holiest city. I ended up spending a lot of money, but it was worth it because I bought an endless supply of artistic pictures and postcards depicting Shiva, Parvati, Ganesh, Ram, Sita, Krishna, Radha, Lakshmi, Saraswati, Hanuman, Kali, and Durga. After this I went to lunch at a small quiet restaurant, and the guy talked to me about his sexual accomplishments, which was awkward. I don’t know how accurate this was, however, since he mentioned that he had been with 30 different girls before. I went back to Dasaswamedh for the last time, and sat down with a group of eight sadhus, all wearing white kurta, saffron robes, or orange cloths. They were smoking hashish out of this tiny little pipe (which was literally just a pipe, a cylindrical hole). They offered me a hit, and being in the holiest place in Hinduism with a bunch of holy renunciants I had to accept, and took a big hit, which burned my lungs. We talked for a while about their organization of sadhus that come to this ghat to stay however long they want. Then I had to catch my train. I was late, and had to run to my hotel to catch a motor rickshaw to the train station. When I got there, there was an announcement that my train was two hours late. So I sat in the waiting room until I finished my second book. Then I went down to the platforms, only to get told again by the automated voice that the train was now delayed another hour. So I continued to wait, listening to some arrogant Canadian tourist (who said he was glad he was not American because Americans are crazy; actually, I agree with that, but please, if it wasn’t for America Canada would be nothing except snow, beavers, and maple trees). I talked to a Japanese tourist for a while before the train finally showed up four hours after its scheduled departure. It was a sleeper to Gaya in Bihar.