Richard W. Frank

India Redux

"For the perfect idler, for the passionate observer it becomes an immense source of enjoyment to establish his dwelling in the throng, in the ebb and flow, the bustle, the fleeting and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel at home anywhere; to see the world, and yet to be unseen of the world, such are some of the minor pleasures of those independent, intense and impartial spirits, who do not lend themselves easily to linguistic definitions. The observer is a prince enjoying his incognito wherever he goes."

     -Charles Baudelaire,

Sct. 3 in L'Art Romantique (1869)

 

     One of the "must dos" of visiting the ancient and holy city of Varanasi is taking an early morning boat trip on the Ganges to witness the spectacle of hundreds of people washing away their sins, getting a shave, burning a loved one, washing day-glo saris, practicing yoga, and simply enjoying the other-worldly spectacle of the Ghats bathed in the scarlet and mandarin morning light. Unfortunately, the early hour also means I was still half asleep, and when a boat-wallah offered me my own boat it seemed like a good idea. Yeah, why join the other shluffs being chauffeured to the burning and bathing Ghats when I can boldly blaze a new path...I've been meaning to join a crew club. The white and  blue row boat I scrambled into was not quite the American Challenge (more like the Santa Maria) but, hey, for 25rs I can't complain. My cameras placed amidships I boldly shoved off from Dasaswameth Ghat watched by the dark men bathing and splashing in their skivvies.

 

     Mark Twain noted on his visit here that: "Banares [Varanasi] is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together." Still, it doesn't look to shabby for being continuously occupied for three millennia. Over the centuries Rajas have shown their religious dedication by building impressive buildings and steps leading down to the western shore of the Ganges. The panorama of life and death here blew me away as the chaos drifted by. Varanasi is an auspicious place to die and there are several burning ghats dedicated to the almost never-ending stream of spirits being released for their next reincarnation. Wood being an expensive commodity so far from the forests of the north, not all of the bodies have enough to be completely cremated before the doms, an outcast class, toss them in the river. The young and the leprous are not burned but weighed down and dumped straight into the middle of the river. When they decompose enough and gases inflate the corpses, some are occasionally seen drifting with the current. Sure...sounds like a good idea to bathe here.

 

      Out on the river I surrendered myself to the current and took photographs of the circle of life and death displayed in such a public manner.  Once my meager National Geographic aspirations had been satisfied, I tried my hands at the oars again. Then things began to go horribly wrong. The oars where secured to the hull by the means of two loops of blue line that started to keep coming off making progress impossible. I could get only one oar working at a time. Now spinning one way, now the other. I felt like I was in one of the twirling cups in Disneyland, and I started to get dizzy. People safe on shore started to point out this out of control whitey drifting and twirling downstream swearing a blue streak. In my misery and embarrassment I failed to notice the oncoming tourist boats. Several shouts in Hindi brought my attention to this and the passive tourists stopped taking photos long enough to stare at me with a look of pity usually reserved for the mad and slow-witted. They managed to push me off deeper into the middle of the river and I was continuing my sweaty struggle when my oar brushed against a bloated corpse. Things could be worse, but for the life of me I couldn't see how: floating backwards towards Calcutta being mocked by half-naked people covered in soap is not exactly an everyday experience.     

 

     Admitting defeat I hailed to next boat of Japanese tourists and convinced the captain to tow me back to Dasaswameth Ghat. I sat stoically in my Pequod until my original bathers caught sight of me. I always thought the phrase "rolling with laughter" was hyperbole; I was wrong. Once dropped off I paddled with my hands and drifted with the current into shore. Without saying a word I paid Charon and ran away from ignominy as cackles followed me up the steps.

 

     And so started my first full day back in India. Things could only get better. The next two months in India would break the memory limit in my hotmail account so let it suffice to say I had a rip-roaring time across the north of India: rice was eaten, cows were dodged, the Dalai Lama was missed, the Taj was made, palaces and forts were visited, and yes, dammit, I drank the water!

 

     Unfortunately, my address book and I inadvertently parted ways in the Delhi train station. There was a raising of voice, pulling of hair, and stamping of feet. Amazingly, my bag did not return as beckoned. Such is life. @#$%! piece of @$%#$#!! I'm okay now....really.

 

     Since I didn't have the presence of mind to have a backup, I need to ask y'all a favor. I promise to send each and every one of you a postcard from a place you have never heard of if you would send me your addresses, phone #s, and gratuitous condolences to my hotmail account.

 

     And so life returns to normal; I shook the dust of India off my Tevas and moved to Pakistan-the land of wine, women, and song. Well....blaring film scores are as prevalent as in India, I have heard there are women under those walking black tents, and who really needs wine?

 

Next month: Rich bravely tries on a shalwar qamiz, learns he can't grow a real Muslim beard or sneak into Afghanistan, gets cornered by the world's most talkative sociologists, discovers he can't golf in pajamas, and eats waaaay to much sheep...

 

"For the perfect idler, for the passionate observer it becomes an immense source of enjoyment to establish his dwelling in the throng, in the ebb and flow, the bustle, the fleeting and the infinite. To be away from home and yet to feel at home anywhere; to see the world, and yet to be unseen of the world, such are some of the minor pleasures of those independent, intense and impartial spirits, who do not lend themselves easily to linguistic definitions. The observer is a prince enjoying his incognito wherever he goes."

     -Charles Baudelaire, Sct. 3 in L'Art Romantique (1869).

 

     One of the "must dos" of visiting the ancient and holy city of Varanasi is taking an early morning boat trip on the Ganges to witness the spectacle of hundreds of people washing away their sins, getting a shave, burning a loved one, washing day-glo saris, practicing yoga, and simply enjoying the other-worldly spectacle of the ghats bathed in the scarlet and mandarin morning light. Unfortunately, the early hour also means I was still half asleep, and when a boat-wallah offered me my own boat it seemed like a good idea. Yeah, why join the other shluffs being chauffeured to the burning and bathing ghats when I can boldly blaze a new path...I've been meaning to join a crew club. The white and  blue row boat I scrambled into was not quite the American Challenge (more like the Santa Maria) but, hey, for 25rs I can't complain. My cameras placed amidships I boldly shoved off from Dasaswameth Ghat watched by the dark men bathing and splashing in their skivvies.

 

     Mark Twain noted on his visit here that: "Banares [Varansi] is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together." Still, it doesn't look to shabby for being continuously occupied for three millennia. Over the centuries Rajas have shown their religious dedication by building impressive buildings and steps leading down to the western shore of the Ganges. The panorama of life and death here blew me away as the chaos drifted by. Varanasi is an auspicious place to die and there are several burning ghats dedicated to the almost never-ending stream of spirits being released for their next reincarnation. Wood being an expensive commodity so far from the forests of the north, not all of the bodies have enough to be completely cremated before the doms, an outcast class, toss them in the river. The young and the leprous are not burned but weighed down and dumped straight into the middle of the river. When they decompose enough and gases inflate the corpses, some are occasionally seen drifting with the current. Sure...sounds like a good idea to bathe here.

 

      Out on the river I surrendered myself to the current and took photographs of the circle of life and death displayed in such a public manner.  Once my meager National Geographic aspirations had been satisfied, I tried my hands at the oars again. Then things began to go horribly wrong. The oars where secured to the hull by the means of two loops of blue line that started to keep coming off making progress impossible. I could get only one oar working at a time. Now spinning one way, now the other. I felt like I was in one of the twirling cups in Disneyland, and I started to get dizzy. People safe on shore started to point out this out of control whitey drifting and twirling downstream swearing a blue streak. In my misery and embarrassment I failed to notice the oncoming tourist boats. Several shouts in Hindi brought my attention to this and the passive tourists stopped taking photos long enough to stare at me with a look of pity usually reserved for the mad and slow-witted. They managed to push me off deeper into the middle of the river and I was continuing my sweaty struggle when my oar brushed against a bloated corpse. Things could be worse, but for the life of me I couldn't see how: floating backwards towards Calcutta being mocked by half-naked people covered in soap is not exactly an everyday experience.      

 

     Admitting defeat I hailed to next boat of Japanese tourists and convinced the captain to tow me back to Dasaswameth Ghat. I sat stoically in my Pequod until my original bathers caught sight of me. I always thought the phrase "rolling with laughter" was hyperbole; I was wrong. Once dropped off I paddled with my hands and drifted with the current into shore. Without saying a word I paid Charon and ran away from ignominy as cackles followed me up the steps.

 

     And so started my first full day back in India. Things could only get better. Slowly traversing northern India I visited the country's more famous attractions. The thousand year old carvings of apsaras with perfect globular breasts and energetic and well-endowed ranas in Khajuraho stretched the limit of the possible with amazingly athletic positions 'o luv and proof than animals can indeed be man's best friend. The Taj Mahal exceeded expectations, and Delhi was not the Pandemonium that I was led to expect. The arid 43 degree (110F) heat was not much worse than Vegas during the summer and McDonalds was blissfully air-conditioned (hey, it had been eight months since I had experienced the shallow pleasures of fast food).

 

     And it went downhill from there-no really. The next six weeks I was witness to the more famous sights of India: first stop Khajuraho-India's most famous collection of erotic temple carvings 400km from anywhere providing a visual Kama Sutra for young men over a thousand years ago. Khajuraho was my first experience with how devoid of tourists lowland India is during the hot season. Now while this is not the ideal time to travel (dust, 115 degree temperatures, and cranky cows) it is possible and has distinct benefits. The rooms are even cheaper than normal, the beer is always cold, the beggars have more time to devote to you, fellow travelers are as soft in the head as I and unreserved train travel is so hypoxically crowded and hot that one can attain altered states in a few short hours.

 

     The Taj Mahal in Agra is free on Fridays enabling cheapskates to avoid the normal 500rs ($12) kings ransom. This is one of the few monuments that are more impressive when seen in person. The gardens you wander through create a sense of opulent space

    

 

Onwards to Pakistan

© Richard Frank 2007-2008. All rights reserved.

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