Sunday 24th January
It was I suppose, sadly inevitable that the only baby in the carriage, and for all I know the whole train, should be in our compartment. When I’m not being woken by it wailing, I’m being woken by its parents, who appear to have no conception of the fact that there are four other people in this small space with them, and that those four other people are trying to sleep. The father’s phone rings repeatedly, and he makes no effort either to take the calls quietly, or go elsewhere to have his conversations. Meanwhile the mother sings to the wailing child, and their friend keeps coming in and engaging in full volume conversation. I think perhaps whispering is yet to be invented in India.
The challenge of sleep has overridden the reward of it by about 9.30am, and it’s not long after this that the others begin to stir too. A little later I’m standing by an open train door, enjoying the refreshing bluster of the passing countryside with Andy, and an American called Steve. I decide to use the conveniences, making first for ‘Western Toilet No.2’. I open the door, and literally recoil in horror. The seat’s broken, but more pointedly, it’s also covered with diarrhoea. How a person could miss so completely and catastrophically is a matter upon which I wish not to dwell. I retreat to ‘Toilet No.1’. A little later an Indian guy makes for Toilet No.2, but gets no further than I did.
The family in our compartment seem to be packing, but equally seem to be nowhere near actually going anywhere, so eventually we force them to accommodate the turning of the beds into seats. Andy and I can now sit down, but Jung-Ok and Odie still feel somewhat trapped on their top bunks, because ‘friend’ keeps coming in and taking up the remaining seating. When at one point he leaves, I tell Odie to come down and grab the seat. A few minutes later he returns, and proceeds to loom for ten minutes before getting the hint that this isn’t actually his berth. Outside, some lovely, picturesque countryside is passing by, much of it looking like it’s fallen straight out of the pages of ‘The Jungle Book’. Things would be perfect if we had a little less baby, and a bit more food. Our Mumbai-Goa train had a constant procession of snack wallahs, and we’d rather expected the same on this train, but there’s nothing, and no-one, with the consequence that we are all formidably hungry. Station stops are therefore our only option. Mid-afternoon we stop at Kaipur Central, where Andy and Jung-Ok leap off to get provisions. Simultaneously, the wallahs leap on, one of whom is selling tea in paper cups that look perilously thin and collapsible. Their efforts see us with veg cutlets, bread, and puris that come with a dip none of us are brave (or foolhardy) enough to eat. While we’re still stationary, I take the opportunity to get off and take in some atmosphere. Aside from being offered cigarettes by a number of small children, the platform is a feast of grooviness. There are magazine vendors, salesmen of house wares, fruit, snacks, drinks, and various other things, as well as lots of noise, bustle and commotion, much like any platform anywhere else in the world, but this being India, there are also cows sifting through piles of detritus, which makes the whole thing a lot more interesting. It’s moments like this that make travelling independently so rewarding. The big tourist attractions are great, but equally so are moments of real life, like the simple goings-on of a random station platform. This is the real India, undiluted, and unsanitized. Satiated with atmosphere, I delay getting back on in order to fulfil another small ambition – boarding a moving train. It may seem trivial, but it’s a surprisingly elusive possibility in this modern world of electric doors. I am therefore quietly pleased as the express pulls away, and I’m able to leap up, grab hold of the bars next to the open door, and swing myself casually in as the train gathers speed. Pleasingly, the family have now either moved, or disembarked, and so we have the compartment to ourselves. Jung-Ok wanders off to find some Koreans she bumped into earlier, while Andy, Odie, and I engage in a game of Travel Scrabble with Steve the American, who is very nice but rather, er…American.
Shortly after the Scrabble comes to an end, we pull into Lucknow, which is less than halfway to Varanasi. The journey has already taken somewhere between nine and ten hours, so clearly it isn’t going to be thirteen. Oh well, at least we’re getting there, and now comfortably without extraneous babies. I go in search of Jung-Ok, and find her in sleeper class, enjoying herself with a group of her compatriots. I install myself in a ‘bed’ surrounded by a few hundred empty peanut husks, next to a nearby window, and spend some time indulging in music and the view, which proves to be a lovely way to pass away the late afternoon. As dusk approaches, we return to the compartment, and collectively decide to open the bar. A bottle of Magic Moments Indian vodka, purchased in Agra especially for the train journey proves worryingly impregnable, and we’re forced to open it using a pair of scissors from Odie’s sewing kit. Still, once accessed, it certainly serves to soften the next few hours, especially as Odie has a cold, and Jung-Ok has a mildly dodgy stomach, the result of which is that Andy and I have the whole thing to ourselves. There’s some more Scrabble, which I win, but the highlight of the evening is an empty Sprite bottle that starts to spontaneously dance on the table with the rocking of the train. It may sound underwhelming, but trust me, it’s inordinately entertaining after a few Magic Moments. It’s even captured on video for posterity. About 8pm, having just left Sultanpur Station (cloaked in thick fog), the vodka runs out. We’re on our own now, however many stations we have left.
Of some consolation is the fact that we already have rooms, and a pick-up arranged. The Ajay Guesthouse is accommodating us for Rp1000 a night. It’s steep, but we are all guilty, after Delhi and a night on a train, of wanting hot water, and beds that we don’t feel soiled by sleeping in. Nearing 10pm, signs of urbanisation begin to appear, and finally, universally tired after a thirteen hour journey that has proved to be closer to nineteen, we draw into Varanasi Junction. Ajay have told us to wait in front of the information desk, which we would, were it not for the fact that the desk is inaccessible, lost as it is amongst a sea of blanketed people, taking up every inch of floor space. We elect to wait outside the station building instead, and are here latched onto by the world’s most persistent (or possibly thick-skinned, or possibly dense) rickshaw wallah. To paint the picture, Varanasi is a big hub for tourists, and thus the station car park, following the arrival of a train, is prime territory for touts, rickshaw drivers, and anyone else who stands to make a fast buck from naive new arrivals. So, returning to the man in question, we tell him we don’t need a rickshaw, but this has no effect. We tell him we have a pick-up arranged, but this also has no effect. Well tell him we need nothing from him, and that furthermore it’s none of his business where we’re staying, but this also seems to have no impact on his determination to get something out of us. He just won’t go away. Indeed it’s only when we’ve totally ignored him for about five minutes, despite his continued attentions, and when he’s spotted a group of lost-looking Koreans, that he finally leaves. Twenty minutes or so later, our lift arrives. We are piled into a rickshaw, and whisked off into the Varanasi night. The modern section of the city is nothing remarkable – cars, horns, rickshaws, and cows, but when our driver turns off into a side alley and tells us we have to walk for five minutes, Varanasi proper asserts itself, and the real fun begins.
Varanasi old city reminds me immediately of Marrakech – a maze of narrow, winding alleys. Around every turn there are sleeping dogs, sleeping cows, loitering cows, wandering cows, goats doing all manner of things, piles of discarded ritual garlands, and more dung than any city has a right to, but at this late hour, no people other than ourselves. Lighting is minimal, which leads on more than one occasion to narrowly avoiding stepping on animals, and the omnipresent mist adds to the air of mystery and the unfamiliar. Seldom, if ever, have I fallen in love with a place so quickly.
At Ajay Guesthouse, which seems to have a staff of thousands, most of whom are asleep in reception, we follow our usual routine. Andy and Jung-Ok go upstairs to check the rooms, and come back reporting that one has a balcony, while the other opens out onto the restaurant’s terrace, and has no hot water. We’re assured that will be fixed, and that for tonight we can have another room instead. Jung-Ok and I take the alternative, which proves to be quite nice, and comes with a TV. Hungry, we proceed back up to the restaurant, where the kitchen staff are woken to deal with us. The only things they can offer are vegetable fried rice, or plain rice, so we get one of each and a beer. We’re attended to by a cheerful man in a cardigan, who asks if I can speak Hindi. He seems genuinely surprised and disappointed when I tell him the only thing I know is “Apgenamgahae.” He also makes no bones about making it obvious that he’s cold (there is a distinct chill in the air), so we offer to finish the food in the room so he can go back to bed. I try to sample the local televisual delights, but the options seem limited to cricket or Bollywood musicals. Anyway, the only thing that really matters is the fact that we are in Varanasi, and tomorrow, fog permitting, I shall lay eyes on the River Ganges for the very first time.
Monday 25th January
At 8am I emerge from a warm bed, into a decidedly parky room, and make straight for the small balcony, accessed through a set of decrepit shutters that threaten to fall off if not handled with the delicacy of a heart surgeon. The Ganges, unfortunately but predictably, is hiding with near total stealth behind a wall of fog so thick that anything more than about five feet away is completely obscured. Phantom voices can be heard below, along with occasional splashes and ripples, but a vista there certainly is not. Indeed, we could just as easily be looking out on a canal in the Norfolk Broads for all there is to see of Hinduism’s holiest city this morning. Half an hour later, things have only fractionally improved, to the extent that I am now, with the addition of a little imagination, able to pick out a few boats moored below. If this keeps up, a dawn boat ride on the Ganges, one of Varanasi’s ‘must-do’s’, may be an entirely worthless pursuit.
The two of us go in search of breakfast, having heard no signs of life from Andy and Odie. From Ajay, the ghats – the series of stone steps that lead down to the river, and flank the banks along almost the entire length of the city, are accessed by way of a dark, steeply stepped tunnel, leading down and then emerging into the light at Ranamahal Ghat. Happily, the Ganges, while still inarguably misty, is now at least visible. People are still bathing, or performing puja, the ritual offering to the gods, despite the nastiness of the water. Here in Varanasi, the Ganges, for all its spiritual purity, represents one of the most polluted stretches of water in the world. Sewage, industrial effluent, and human corpses are all put into the river, and in consequence, the water is filthy – hazardously so. Its hue rests unpleasantly between brown and grey, and its edges lap with the remnants of ritual, and other less pleasant processes. We walk north along the river, past buildings that rise steeply up to our left, and look older than many of them apparently are, to Daseswamedh Ghat, one of the largest, and here find a road leading back into the city. It’s lined with fruit and vegetable sellers crouched in the street, their wares laid out in baskets on the ground. The architecture is of the gently crumbling school, and the whole scene bustles not only with people going about their business, but also with (as should almost go without saying by now) a selection of wandering animal life. It is in short, India in a bottle, and oozes atmosphere in every sight, sound and smell. We cut into a small alley heading back to the south, and are immediately immersed in the confined, but thoroughly enjoyable atmosphere of the old city proper. Tiny hole-in-the-wall shops sell incense, jewellery, and staples like water and cigarettes, while the larger ones purvey everything from clothes, to musical instruments. There are dogs and goats too, although in the confined alleys, cows pose slightly more of a problem. Dung likewise, is ever-present along every thoroughfare. I have, despite earlier comparisons, never been anywhere quite like Varanasi. It may be that the standard Indian stimuli, are here compacted into the narrow alleys, or it may be the underlying knowledge that this is one of the world’s holiest cities, but everything about the place feels utterly unique. This is just as well, because there’s an awful lot of wandering around in search of the place we’ve earmarked for breakfast. The fact that, when we do finally locate Shandan Restaurant, it’s in a completely different location to that shown on the map, may account for our difficulty in finding it. Still, the food’s good, and the coffee and chai are wonderful.
Back at the hotel, we deal with laundry, and then switch rooms on the assurance that the hot water has been fixed; we’ll see. Our new residence is up on the roof, on the Ganges side of the hotel, and next to the restaurant, which itself is enclosed in a large metal cage, presumably to prevent diners being harassed by the large troupes of monkeys that prowl the giant Banyan trees and the balconies, roofs, window ledges, and cables of Varanasi. The mist has now cleared up nicely, allowing for the first panoramic view of the river, and the city lining its bank. While I’m enjoying it, cardigan man from last night approaches, and asks me if I can speak Hindi, again.
The four of us go for a walk along the ghats, heading north. We get as far as Daseswamedh, where an old man in a blue pullover with a cloth wrapped round his head comes up and shakes my hand. The shake immediately turns into a massage, and then he’s asking me if I want to lie down. I’m trying to say no, but Jung-Ok seems amused by the whole thing, and wants me to go through with it. Andy has been similarly ensnared by someone nearby. Before you can say Ayurveda, we’re both prostrate on straw mats laid out on the ghat steps, with old men kneading us, walking on us, prodding us, and twisting our limbs at unlikely angles, for the best part of twenty minutes. We have to move twice as the ghat gets washed, and the wives circle like vultures with their cameras, but it’s a pleasant experience nonetheless; certainly not the best massage I’ve ever had (that lasted about thirty seconds and was performed by a smartly-dressed man in the bathroom of a bar in Bangkok’s red light district, although that’s another story for another day) but it’s not bad. Nearby there’s a man having his head shaved with a cut-throat razor. Rather glad I went for the massage. Continuing along the ghats, we pass a number of very funky sadhus, or Hindu holy men, wandering ascetics who shun the comforts of normal life in search of spiritual perfection. Most of them have long dreadlocks, and wear either ochre robes, or very little whatsoever. Some are entirely covered in ash. They spend a great deal of their time massively stoned, and often as we go by them, the potent smell of strong hash drifts through the air.
It isn’t long before we reach Manikarnika Ghat, which is visible from some way off due to the clouds of smoke it generates. This is the main burning ghat in Varanasi, where, as in other places along the river, cremations are conducted in full public view, twenty four hours a day. Photography is strictly prohibited, and such is the deeply personal nature of funerary rituals in our own cultures, that even here where crowds seethe and all is wide open and visible, we still feel rather like going any closer than the edge of the area would be intruding. There are at least ten pyres burning, and the ghat is a hive of activity, both human and animal. The inescapable image is one of holding a mass cremation during a car boot sale in a farmyard. It is so far removed from the way we deal with death as to be at once bewildering and entrancing. At the upper edge of the steps, large piles of wood are stacked, and the salesmen negotiate with the families of those deceased to agree quantity and price. There isn’t the slightest noticeable atmosphere of grief, or solemnity, just the regular noise and commotion of India. As we’re loitering, a guy sidles up, tells me that he works in a hospice nearby, and asks if I want him to explain everything for me. I say no, and attempt to move away, but there’s really nowhere to go, so he begins to explain anyway. The upshot of what he tells me is thus: Varanasi is the place to die if you are a Hindu. Death here frees you from the cycle of rebirth, and is basically a free pass to Nirvana. To be cremated on the ghats the body must be brought here within twenty four hours of death, otherwise it’s only permissible to sprinkle the ashes in the river. The corpse is first covered in cloth (the more expensive the better) and put in the river to cleanse it. It’s then set on its pyre. The type of wood used, and the amount, depends on means, but aromatic woods like banyan and sandalwood are usually included in order to mask the smell. Meanwhile, the eldest son of the family goes off to cleanse himself and get his head shaved. He then dons white robes, which he must wear, whilst also observing strict vegetarianism, for thirteen days thereafter. Finally the cremation itself takes place. Those who cannot be cremated include Sadhus (they are already with god), children (they are already pure), pregnant women (because of the child) and people who died from cobra bites (the cobra is the necklace of Shiva, and therefore this is a divine death). Additionally, people who die unnatural deaths, and also lepers, can only be cremated at the nearby electric crematorium. It’s all very interesting, and ends with the inevitable, “Please donate to the hospice.” I literally only have twenty Rupees on me, other than ludicrously large notes, and I happily offer it to him. He’s having none of it however, because he wants a lot more. I spend the next ten minutes explaining that this is really and truthfully all I have, even showing him the big empty space in my wallet, but he gets increasingly objectionable and keeps banging on about Karma. I can’t help but feel that he’s probably damaging his own by being such an arsehole, but still. Finally, begrudgingly, and with continued harping, he accepts it, although he’s still bitching as I walk away.
Making our way up through the funeral pyres, we continue as far as the most northerly of the main ghats, past bathing buffalo, drying laundry, and yet more stoned sadhus, before turning back to find sustenance. Our eatery of choice is the Brown Bread Cafe, recommended for fine food and good ethics. It’s set back in the maze of tiny streets behind Manikarnika, but is surprisingly easy to find. Once installed on comfy cushions, I order a yak cheese sandwich, a potato and carrot burger, and a latte macchiato. The cheese is nothing to shout about, but the burger is fantastic. I think we’re all obnoxiously full by the time we leave, and we stumble in a bloated manner back to the hotel.
We reconvene in the evening to head back to Daseswamedh for the nightly Ganga (the local name for the Ganges) worship ceremony. It has already started by the time we get there, and a sizeable crowd has assembled. Four ‘alters’ are set up on the river bank, each one of them manned. The guys do a variety of ritual motions including wafting fire around, ringing bells, waving what look like horse hair feather dusters, and throwing flower petals. This all happens to the accompaniment of music performed on a complex instrument resembling an accordion, with additional vocals and drums. The singer/accordion player seems to have a right hand that’s dead from the wrist, and he works the bellows with his arm as his hand hangs limply down beside it. His voice is quite mesmerising. In the background, yet more people are ringing bells; many, many bells. There are a lot of tourists in the audience, but more locals, and this is a ritual that would go on even if not a single tourist had ever visited Varanasi. Quite a few of the westerners are of the ‘Look at me, I’m so spiritual’ variety, and really need to be pushed into the bloody Ganges. Let’s see how much they worship it then. At the end of proceedings, a priest appears and daubs a spot of red on each of our foreheads as a blessing, before demanding Rp10 for the privilege. I tell him to make sure God gets the money.
Back at the hotel, the long-awaited hot water is still not in evidence. Jung-Ok retires, while Andy, Odie and I take a walk through the streets back to where the rickshaw dropped us the other night. We are on a mission to find a Government Liquor Store. It’s a long walk down the noisy, busy streets of the ‘new’ town, but we finally locate a wine and spirit shop, next door to a beer shop. A bottle of vodka and five beers are purchased, and then snacks and mixers are obtained elsewhere. It’s then back to Andy and Odie’s balcony for a nightcap, and the unexpected sight of two men beating people with wooden canes. Presumably they are ‘the authorities’ keeping the late night ghats clear of undesirables. They are very nice to a passing traveller. I retire to a chilly room and the noise of barking dogs, but have to wake Jung-Ok so that she can put on some insect repellent, as I notice that we’re sharing the space with about twenty mosquitoes. The next fifteen minutes are spent trying to kill them.
Tuesday 26th January
The water is warmish this morning, which is at least an improvement on yesterday. After a quick blast on the internet, we all go for breakfast at the Brown Bread. I seem incapable of leaving this place without the same feeling of over-consumption that one usually takes away from a curry house. In need of walking it off, we head south along the river, to see the ghats that lie in that direction. It’s sunny, and warming up very healthily. One of the first we pass can only be described as Cattle Bathing Ghat. About twenty five large buffalo, are milling about, and being taken into the river one at a time to be scrubbed. Some are keener than others. In and around this is the usual assortment of sadhus, hawkers, children playing cricket, and others flying kites (one of which comes alarmingly close to decapitating me). Kites are very popular in Varanasi, and the sky is usually full of them. People perform aerial combat, attempting to take down that of their opponent. The winner claims the vanquished kite. The sadhus meanwhile, are incredibly photogenic, but so as not to offend, or arouse suspicion, I place Jung-Ok in various strategic positions so that it appears I’m photographing her. Even if they did notice, I suspect most of them would be too stoned to react.
A little further on is another, more modest burning ghat. The spectacle is actually much clearer here, as everything is closer and more compact. There are four cremations going on, two in progress, and two in the last stages of preparation. There’s also a shrouded body being dipped in the Ganges. The two bodies that are already burning are minimally wrapped, and their hands and feet are clearly visible. Jung-Ok thinks she makes out the skull of one of them too. Here as yesterday, there is not the faintest hint of grief, almost certainly because those who have passed on are guaranteed to reach Nirvana. Even so, it’s hard to imagine that this spiritual compensation could totally assuage the feelings of loss. I suspect it’s impossible to understand the emotions these people feel in the face of death unless one shares their beliefs.
Death followed cattle, and laundry follows death. At the next ghat, shawls, sheets, saris and dhotis are stretched out on the steps, drying in the sun. Still others are being pulverized at the edge of the water, in the usual Indian style. How clean any of these can really be after emerging from the filth of the Ganges and then being dried on the dirty stone steps is anyone’s guess. One particular item is, I notice, being urinated upon by a passing dog.
At the southern extreme of the main ghats, we call into a book, music, and health products shop called Himalaya. Various things are purchased, including a beautiful ‘Mughal Ladies 2010’ calendar, which sounds very smutty, but is actually full of splendid artwork depicting aristocratic Indian maidens. Somehow it’s going to have to survive the next three and a half weeks in my pack. Next door is a lovely outdoor pizzeria, where I order the world’s largest veggie spring roll, which is delicious, and a slice of apple pie with ice-cream, which is phenomenal. Andy and Odie try it, then attempt to order some themselves. They get halfway through the sentence before the waitress interrupts, and completes the order for them, adding, “I know, because everyone loves this.”
A little later, and back to the north, we decide to hire a boat in order to take in the Ganges sunset experience. However, in order to make the whole thing a little more magical, we decide to open the bar first. Andy and Odie’s balcony is sunny and cheerful, and the White Mischief vodka compliments the late afternoon light on the ghats below perfectly. It would all be idyllic – perfect company, magical location, and a refined afternoon tipple, were it not for the continual, annoying presence of the Barbary macaques. I think a troupe must live nearby (although the whole city is crawling with them to be fair) as they use the balcony as a thoroughfare while traversing the building. At one point, a particularly bold individual creeps up behind Jung-Ok and steals her vodka and Coke. We attempt to see them off, but are met with aggressive gestures and threatening behaviour. Somewhat embarrassingly, we are forced to beat a retreat to the river; humans nil, monkeys one.
Typically, having been asked every five yards for the last two days whether we’d like a boat, now that we actually want one, no-one’s asking. We’ve gone almost a whole ghat before anyone approaches us! Having beaten the guy down to the standard price of Rp50 per person per hour, he passes us to one of his boat boys, who takes us out and tells us to let him know when we hit thirty minutes, so that he knows when to turn us around. We head north in our small rowing boat towards Manikarnika, and all take the opportunity to dip our fingers in this holiest of rivers. While I may be spiritually cleansed by this, I will confess to feeling physically contaminated. At the burning ghat we loiter off the bank for a while, but we’re taking in the view of the city in general rather than the goings on of Manikarnika itself. I think I’ve seen enough of cremations. As the last of dusk gives way to darkness, Varanasi makes for a truly wonderful spectacle. This city unlike any other maintains, even through its bustle and commotion, an undeniable air of spirituality. The very knowledge that to millions of people, this is the holiest place on earth, gives it a unique and enchanting atmosphere. Heading back, we pass Daseswamedh, where the Ganga ritual is once again underway. It’s somehow even more affecting from here, as the music drifts out across the river. We are on the very waters these people are worshipping. Just before we head in, a small boat approaches, selling lotus flower offerings, each containing a small candle. They are to be set adrift on the water. We’ve already seen large numbers of these floating serenely down the Ganges, and Jung-Ok buys one, letting it gently free to join the many others.
Back in the hotel, Jung-Ok performs her minutely detailed, and daily fiscal calculations, and finds Rp500 missing, and totally unaccountable. I maintain she’s made a mistake. She maintains I’ve lost it. I know I haven’t. We all have a last drink on the balcony outside our room, but Andy is newly suffering from a cold or some such thing, and Odie isn’t feeling entirely right in the stomach department, so we retire early. Our room is freezing, as is the hot water.
Wednesday 27th January
We were awoken in the middle of the night by the sound of the American girl in the room next door shouting, “Help! Help! There’s water in my room!” There may or may not be a connection, but this morning we still don’t have anything warm emerging from our taps. This is very annoying, especially as we are paying Rp1000 a night - a price which certainly warrants better than no mirror, a broken toilet seat, and no hot water.
After breakfast, on another stroll through the alleys, Jung-Ok and I spot a sign for the Jahvi Music School, and since we’ve been considering indulging in tabla and sitar lessons, we follow it up a small lane. After knocking a few times, the door is opened by a small child. She calls a woman, who in turn calls her husband. He informs us that lessons are basically available anytime. Given Andy and Odie’s somewhat fragile state last night, we don’t know if they’ll be up for it or not, so I schedule a sitar lesson for as soon as the teacher can arrive, while Jung-Ok goes back to the hotel to let the others know what’s going on. I stay and chat to the owner, Atul, as we sit on floor cushions and drink tea. He’s a thoroughly nice guy, and talks of the problems of touts and dishonest folk in Varanasi, of Hinduism, of music, and of his other passion – buying and restoring old motorbikes. Jung-Ok returns with news that Andy is up for a sitar lesson, but Odie’s not really interested in learning the tabla. As we’re arranging times, Atul calls the sitar teacher again, and discovers that he’s already gone to another class, and that the earliest he can make it here is 12.30. It’s only about 11am now, so there’s a while to wait. Conversation turns to our accommodation. Jung-Ok has pretty much reached the end of her patience regarding the hot water situation, and given that our room is also perpetually cold, we are both keen to relocate. Atul suggests we try the Shiva Kashi Guesthouse, which is set back some way from the river, not far from his place. We go to check it out, and fortuitously, someone is checking out of a double just as we arrive. The room is only Rp400, and comes with a balcony overlooking the city, as well as piping hot water. We pounce on it. The manager is a chunky man in an equally chunky sweater, and if he had a beard, he would be the Indian Brian Blessed, only surlier. He seems to find the whole proposition of running a hotel supremely distasteful, and raising even the tiniest glimmer of a smile out of him is a Sisyphean effort. The room has to be cleaned, so we dump our bags, leave our passports, and head back to Jahvi via some delicious street-side vegetable pakoras.
The sitar teacher is already there when we get back, and he’s tuning up. This in itself seems to be a frighteningly complex process. There are twenty strings, and tuning depends not only on the adjustment of the machine heads, but also on the position of three bizarre sliding shells, and the precise location of the individual frets, all of which are moveable! The main strings, of which there are seven, don’t make contact with the neck, but float above it on the raised metal frets. A note is achieved by placing the finger to the left of the fret in question. The remaining thirteen strings lie beneath the other seven. I’ve never seen an instrument so immediately and dispiritingly complicated. Things only get worse once he’s finished tuning. He shows me how to hold the sitar, and how to sit when doing so. One must be barefoot, with the left leg tucked back under the right. The body of the instrument rests on the left foot, while the right leg is extended forward, bent at the knee. It must be held with the neck at a steep angle, and the body weighed down by the right arm. If sitting in a position that to most people would constitute yoga were not bad enough, the arrangement also means that the player can only see the back of the instrument’s neck, and is therefore unable to see where the fingers are being placed. It all has to be done by feeling, or intuition, or a combination of both. The plectrum is a metal pick attached to the index finger in much the same way as a thimble. We begin with the scale, to a sixteen beat. I’m asked to play it ascending and descending with first one pluck per note, then two, then three, then four, all the way up to eight, but all within the same sixteen timing. I find fitting five and seven into a beat of sixteen very tricky indeed, especially as I am trying to cope with an unfamiliar playing posture, a scale I haven’t properly learned the positions for, a total inability to see where I’m putting my fingers, a restriction that allows me only to use the index finger of my left hand on the fret board (the middle finger can only be used at the top end), and a fixed, non-negotiable strumming pattern. We progress to slightly more complex scales eventually, but after an hour of sitting in the same position, and having my head spun around by sitar complexity, I’m done. I had a great deal of respect for Ravi Shankar before, but having experienced just how difficult this instrument is even to get a scale out of, the man has now been inducted into my personal pantheon. The guitar is a child’s picnic compared to the sitar. Once the lesson is over, Atul says that I did very well to pick it up as quickly as I did, which is some small comfort.
Andy takes his lesson immediately after mine, and while he’s at it, Jung-Ok and I go back to the Shiva Kashi to move into our new room. We like the place immediately. The room just has a good vibe, and allows us to look out over a totally different aspect of the city. Our view is a sea of roofs, with all the life and activity they offer. It’s altogether nicer, and cheaper than the Ajay was. We head out for a bit of shopping, and Jung-Ok gets a wonderfully colourful and snazzy pair of ‘Ali Baba’ trousers, which are wide-legged, and have a seam that joins the two halves somewhere near the knees. At about 3pm we return to Jahvi for her tabla lesson. One could easily make the mistake of imagining that hitting a drum would be relatively simple, but this is Indian music. The tabla is in fact two drums side by side, one slightly larger than the other. It’s played in the lap. The teacher launches immediately into complex combinations of hits, but spends almost no time on dealing with how the individual hits are to be properly achieved, which, considering that each drum has about five different areas producing entirely different sounds, and that each one has to be struck with a different part of the hand and with different force and technique, would probably be useful information. It takes Jung-Ok a while to get the hang of it, but she ends up doing extremely well, and I find myself being very proud of her. I take a lesson after she’s done, but can’t come close to matching the proficiency she displayed. I think I’m a strings man.
We rendezvous with a still fragile Andy and Odie to show them where our hotel is in order that they can find us for our departure to Nepal tomorrow. Our plan is to reach Pokhara, a town in central Nepal. As we’re perusing guidebooks, means of transport, and considering what will have to be another hideously early start, I realise that there’s no way we can get from the border post at Sunauli, to Pokhara in one day anyway. That being the case, it seems fruitless to leave offensively early. We can simply aim for the border, and spend the night there, which while still requiring us to leave early, will at least allow the departure to occur after sunrise, rather than at horribly dark o’clock. Thus we scratch the 3.30am idea, in favour of a much friendlier 7am. With that sorted, Jung-Ok and I head off to the fruit and veg street near Daseswamedh for provisions. At a small grocery stall where we buy water, the owner asks if we’d like some beer. It’s totally illegal for him to be selling it, and he has them hidden behind the counter. Apparently he has to bribe the police so as not to get busted, and he’s therefore charging a little more than the government store, but it’s worth it to avoid the long walk. The beers are wrapped in plain paper, and handed over with a wink, and a request not to tell anyone else about it.
Back at the hotel, this new found source of alcoholic merriment, combined with the nice room, the interesting new view, the presence of hot water, and a generally improved living situation, sets both of us to thinking that perhaps we aren’t ready to leave Varanasi just yet. We’re loving the atmosphere of this city, and even without specific grand landmarks, or amazing spectacles, it’s a fabulous place simply in which to hang out and soak it all up. Checking our planned itinerary, we realise that we’ve enough time to do everything, and still allow for another day here. The decision is made. We head over towards the Ajay in order to let Andy and Odie know what we’ve decided. In the event, we bump into them on the way, in a small tunnelled alley we’ve come to refer to as ‘Cow tunnel’ (because there’s usually one in it). They are both also happy to delay departure, and so with that, Jung-Ok and I go back to our black market beer supplier for a few more, also purchasing some delicious spicy egg rolls from a nearby food stall. They consist of a thin layer of dough spread with egg, fried, and then rolled up and filled with salad. I have reservations about the dirty rag he uses to wipe his surfaces, and about the fact that he handles money, and then my salad, but the place is very popular, and that’s always a good sign.
Installed once more on our balcony, the late evening call the prayer begins. Varanasi has a lot of mosques, but we are within earshot of the loudest of them all. It completely drowns out all of the others. To be fair, it’s Imam is by far the best singer in town, but I imagine them having gone out to buy the biggest set of kick-ass speakers they could find, and installing them with great conspiratorial glee, knowing that they would blow away all the competition. They also wait until all the other mosques have been going for about a minute, before the telltale sound of their system being turned on presages their utter domination of the airwaves.
Thursday 28th January
It’s a morning of gross unproductiveness. I try a few internet places in an attempt to upload some photos, but for a variety of reasons it proves impossible. I also completely forget to check whether the rumours we’ve heard about Rp500 and Rp1000 notes being totally illegal in Nepal are true or not. Jung-Ok meanwhile, tries three different places, but fails utterly to get through to her parents on the phone. With such frustrations afoot, the only sensible recourse is to devote a couple of hours to getting completely lost. We hit the labyrinth with no set course, and are soon ambling through unfamiliar streets, simply enjoying the fact that we have no idea where we are. We pass a beautiful mosque, get latched onto by a pair of charming young children, and see a catatonic goat resting on a crumbling wall; entertainment at every turn. After an hour or so we once again bump into Andy and Odie, and in an internet cafe, Jung-Ok finally succeeds in getting through to home, while I fail once again to upload anything due to a mercilessly slow connection, and a power cut.
Late morning finds the two of us on our balcony with sunshine, beer, and macaques. They’d been quite happily scampering around and making a nuisance of themselves on a nearby rooftop until they were driven off by an angry woman with a stick, and now they’ve decided to use our hotel as a climbing frame. I refuse to be beaten back a second time, and so poke a hole in the lid of an empty mineral water bottle, refill it, and use it as a surprisingly effective (in both range and monkey repelling properties) water cannon.
After lunch we return to the shop where Jung-Ok bought her Ali Babas, and I get measured for a waistcoat. He tells me it’ll be ready at 4pm, but at 2pm when we pass by again, he beckons us in and tells us it’s done. It is about three sizes too small. Happily however, it not only fits Jung-Ok perfectly, but looks great on her too, so she takes it, and I get measured again for another one. I’m assured it will be ready within two hours. Andy and Odie meanwhile have also moved into the Shiva Kashi, and are only a couple of doors away from us. While they settle in, we walk down to the government liquor store for more vodka and beer, then get a cycle rickshaw back up to Daseswamedh, where I get my hands on a couple of bracelets. Back to the hotel via my tailor, and as promised, the waistcoat’s ready and fits perfectly this time.
On our balcony, the four of us meet for the opening of the bar, and as we make the first toast, Odie says, “Cheers to your last night in India.” (They’ll be coming back after Nepal). It hadn’t really occurred to me, but it’s true; India is basically over. It hasn’t felt like almost a month, and to be honest, it hasn’t really felt like a country – more a selection of separate little kingdoms. Almost everywhere we’ve been, while sharing commonalities (cows predominantly) has been totally different from everywhere else. Mumbai had the cosmopolitan and the colonial splendour, Goa had the chilled-out beach vibe, Kerala had the backwaters and the charming buzz of Alappuzha, Delhi was largely twelve hours of fog and stress. Then there was Agra and the Taj Mahal, both delightful if somewhat blighted by sickness, and now Varanasi, without doubt one of my favourite places in the world, and possibly the city that most seems to encapsulate what India is – an amazing, trippy, frustrating, exotic, mind-bending place that has to be seen and experienced to be believed. I’ll miss it, but tomorrow we enter Nepal, where a whole new adventure awaits, so there’s nothing to do but raise another glass, listen one final time to the world’s loudest mosque, and enjoy our last evening here.
It could be argued that we enjoy it a little too enthusiastically, because when Andy and Odie go off for dinner (we’ve decided to do spicy egg rolls again) we realise that yet another trip to the ‘off license’ is called for. I go alone, and on the way back, stop for a last chat with the tailor. He talks, as usual, with a large wad of paan in his mouth, and I’m struck by the sudden urge to try it. I ask where I can get some, and he summons his eight year old son, who is given instructions to take me round the corner to the nearest vendor. It seems that the best way to get anything done in India is to send a ‘boy’ to do it. I’m told to get some without the tobacco element, and when I ask why, his son responds, “Because if you have it with tobacco, it’ll make you crazy, like my father.” So, I’m led off down the alley by an eight year old, and a few minutes later I am chewing cautiously on a mixture of lime, cardamom, saffron, coconut, cloves, and areca nut, all wrapped up in a betel leaf. It’s an interesting concoction, and tastes simultaneously bitter, tangy, and sweet. As I’m forced to eject the first mouthful of red juice on the pavement, I feel almost like a local! As an experience, I’m glad I tried it, but it’s not something I could develop a habit out of. Once Andy and Odie get back, we have a last nightcap, before everyone retires, and we sleep in our last Indian bed.
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