Varanasi

As Mark Twain so succinctly described, this town is definitely old, and it bears the marks of it. There are old gali’s, old buildings that are pressed up against each other, dangerously vying for space and balance, even the people look old. Old not in the physical sense, but old in the sense of tradition, as if I could have came here 200 years ago and seen the people doing the same thing; painting their feet red, chewing gulps of pan, talking in an accent steeped in the days of yore. It’s a nice feeling. For me, this means that people are also a little bit friendlier. The occasional rickshaw driver will be overaggressive, and the occasional phulwallah (fruit-seller) will try to charge a little bit extra, but for the most part, no one has made me feel too uncomfortable (helped in some part I am sure by the cold stare I am able to mask my face with), and the rat race effect that has hit Delhi, Mussoorie, and other places I’ve been, has yet to bless Varanasi with its progressiveness. To be honest, for me, it is a relaxing place.

I like it. So far in India, besides my familial home in Punjab, I have not been able to let my head down, take it easy, and pretty much not worry as much as I have been able to in Varanasi. It almost seems like people are here for a different purpose. To the eye, it doesn’t seem like this bastion of Hindu culture is at all a bastion, but like a city that is still trying to be a village – a city that happens to be on the ganga, and a city where one can take a bath and milk some cows. But it does not have the typical glorifying attributes, such as Rome, Venice, New York, that I expect of a city that is proclaimed to be the center of a nations culture. I certainly have not heard anybody in Varanasi say that. It humbly makes no proclamation, but shows it’s depth upon a longer stay. On my third floor room in Rahul’s Guest House, the sounds of the tabla, sitar, and other instruments the names of which I am just learning waft out of my neighbors’ rooms. They are people who have come from all over, for the most part, Europe, and who are learning here in Varanasi. Nowhere have a seen a sign which says “Become a famous sitar player here!” nowhere have a seen culture turned into some marketable phenomenon. It’s nice, but perhaps a little bit sad for the people who are teaching – they could be making a lot more money.

Varanasi’s spirituality is somewhat like the fog that settles over the ganga and greets you in the morning. It is there, but in an unobtrusive way. It is not goal oriented, but meaning oriented, it is humble, a spirituality that is lived for the sake of living, not for the sake of where it will get you. It’s nice, it’s allowed me to relax, and allowed me to feel a little bit of a headache, something I didn’t realize I had until I got here. India, its fast autorickshas blaring at the impossible, its hustle and bustle to stay alive, and for many, to get rich, seems to take a few moments to breathe in Varanasi, and perhaps take a bath. It is a town that should be a village, and while this will not be noticeable in the main town, with all the rickshas and people plying the roads en masse, it is noticeable in its outskirts and in its quiet gulleys. It’s noticeable in Lanka, where many people seem to still, at least mentally, be living in the village. And, of course, it’s noticeable in the cows which crowd assi ghat, the non-inward non-outward I-don’t-know-where-you’re-looking-mr.-cow stares and unconcerned-over-salivating-mastication of which I always seem to get a kick out of as I make my way back home.

Though I have been here for over a week, these are still first impressions. I have yet to venture out of Assi ghat much more, and see what exactly Varanasi is made out of. There is something special here, perhaps it is spirituality. The best part for me is, while there seems to be something of Varanasi in the rest of the India which I have read and traveled in, there doesn’t seem to be something of the rest of India in Varanasi. It stands special, something different, and something that certainly attracts visitors here over and over again. Of course, the development in India is far behind, and yes, the city and the river are dirty, but looking past that, the ghats do not proclaim its virtue; the river does not advertise its history, its spirituality. Perhaps that is what is best about India, it is still a culture that is living its culture, the ganga cannot be packaged into a museum nor can it be scraped off and put in a glass bottle. It always renews itself. India has yet to place is culture in a plastic sterile bottle, and while I hope and pray for its quick development, while I hope people start treating the ganga better and taking better care of it, I hope that is never bottles up its culture.

A belated post - 1st class, Indian Style!

So, I apologize for writing about something three weeks after it happened, perhaps it makes my writing a bit more disingenuous, but I have to post about our first class train ride from Dehra Dun to Punjab. There are many other students who while away their time at Landour Language School, the school which brought me to the wonderful hill station of Mussoorie - which is perhaps the one good thing that the British left in India. There are two clowns in particular which I became friends with. One is Becky, who is actually a vestige of what happens when people take over other countries, their own people become like the people they are taking over! Suckers. Actually, one should read "White Mughals," by William Dalrymple, also the author of "The Last Mughal," (the man likes Mughals, what can I say), to gain a more in depth understanding of just how Indianized many British were before a reactionary movement (which was also sadly a religious; i.e. Christian movement) sent them into imperial pride, racism and further segregration. But back to the protagonists of our story. Becky is British, but wants to be Indian (I'm just kidding Becky, but you know it's true). Her mother was also visiting. Kelly is from my country, good old America, and is proof of how strong an influence over-excited dancing Indian people in Bollywood movies can have on people across the world. Watching Bollywood movies is just mesmerizing, eventually you want to be like them. I'm just kidding, both are wonderful people, love India, and I am proud to know them.

I invited them to stay with my family in Punjab, or, "the Poonjaab," as our colonial friend Becky likes to call it, and they hastily agreed. We booked a first class train ride from Dehra Dun to Amritsar, where my mama and mami live (uncle and aunt on my mom's side). The train was scheduled to set out at 6:00 am sharp. We were tired, we were distraught. Well, I was fine, I was leaving from Mussoorie, only an hour away, but Becky, her mom, and Kelly had been traveling around Uttarakhand, the state where Mussoorie is located, for about 2 weeks. I expected them to be tired, worn out, and a little crabby. I was not expecting them to be as grimy as they were when I saw them though. When I saw all three carrying their luggage, Becky and her mom equipped with proper backpacking gear, fit for the occasion, and Kelly with a big suitcase and a bright blue sari, completely unfit for the occasion, I was quite taken aback. If I had to guess, they hadn't showered in a few days, nor had they changed their clothes, or even their socks. "Well," I thought, "at least we have first class to look forward to."

Aaaah, but India is full of surprises. Sometimes wonderful, sometimes not so wonderful. First, a little history. When we booked our trains, all the more well-known trains were full. Eventually, we found a train that was going our direction. We booked first class, as we thought it would be easiest since we didn't know which train we were taking. Now, on the Indian Rail website, you can book first class, but you can book it with or without something called "AC." AC means that it's closed windows, and heated, which helps with keeping out the freezing night air.

We booked it without AC, simply because we neglected to notice it. A valuable lesson learned. Never book overnight trains in the cold northern part of India without AC. First class just means closed compartment, i.e., you can close the door, and people can't come into your compartment, and there are 4 beds. Now it's time for pictures. You have to see it to believe it.

It was the most grungy, grimy, nasty, cold, miserable place I have ever been. The explanation goes as follows. The Amritsar Death Express, as I have fondly named it, is a ridiculously old train, and it doesn't really HAVE first class anymore. What I mean is, the first class that we stayed in dated back probably 30 years at least; there was no glass in the windows, there was such a thick layer of grime on the upper beds that I chose to sleep in a different cabin, it was freezing because of the dense fog and cold air, it was miserable. We had no idea. Before we got on the train, we saw the passenger list posted on the outside of it. We were happy because we were the only 4 people on the first class train. Yay! Privacy! More like, Yay! Stupidity! All the other Indians knew what first class without AC really meant, and none of them decided to take it, which explained why the whole dibba was deserted. Please, just take a look at Becky's face, and that will explain it all.

We arrived late, left late, I must have slept about 2 hours the whole night. When I finally did manage to sleep, I woke up because my feet were freezing, since even though I had my socks and my shoes on, the fog managed to seep through it all and basically drench my feet. I was miserable, and it was quite an experience for me, one that I don't ever want to repeat. While we laughed about it later, and we will forever laugh about it, there is one thing for sure, I am never traveling non-AC ever again, even if it "first class."

I'm going to Varanasi, and they can't kick me out of India yet!

Hello all, or the two people who might still check this, one of which unfortunately is probably not my mom...

Once again, I apologize for the break in updating. Part of it is the fact that I am still using these cyber cafe's, the other part is I'm just lazy about it. Anyways, I am back in Faridabad after a stop off in Punjab after the Landour Language School closed in Mussoorie, the last town I was in. Actually, to give proper props to people when it's due, I didn't really end up taking many classes from LLS, but studied with this teacher Zeenat, which was a blessing, since she responsible for most of the Hindi I now know.

My hindi is going good, though it's cost some sacrifice in traveling and seeing all the treats that India has to offer. The other good news is that after much stress and extra work to make up for India's shady beauracracy, I have my "OCI," or "Overseas Citizen of India" registration, which allows me to have most of the rights of an Indian citizen, and basically come to India whenever I feel like it (basically, I just can't vote or run for president here in Bhaarat - India). This is something that people with some Indian heritage can get, and I think it applies even if you have only a small percentage of heritage from India. So no more need for visas. I think I'm going to write a blog entry on "how to get an OCI in India," since there must be thousands of other Indians who are probably frustrated with the process and entertaining suicidal thoughts as we speak. To make a long story short, the wonderful people at the Ministry of Home Affairs (MHA) ended up losing my application, and I had to make a new one. They told me I was the only person this has ever happened to. That may have some element of truth in it, but I'm leaving out the tons of other frustrating things that they did with malicious intent, because they are the worst people in this world. Mind you, I haven't been staying in Faridabad or Delhi, and going to the MHA requires long and exhausting overnight train rides, adding to the pain of Indian beauracracy. I'm learning, slowly and painfully, how to get things done in India.

Tomorrow, I will be heading to Varanasi, where I hope to get my studies back going. Expect pictures, as Varanasi is supposed to be a super ancient and fantabulous city. Let's see if they can handle the likes of yours truly.

Due to extremely slow connections, no pictures have been uploaded onto Flickr. I also apologize for the dreadfully boring nature of this post. Next post will have pictures and will include stories of abductions, accidents, and death defying stunts of survival. As well as mangoes. Why? Because everybody likes mangoes.