India's Holiest City

We boarded the train early the next morning. Since we were not on an overnight trip, we did not have the choice of the upper berth, but instead simply took our seats on the crowded lower bench and settled in for the ride. Unlike my experience on Thai trains, which either had food served on the train or had food vendors at various stops hop on to sell their wares only to hop off at the next stop and catch the next train back, Indian trains did not seem to offer any opportunities to purchase food, other than jumping off to get what was available at the larger stops. We had not thought to bring any food, so I just watched hungrily as the Indian couple unpacked their heated, pre-packed picnic and thought about the possibility of some good Indian food once we reached Varanassi.

Not only is Varanassi India’s holiest Hindu City, but it is also believed to be one of the oldest cities in the world. India’s Hindu’s believe that if you are cremated in Varanassi, you will be able to escape the circle of life and death and go straight to Nirvana. The banks of the Ganges River, where it runs past this holy city, are dotted with ghats, or holy sites with staircases running down into the water where people can bath in the sacred waters of the Ganges. A few of these ghats are ‘burning ghats,’ where the cremations take place and from where, afterward, the ashes are thrown into the water. While it is ideal for India’s Hindus to be cremated at these sites, it is not an affordable option for everyone, nor are all allowed to be burnt. As one of the readily available local ‘tour guides’ informed me, there are five categories of people who cannot be burnt: pregnant women, children under a certain age, holy men, lepers and a fifth group that I cannot now recall (I believe it was a group afflicted with another type of illness). The first two being prohibited because a child under a certain age or an unborn child has not experienced enough of life yet, a holy man, I think, because you just do not burn holy men and the last two because of a fear of releasing the illness into the air through the cremation process and causing widespread illness. So for these groups, they simply throw the bodies into the river, one of the many reasons I did not partake in the ritual bathing in the Ganges.

We arrived at the train station in Varanassi and were immediately approached by eager taxi drivers willing to take us anywhere we wanted to go. One man latched on to me before we had even left the station and told us that he could take us to the Old City for 500 rupees (approximately $11 USD, an exorbitant rate). I told him that we did not want a taxi and that we would find an auto rickshaw to take us where we wanted to go and that there was no way we were paying 500 rupees. He came back, telling me that it was much nicer to travel in a taxi and that 500 rupees was the standard fare to the Old City. I repeated that we did not want a taxi. He continued to follow us dropping his fare from 500 to 400. At this point in my travels, I had learned that you could pretty much get a ride for whatever you were willing to pay as long as you played the game. If you took the first offer you received, you would inevitable pay way too much, but if you walked past enough guys and refused enough rides, there would be at least one guy who would not let you walk away and would take you for the fare you offered. I always offered what I thought was a reasonable fare, knowing that it was most likely much more than the locals pay, but also knowing that I was not going to be scammed out of more than I decided to be scammed out of. I told the man again that we did not want a taxi and continued walking, now getting closer to the exit where we would be prey to a whole hoard of taxi and rickshaw drivers. The man wouldn’t let up and asked me how much I was willing to pay. When, I told him that I was willing to pay 200 rupees, he laughed and told me that I would never get a taxi to the Old City for 100 rupees. I said that I agreed and that was why we were going to take an auto-rickshaw. His offer dropped another hundred. I told him that now I wasn’t going to take him regardless of his price because he had lied to me, telling me earlier that the regular fare was 500 and that he could not take less. Undeterred, he continued to follow us, but at this point we had reached the throng and word had gotten around that we wanted an auto-rickshaw. We were approached by a man who offered to take us for 300, to which I responded that I could get a ride in a taxi for 300 and kept walking. At this point, I’m sure Mark was ready to take anybody up on their offer, thinking that 100 rupees was not worth all the hassle, but I was enjoying the game and I refused to give in. The man with the taxi then offered to take us for 250, an offer I refused as I continued walking. Another man, who had heard, from the ripple through the crowd, of the woman who wanted an auto-rickshaw to the Old City for 200 rupees, came forward and motioned to us, telling us that he would take us for 200. At this point, the taxi driver also came down to 200, but we had already given our affirmative nods to the auto-rickshaw driver.

The guest house that had been recommended to us was the Yogi Lodge. I had been warned that there were countless knock offs of the Yogi Lodge, i.e. the New Yogi Lodge, the Golden Yogi Lodge, but that there was only one true Yogi Lodge, a fact that our driver did not know or simply refused to admit. He offered to take us to another guesthouse, but I was adamant. I knew where I wanted to go and I planned to get there. Because he did not know the location of the Yogi Lodge, the driver dropped us off at a spot that Mark had deemed ‘close enough’ to where we wanted to go.

The street where he left us off was wide and dusty. Dirt was kicked up continuously by the hoards of bicycle rickshaws, carts and motorized vehicles that constantly filled the street, making the air heavy with dust. Rows of street level shops lined the road selling sari’s and cloth, western-style clothing for children and men, electronics, beauty products and every other imaginable item. Carts also stood in the middle of the street selling what appeared to be decorations for a celebration of some sort along with cheap plastic toys and costume jewelry. As we began walking in the direction of the Old City, we were bombarded with offers for rides, tour guides and the all-pervasive, “would you like to see my shop?” By the time we reached the entrance to the Old City, I had said, “No, Thank you,” so many times that I was beginning to get it out before they could even begin their spiel.

The Old City is nothing like anything I had ever seen before. It seemed more of a labyrinth than a city, with narrow corridors twisting and turning giving you the feeling that you could easily get lost for years. We were immediately approached by a man who asked us where we were headed and when we told him the Yogi Lodge, he told us that it was no longer in business. Not willing to believe him until I had found the spot where the Yogi Lodge was on the map, I told him that I did not believe him and that I planned to find it. He offered to show us another guest house, but I continued to refuse and continued to follow my map. We were soon joined by another man, who was appraised of the situation, “They want to go to the Yogi Lodge. I told them it was closed, but she doesn’t believe me,” and corroborated the earlier mans tale saying that the guesthouse was closed, but that he could show man a nice one. What were we looking for? How much did we want to pay? I was getting closer to the destination on my map and I continued my forward progress as I repeated my desire to stay at the Yogi Lodge. Yet another man approached us, who, after hearing that I wanted to go to the Yogi Lodge pointed to the left, down a narrow alley way. I thanked him and after walking around a few bends, as well as a few standing cows, we found the Yogi Lodge, and when we got to the door, I noticed that our “guides” were now no where in sight.

The Yogi Lodge turned out to be a favorite with the backpacker crowd and with its cozy restaurant and communal living area, seemed like a good place to meet other travelers. There were no private baths, just a shared bathing area with a sink, two showers and two squat toilets, a fact that Mark was not to pleased with, but I convinced him to stay at least one night, saying that we could move the following morning if he was not happy. He agreed and decided to test out the room that afternoon because he was not feeling too well and did not feel up to hours of sightseeing. I was excited to be somewhere new and decided to head out to get my bearings a bit while Mark rested up.

As soon as I left the hotel and turned the corner out of the alley onto a narrow pathway lined with shops, a young boy of about 12 got my attention. He introduced himself and told me that he was not a guide, that he was out of school that day and just wanted to practice his English. He said he didn’t want any money, but was willing to show me around. I told him that I really just wanted to walk around for a while and that my friend was not feeling well, but would hopefully be feeling better the following day when we would go sightseeing together. He seemed to believe my story, but continued to walk with me, telling me how it was dangerous for a woman to walk around alone because there were so many men who would try to get me to give them money and how I shouldn’t trust anyone, but that I could trust him. Finally, realizing that I wasn’t going to shake him, I decided that if I went to an internet café, that maybe he would wander off and leave me to wander around on my own. I asked him if he knew of any internet cafes and he immediately perked up and said that he did and that he would show me where it was. He led me through the maze of narrow alleys past countless tea shops, clothing shops, fabric shops restaurants and guesthouses before finally leading me into a small Internet café with four computers. Just as I sat down to type the electricity went out and all of the computer screens went blank. After Vietnam, I had learned to be patient with the black outs and I sat quietly until the power was restored via a generator a few minutes later.

Although I was in the internet café for a little over an hour, my young guide was still waiting for me when I got up to leave. I told him that he had not been necessary for him to wait for me, to which he replied that it was no problem and again fell in step beside me. Knowing now that I would not shake him that easily and also that I would not be able to find my way around being led by someone else, I decided that I would go to check on Mark and hope that the boy’s patience would not withstand another long wait. I told him that I wanted to check on my friend and he asked me if I thought Mark would want to go sightseeing if he was feeling better. I said that I did not know what Mark would want to do, but that most likely we would go sightseeing tomorrow. He said that he would show us around tomorrow and pressured me to agree to a time to meet in the morning. I repeated that I did not know what Mark would want to do and that I could not make any decisions until I talked to him. I told him that if we saw him in the morning, then maybe he could show us around. At this suggestion, he countered that if I did not agree to meet him then I would run into countless other boys who would offer to show us around and I would go off with them, leaving him sad and alone. I finally agreed that I would not go off with any other boys and that if Mark was not up for sightseeing that I would accompany him around to the local sights. He tried again to get me to promise to meet him in the morning, but I told him that I did not want him to come all that way, just in case we decided not to go sightseeing. He then reminded me that I said that if Mark was not feeling better that I would go sightseeing with him and that if he came and I had left, he would be very sad. When we reached the entry way to the alley that led to the Yogi Lodge, he finally left me, repeating his desire to meet with me in the morning.

Relieved to be free of my enterprising young tour guide, I went back to the room where I found Mark resting and still feeling somewhat poorly. I decided have lunch at the restaurant downstairs before heading out again. At this point, I had given up on ordering Indian food in restaurants geared to tourists, having found it to be decidedly unlike any ‘real’ Indian food that I had at home, so I decided to try out India’s Chinese.

After I placed my order, I talked briefly to the hotel managers about the possibility of having them purchase train tickets for us. We had found purchasing train tickets quite easy up until this point, but after just a few hours in Varanassi, I was willing to pay a convenience fee to have someone else run the gauntlet for me. Our plan at this point, was to get a train from Varanassi to Delhi where we would meet up with Erica, my good friend and Mark’s wife, who would join us for five days, before flying back to Bangladesh. I had been spending some time looking at cities around Delhi for us to visit during her stay. We had already determined that we wanted to tour Delhi and take a trip to Agra to see the Taj Mahal, but had not decided on anywhere else. I found a few that I was really interested in seeing, but all of them required a long train ride from Delhi and I wasn’t sure if Erica would want to spend the majority of her time on the train.

The city I was most interested in was Jaisalamer, a town filled with old forts and castles lying right on the border of the desert, offering overnight camel safari’s. Another city, just west of Delhi, Jaipur, was another option, also filled with picturesque old forts and castles, yet more practical being less than a days train ride away. Even more practical, was Jhansi, a small town just south of Agra, which was interesting and would not take us too far off our path. I decided to wait until Mark was feeling better and we had conferred with Erica before making any decisions on train tickets.

My food arrived after about half an hour, making me wonder what it was they were doing all that time. Apparently chow mien at the Yogi Logde equates to a dry packet of ramen noodles crushed over a gelatinous mystery vegetable mix. I managed to eat enough to keep me until the next meal and wandered out again, in an attempt to find my way around.

I had bought three salwar kameeze in Bangladesh, but had managed to ruin one of the pairs of pants and forget the other and so I only had one functional outfit to wear other than pants and t-shirts, which although were more common among tourists than I had thought they would be, still made me feel like even more of a spectacle. I decided to check out some of the local shops to find some long Punjabi style shirts, which were less covering that the Salwar Kameeze, but covered enough to be respectable and might also translate into something I would wear at home.

The shops in the Old City are mostly very small and are raised about three feet off the ground. The floors of the shops are covered with a flat wall-to-wall cushion, on which you sit, after removing your shoes in the alley, while the proprietor of the shop unfolds garment after garment for your viewing pleasure. The first shop I visited was about the size of a janitors closet, with a cushion on the floor and walls lined with shelves piled high with Punjabi shirts, salwar kameez and dresses in numerous colors, textures and styles. I had stopped in because I had liked a shirt that was hanging out side of the shop, but after seeing it close up, I decided that I wanted to look a little further.

Shopping in other countries is a lot more personal than shopping in the States and you really can’t get by with just saying, “No thank you, I’m just looking.” The pressure is real and in your face and if you are like me and feel bad about things like watching someone unfold twenty shirts and then walking away without making a purchase, it can be quite an ordeal to get away. The men who work at these shops know that there are at least 10 other shops right around the corner all selling similar products and if they do not get you to purchase something before you leave, it is a very real possibility that you will never be back, no matter how many times you try to assure them. At one store, I was warned that when I came back, to be sure I was on my own, because if I came with someone who asked to show me a shop, I would have to pay more to cover their commission. After begging my way out of a few more shops, I settled on two reasonably priced Punjabi shirts and a plan to find some loose fitting pants to go with them.

Upon leaving my final shop, I was approached by an older man who asked me if I wanted to see the burning ghat. Apparently the burning ghats are a big tourist attraction because he was the sixth or so person to ask me that afternoon. Not wanting to go back and sit in the room or risk another meal from the Yogi Lodge kitchen, I decided to see what the burning ghat was all about.

As I mentioned before, the Ganges River banks in Varanassi are lined with ghats, but only a few are distinctly ‘burning ghats’ where bodies are cremated. As I followed the man through the winding alleys, my feeling of pride at the fact that I was beginning to recognize things soon diminished as we took unfamiliar twits and turns that led us out of the maze near the river. Before we arrived, I was warned repeatedly not to take any pictures. The man emphasized the sacredness of the ceremonies and how disrespectful it would be to take pictures, not to mention the mandatory one-year jail sentence that one would obtain for such an offense.

The alley let out into a crowd of people milling around a pile of tinder and we walked through the crowd to the steps of the ghat. The man introduced me to an attractive young Indian man, saying that he was an official guide and would take me from there. The young guide welcomed me to the burning ghat and led me up to the viewing platform while giving me the history of the ghat and some details about Hindu beliefs about Varanassi. The top platform looked down on a lower platform from where, as my guide told me, the family members of the deceased watch the ceremony. Below the lower platform, was a stone platform raised about 20 square feet, approximately three feet above the ground where the bodies were cremated. At that time, there were four bodies being burnt, laid out on the platform and covered with timber and set aflame. My guide told me that it took about three to four hours to burn the body, after which time, the ashes where sprinkled ceremoniously into the river.

After watching for a few minutes, I turned to go and I was hit with the inevitable plea for money. The cremation ceremony is expensive, I was told. It is hard for poor families to afford to wood for the ceremony and would I be able to provide a donation of 500 rupees to supplement the cost of the wood. I said that I did not have much money, but would give what I could, an amount that was apparently not enough reading the look on my guide’s face.

When I reached the ground level, I was met by the man who had led me to the ghat, who now offered to take me to see a fortuneteller. I had been playing with the idea of having my fortune told, but my idea of a fortune telling experience was one in which I passed by a blind woman mumbling to herself in a dark alley who would put her hand on my arm, look up at me in a brief moment of clarity, and say, “beware, my child, you will soon die a long and painful death” or “you will do great things one day” or something like that; not being led to a man in a turban, who asked for my credit card number before telling me that I would have 2.5 kids and grow old with the man I loved and then waving me away in time for his appointment with the next sucker. Figuring that I was probably less likely to stumble on my version, so I agreed to visit the man, but said that I would decide if I wanted my fortune told after meeting him.

As we began to walk away, we were joined by the boy who had followed me around earlier that day. He gave me a look of grave disappointment and told me that I had promised not to go with anyone else. I told him that I hadn’t planned to do any sightseeing, but had just decided at the last minute when this man offered to take me. I hated feeling that I had to defend myself or that I owed my allegiance to one particular person. I pledged not to give my word to anyone in the future, even if it meant being less than polite. It turned out that the man and the boy knew each other and together led me to the house of the fortune teller.

They led me back into the maze of alleys and through a doorway that led into a cement room that was empty except for a wooden desk against the back wall and two cushions on the floor along the wall adjacent the desk. The man disappeared into another room and returned followed by a slightly heavier man, with a think, full beard and a head wrap. The man motioned for me to sit down on one of the cushions and proceeded to settle himself on the other one.

The man then asked me if I wanted my fortune told, to which I replied that I did, but that I wanted to know how much it was going to cost me first. He said that that was something that we could discuss later, but first he wanted to know my birth date and time. Immediately on alert, first because he brushed off my question regarding the fee and secondly because he asked for information regarding my birth, I began to think of ways to escape. I did not want my fortune told by someone who was probably going to excuse himself to the back room where he would type my birth date into some website and hand me a printout of my fortune. If anything I wanted the palm reading or even a crystal ball!
I asked again for the price, at which the man finally quoted an exorbitant fee, leading me to thank him, apologize and hastily make my exit saying that I would think about it and possibility return the following day.