A Change of Plans

The following day, Mark was feeling better and we decided to check out Banaras Hindu University and to see the sights of Varanasi outside of the Old City. We stepped out of the maze of the Old City on to the wider streets of Varanasi and were immediately approached by Indian men, one after another.

“How are you? Where are you from? How long have you been in India? Would you like to come see my shop?”

“Oh, Hello. Is this your first time in India? Yes? Oh, how wonderful. Would you like to come see my shop?” “

“Good morning. Come see my shop?”

And when we were free of them, the richshaws circled in.

“Hello. Going somewhere? I can take you.”

“Need a ride? Where are you going?”

“Do you want to see the burning ghat?”

On man even told us that he was not just a rickshaw driver, but he was superman. He could get us anywhere we wanted to go faster than anyone else in the city. We considered taking him up on his offer simply for his originality, but decided to stick with our decision to walk, to see the sights.

The dusty, rutted streets of Varanasi were lined with shops and restaurants with brightly colored, welcoming storefronts, displaying their merchandise for passersby. We stopped in an office supply store so that I could buy envelops for cards I had purchased in Calcutta and a convenience type store to buy some drinks and a bag of snack mix to eat along the way. It was extremely hot and these short stops were as much to get out of the heat than for the purchases.

We found the University and after the ornate entryway, there was little to see outside of nondescript, cement buildings and a few scattered trees, none, of course, close enough to the road to give us any shade from the sweltering sun.

After leaving the University grounds, we walked back out into the street, dodging rickshaw drivers as we went, and found a nice, modern, air-conditioned restaurant for lunch.

After lunch, we walked along the streets of the old city nearest to the river to see the different ghats along the banks. Entering where we did, we found that the maze of streets was even more immense than we had originally thought. As we walked along unfamiliar, yet familiar, pathways, I marveled at how different our current surroundings were from anywhere I had ever been. The narrow pathways were lined with tiny shops filled with colorful materials, even smaller internet “cafés” with four or five computers lined up against a wall occupied intermittently with travelers typing away madly or staring out the door waiting for the electricity to come back on; shops selling trinkets, statues of Hindu gods displayed in indentions cut out in the walls; cows blocking the already crowded alley ways, seemingly oblivious to the traffic jam they are causing.

On the way back to the guesthouse, we noticed that the electricity was up and running and decided to take the opportunity to check our email. Erica had written to Mark, telling him that she would be unable to meet us in Delhi. We were both disappointed and set about making arrangements for the remainder of our trip. Mark decided to head back to Dhaka, whereas I would continue on in India. We would both travel together to Agra and Delhi as planned, where Mark would catch a plane to Dhaka and I board a train for the two day ride to Darjeeling.

That evening, I asked the owner of the guesthouse to purchase two tickets for us for the train from Varanasi to Jhansi, a small city just south of Agra where we would spend a few days before heading to Agra.