I think I saw the best side of Varanasi

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Argh! Mosquitos! I’m going to have to buy some coils to burn in my room and start wearing my repellent regularly. By the end of the day I had a bite on my ankle and two on my chin (huh?). I guess I’m back into insect country.

I roll out onto the ghats around ten and start by walking south. I’m not sure why, but I’m still surprised by how hazy and smoggy it is in India. Every day I walk out of my hotel and can only see an outline of the buildings down the way. There’s only one way to describe the ghats of Varanasi: stairs, stairs, stairs and more stairs. Hundreds of them. Stretching for kilometers. I will have thighs of steel by the end of the day, especially if I continue to patronize my hotel’s rooftop restaurant.

It seems a bit quiet; not too many people are out and about and a fair number of those who are are tourists. You can’t really tell how polluted the river is as you walk along the ghats, but I’ve heard that this is one of the most heavily polluted stretches of water in the world. I can believe it after having heard what people use the river for: garbage dump; laundromat; burial ground (one person saw the corpse of a baby floating along after it came untied from the rock that held it on the river bottom); bathtub; bathroom; industrial waste storage; baptismal font; etc etc.

The buildings that run along my right all look like they used to be 18th century palaces that were allowed to fall into disrepair. The grandest has been turned into an observatory, but the others now seem to be shoddy guesthouses, stores or homes for several families. They didn’t skimp on paint, though, and the color palette is a multitude of colors that seem like they should clash, but never do. The other side of the river looks like a wasteland; no trees or buildings in site, just a barren stretch of beach as far as the eye can see. Someone explains to me later that it used to be covered in trees, but the citizens of Varanasi have long since cut them all down to use as firewood for their cremations.

Even though it’s fairly quiet, there’s still a hum of activity everywhere you walk: Kids skip up and down the river, flying kites made of sheets of crinkly, colored plastic. Women beat laundry with a stick. Men bob up and down in the water. Cows, dogs, goats and people loll in the sunshine. Ayurvedic masseuses call out for customers from their wooden chairs. A snake charmer starts a pair of cobras dancing with his pipe. A hundred men ask me, “Boat madam? Very good price. Just 100 rupees for one hour.” Groups of boys somehow manage to play games of cricket without the river swallowing their ball.

This morning, though, I simply want to be an observer, so I turn down all offers of boats and requests to stop into stores. I make my way as far south as I can go, to a large and very attractive-looking park. As I round the corner and follow the path on the other side, however, a nauseating sight and smell present themselves: it’s a river of grey sludge cutting a valley through mountains of garbage. I wish I could say I was exaggerating. This is absolutely the most disgusting thing my senses have ever had to cope with. There must be decades of filth built up in this ravine and I start to get emotional again over how little pride Indian people appear to have in their environment. If I could change anything about this country, it would be how the people dispose of their waste.

I rush down the path to the main entrance of the park as quickly as I can, intending to go in and get out of the building heat. The smell drives me on, though, looking for a café I can go into to have a cool drink away from what I’ve just seen. At this point, I see a sign with a name on it that I recognize: Open Hand Textile Shop and Café. The guidebook recommended it as a place to get fair-price and fair-practice garments and home goods. I had been meaning to check it out, anyway, so I stop in, get some tea and start shopping.

An hour later I walk out with a hunter green and deep purple scarf, a bright blue and red silk shawl, and the piece de resistance: the most beautiful sari ever woven. It’s a bold purple that has a red sheen when the light hits it and is intricately embroidered with gold thread. It’s the single most expensive thing I’ve bought in India and I really have no idea how to put it on myself, but who cares? It’s one of the three most beautiful dresses I have ever worn in my life. The saleswoman sends me to her tailor to make me a custom-fitted Indian-style blouse from the extra fabric on the sari. Salim is a wonderful man who agrees to rush and finish it tonight for no extra charge.

Oh, my god. I can’t stop smiling. This is fabulous!! I’m not sure when I would really wear it outside of Halloween, but maybe I’ll get really lucky and be invited to an Indian wedding in Singapore. Or maybe I should learn how to put it on and just wear it around my condo and feel glamorous.

I’m now walking back up towards the northern end of the ghats, passing some of the same people I saw before. A couple of children who speak excellent English trail alongside me trying very hard to get me to buy a small bowl with a flower and candle in it. At the evening aarti ceremony (much like the one performed in Rishikesh), you’re supposed to make a wish for your family’s health and prosperity and send it floating down the river. First they try to make me feel bad for not wanting to bless my family, but they change tactics when I tell them I have no money because I just went shopping. The little boy tells me not to lie because it’s bad for karma. I promise him, though, that if I had any money he would get it (eh, who needs karma, anyway?).  To their credit they don't ever believe me, but eventually they start tailing another tourist.

When I get back to the ghat near my hotel I keep walking and arrive at the famous Manikarnika Ghat: the burning ghat. This is where every Hindu family in India tries to bring their deceased relatives; by being cremated here they can automatically achieve moksha, release from the cycle of reincarnation and entrance into nirvana. The women are not allowed past a certain point because it’s assumed they will lose themselves to grief and throw themselves on the fire. The men in the family are required to shave all of their hair off and cannot cry or the deceased’s soul will be stuck in some kind of Hindu limbo. And of course the higher caste families have their own site on the ghat for cremation, a bit further in from the river.

There is a strict rule about who can be burnt here: only those who died of natural causes. The following must be burnt further south on the river at a smaller and less prestigious ghat: suicides, murders, accidental deaths, pregnant women, babies and children, the mentally challenged and anyone other than priests. The latter are considered holy in and of themselves and are typically just tied to a rock and thrown into a river. Actually, it would appear that you can dispose of anyone that way and I’ve heard several stories of people who saw a corpse that had apparently floated to the surface after the rope keeping it submerged broke.

Although I see several large fires and a couple of bodies wrapped in orange fabric being washed in the river, I don’t see anyone actually being cremated. Even though the ghat runs 24/7, it seems that this is a break and they won’t begin again until after I’ve arranged to meet with friends. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed, though, because I’m not sure if it’s something I want to see or not.

I decide to walk on to take in all of the ghats before I meet Sally and Emma for the evening boat ride put together by the hotel. As soon as you pass Manikarnika the number of people dwindles to almost nothing. There’s an impressive, but now short, steeple from a temple that fell into the water from its own weight 150 years ago (which the industrious Indians simply built around and continued with their daily lives). One ghat is painted aquamarine, another has a crude sculpture of someone lying down and another has Varansi’s largest mosque towering a hundred meters above it.

But now it’s time to get back to the hotel and get on the water. Emma, Sally and I are going to take them up on their free evening boat ride down the river and back. The sun has basically gone down already, but the sky still has the color of an old bruise to it, yellow and pink with hints of purple. Lots of other boats cruise by and several people start putting the little bowls with candles on the water. As it gets darker they look like glowing trail of breadcrumbs leading back towards our hotel.

As we near one of the ghats towards the south, I realize that it's one of the burning ghats.  This ghat is where the Manikarnikan 'rejects' are taken.  There's also a large electric crematorium so that poorer families can cremate their relatives for less money (paying for the wood for a burning costs a small fortune).  At night, it's a haunting scene; the fire turns everything into silhouettes, from the people walking around tending to the flames to the bodies sitting on them.  Photography really is strictly prohibited, but I turn my flash off and surreptitiously take a few shots that turn out to be some of my favorites from this entire trip.

Our oarsman tells us the names of the ghats and a lot of things I already know, but then offers to row us up close to the evening aarti ceremony that takes place on the river. He’ll charge us, of course, but he says he can get us in front of the other boats and provide snacks if we’d like. Sally and Emma are interested (I’ve seen this before, but I go where they go if I want company) so we glide in front of the five small tables set up for the five Brahmin priests who will use the objects on them to give to thanks to mother Ganga for her gifts.

It starts with a long, loud blast on conch shells and then the bells start. Bells above the ghat, in the crowd and held by the priests will ring nonstop for the entire 40-minute ceremony. To summarize what happens, the priests start by waving incense and canters in circles, then small flames, then bigger and bigger candelabras until they require two hands to hold. All of this is accompanied by one man on drums and another singing and playing the sitar. It ends with another blast on the conch and lots of throwing flowers into the river. The only thing that really holds my interest, since I’ve seen this before, is the priest who is standing right in front of our boat. He’s strikingly handsome and he moves his hands with more grace than I’ve seen in any dancer. I’m absolutely transfixed by his gestures and am impressed by the practice that must have gone into such perfect movements.

We return to the hotel all too soon, but our oarsman thinks it would be funny if we three girls took turns trying to row the boat. I think he wants to show us how “hard” it is to move the boat along the river (although he has been doing this for ten years now) so that we give him a sizable tip at the end. It’s a riot! Bamboo oars that are only held in place with ropes are definitely a bit harder than the oars on the crew boats at Michigan and the photos we take of each other easily show the effort involved. Eventually he says, “All right, please let me row again.” The unspoken message was definitely heard.

Oof, we’re beat, so we head up to the now-buzzing rooftop café to have some dinner. At one point I look over and think I recognize a guy at another table, and after about 10 minutes I realize it’s one of the South African guys I met in Amritsar! What a small friggin’ country! I sit down with the guys for a bit and we chat about where they’ve been, where they’re going, what they’ve seen…our path probably won’t overlap again after this, but to see the same people after traveling so far is incredibly cool.

As I go to bed I realize I’m pleasantly surprised by Varanasi. The guidebook said this was one of the most difficult cities for tourists to visit, but that it could be extremely rewarding if you’re able to get past all of the sources of stress and difficulty. Well, I guess I’ve managed to do that because I confess I’m a bit enchanted by this city and would stay another day if I had the time. It would be fun to spend more time getting lost in Godawlia and stumbling upon more of the temples that seem to jump out at you when you round the corner. I guess I stayed the perfect amount of time in Rishikesh; maybe some divine hand is guiding me through India after all…

Delhi belly finally strikes...kind of

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I am so ready to start sleeping on a new bed.  This mattress really sucks and I’m awake several times throughout the night feeling cold and sore again.  I wake up for good at 6:45, having slept through all three of my alarms and the yoga class I wanted to attend.  It takes about ten minutes of being awake to realize that something besides my back doesn’t feel quite right.  Also, I need to use the bathroom.  Now.  Like this second.  I stayed too long in one city: Delhi Belly has found me.

From what I’ve heard, I’ve been “blessed” with a comparatively mild case.  It’s more like a mild dose of Delhi diarrhea with a few stomach cramps now and then.  At least I get a warning so I know when to go to the bathroom: there’s a loud gurgling noise somewhere in my intestines, I feel a little dizzy and maybe burp.  It’s an odd combination of factors and kind of makes me wonder exactly what’s going on in my body right now.  After an hour of alternating trips to the bathroom and fits of sleep I start to feel a little nauseous.  Okay, now this is NOT an encouraging development.  The urge isn’t overly strong and kind of comes and goes, but it’s there nonetheless.

Fortunately, I came to India prepared for precisely such a scenario.  I open up my first aid kit and pull out the following: plastic measuring spoon, Immodium, anti-diarrhea syrup, charcoal tablets and anti-nausea syrup.  I proceed to heavily self-medicate and try to fall asleep again.  I start thinking back to what I ate yesterday and try to figure out what could have caused it.  Breakfast at Devraj?  I probably would have felt sick sooner.  The orange from the street market?  Doubtful, I peeled it myself and it didn’t have any bad spots.  The cookies from the street vendor?  Maybe, but that doesn’t seem likely, either.  Drinks with Bhav?  I’ve had several there and been fine, and I don’t think drinks cause diarrhea.  Dinner at the ashram?  I think we have a winner.  They served boiled spinach in a very watery sauce and I’ve gotten really sick from greens before.

When I wake up an hour and a half later I feel like I’m functioning at about 75% and that’s enough for me to get out of bed and out of the ashram.  Bhav and I decide to take one last walk up to Laxman Jhula to get one more slice of cheese toast.  I start to feel like I’m dying about 15 minutes into a 45-minute walk, but that’s only on the uphills.  Oh, wait, we’re in the Himalayas and there’s a fair number of uphills to deal with.  After frequent breaks because I can’t catch my breath—wasn’t the problem with my stomach?  Why can’t I breathe?—we finally make it to Devraj.  The cheese toast is as good as I remember and I take a risk on some lemon-mint juice that is so fresh the crushed mint turns it green. 

The walk back is about as enjoyable/easy, but now I have extra motivation to make it: beach time!  I’ve brought my towel and I’m wearing my swimsuit and I intend to actually swim, not just wade, in the Ganges.  We seek out a suitable spot away from as many creepy old men as we can and I quickly throw off my clothes and head for the water.  IT’S FRICKIN’ FREEZING.  I can’t breathe again, but now it’s for a totally different reason than before.  I’ve completely forgotten I’m sick as every inch of my skin shrivels and pricks up into goosebumps.  I force myself to swim out about 10 feet then hightail back onto shore.  I manage to get Bhav to go in up to his knees, but he wimps out after that.

Unfortunately, the flies begin to swarm our legs after only about 20 minutes of lying on the sand, so we head back towards the Ashram where he’ll go to his music lesson and I’ll check on my tickets.  As I think about it, I have no idea what to do if I don’t get out of here tonight.  The power in Rishikesh has been going in and out for a couple days now (my first experience with power outages), adding unnecessary drama to the whole situation, and while I wait for the internet cafes to be up and running again I take a nap.  When I can finally check my tickets for the train tonight I’m relieved to see that one of them has been confirmed.  I’m finally moving on!  More importantly, I’m finally ready to move on!

I really don’t know what I’m going to do without Bhavesh to talk to and get me good deals on things.  It’s so great that I met someone I got along with so well and had so much in common with right when I needed a pick-me-up.  He’s the main reason my morale has finally risen to travel-ready levels again.  Staying in Rishikesh longer was absolutely the right thing to do, but I also think moving on again is the best move to make now.

So I get on my third train looking forward to (okay, maybe slightly dreading) the craziness that is Varanasi and trying not to get nervous about not having a hotel reservation already.  Quick calls to mom and Oke drain the talk-time on my phone after just ten minutes, but it’s enough for me to be able to fall asleep easily, knowing that I’ve at least checked in with people I care about.

I've finally ghat this down

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If how I slept last night is any indication of what today will be like, I’m not sure I want to get out of bed.  Sore, cold and tired, I think I woke up 3 or 4 times last night.  Also, my stomach keeps rumbling because I’m not used to eating vegan meals all day every day and my body is begging me for more protein.  I think tomorrow Bhavesh and I will go out for a nice meal that includes some kind of meat or cheese or something like that.  I think my body can handle it by now.  In fact, now that I’m nearing the half-way point of my trip, I think I’m going to be braver and try more and more local restaurants and *gasp!* street food!!

After a tasty—but unusual—breakfast of some kind of lentil and tomato curry with toast (which Bhavesh now has me dunking in my chai tea—sooo good!), we decide to battle our mutual crappy moods by lying out on the beach.  Neither of us is feeling particularly peppy today, but the sun is out and it’s heating up fast so we grab a spare blanket from my room and pretend we’re in the Caribbean.  Despite the warm sunshine, glittering sand and clear, green waters of the Ganges, though, I remain feeling quite dour and, unfortunately for Bhav, uninterested in small talk.  The Ganges is a beautiful river, though, and I’ve got to give it credit for being especially inviting today.

In an attempt to fill the time and feel like we’ve been productive, Bhav and I jump in a shared rickshaw and head down to the older part of Rishikesh to see Triveni Ghat and Bharat Mandir temple.  On the way we stop to talk to the bus drivers at the station and a handful of local rickshaw drivers in order to find out how I can get to Raiwala train station in a few days.  In a completely predictable turn of events, we get a different answer from each and every one of them.  The bus drivers say that the bus isn’t worth it; nothing goes directly there so get a rickshaw for the 10-minute ride for about 10 rupees.  A couple locals say it’s half an hour away, but that a shared rickshaw will only charge me 10-20 rupees to get there.  The rickshaw drivers say that it’s 15 minutes and will run between 100-150 rupees.  So I can plan on it being anywhere between 10-30 minutes in a single or shared rickshaw for somewhere between 10 and 150 rupees.  This couldn’t more representative of India as a nation. 

So now for sightseeing.  A ghat is where people bring their laundry, bathe, play and, in larger cities like Varanasi, cremate/dump their dead.  This being the Ganges, the holiest river in the world to the Hindus, there are several ghats in the city.  Triveni is Rishikesh’s oldest, but thanks to development and expansion it now lies in the poorer part of the city.  We’re not talking poverty on a scale comparable to Delhi, but it’s certainly not a part of town a ton of tourists come to often so we’re ogled, touted, harassed and stared at to within an inch of our sanity.  Yes, even Bhav draws a lot of attention, but I’m not sure if it’s due to his western clothing or that he’s an Indian walking around with a white woman.  Who knows. 

Despite him calling me his tour guide, Bhavesh is definitely helping me get around town a lot more easily.  He grew up speaking Gujarati and so can understand Hindi fairly well (and his skills at speaking it are improving every day, too).  I’ve relied on him a lot these last few days to help me get good prices on things, find where we’re going and deal with the locals trying to sell us things.  We both find it amusing—well, as amusing as one can find this—that when we walk around every man in this city will look me up and down like I’m for sale, but they will only speak to Bhav.  To them I’m Bhav’s girl so it’s rude to speak to me in front of him, but since I’m white they can check me out all they want.  Hilarious, isn’t it?

After yet another lunch of rice, lentils, super spicy veggies and chipati (which resembles previous breakfasts and dinners to a monotonous extent), we find out that not only does the yoga course not start until two days after we’d originally been told, but that we’ll only be doing one hour of actual yoga a day.  While I shouldn’t be surprised, I’m still disappointed and, frankly, pissed off.  Since I had only planned to attend the first 3-4 days, this now means I’m only going to be able to attend one or two.  Additionally, I could have held onto my tickets to Lucknow and Varanasi and gotten to see them in plenty of time to return for the start of the course.  This is why I’m disappointed.

Now, why am I angry?  I’m starting to question the reliability of my ashram and exactly how not-for-profit their practices really are.  They’ve canceled all of the yoga classes I was supposed to attend since I’ve arrived and today I met a woman who requested a room here but was turned away, despite the fact that the other bed in my room remains unoccupied.  I was quoted one price in an email before I left Singapore and now I’m being asked to give more (all “suggested donations”).  My laundry cost double what they said it would and they finally my toilet fixed after 2 days of me bothering them about it.  My room has no heat, the windows don’t shut and no one seems to know exactly what’s going on around here.  There is no way this is worth Rs500 a night.

To make matters worse, there are pictures of the ashram’s guru all over the place and he looks exactly like that priest who went after me in the temple a few days ago.  It’s not a pleasant association to be making several times a day while I’m here practicing inner harmony.  It’s kind of the final straw, and I think I’m just going to throw in the towel and see if I can find a train ticket that leaves tomorrow night.  However, I will be disappointed not to learn more about meditation and proper yoga technique.  I’ve enjoyed the women’s class the last couple days and already feel much more loose and calm and my sore back and hamstrings are signs that my muscles are strengthening, too.

Speaking of developing muscle, Bhav and I took a killer walk today, straight up behind the ashram to another temple up in the hills.   While it wasn't that far away, the climb is what got to us.  And then once you actually reach it you have to climb floor after floor after floor to get to the top.  Honestly, these larger temples and the green forest they're set in remind me more of the Alps than India.  Maybe it's all the German bakeries they've got in this town, but sometimes I feel like I've been pulled into an Austria in a parallel dimension.  The view from the top floor is gorgeous and lays the city out at your feet.  On the walk back down we end up falling into a line of monkeys walking down the sidewalk, too, stop to watch the boys training at the ashram play cricket, and pass some run-of-the-mill crazies.

Well, at least today went out on a high.  Had a nice warm shower, did the rest of my laundry, made definitive plans for the next few weeks, had a delicious dinner (, a fried, puffy bread; , rice pudding with almonds; the usual beans and veggies over rice) and fell asleep while looking at photos from earlier in my trip on my laptop. 

NOT MY BEST DAY IN INDIA. Wishing my plane ticket were transferable...

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Let me be clear: today pretty well sucked, but looking back I’m not even totally sure why.  The tentative conclusion I’ve come to is basically that the quality of my days depends on whether I’ve met another foreigner; even if we just have a short conversation it makes a big difference. 

Other contributing factors: leaving Amritsar; having been away from friends and family for the longest stretch of time ever; knowing I’m kind of stuck here; getting assaulted today; being tired of dealing with beggars/children/stares/vendors; not being able to trust anyone

All right, let’s start from the beginning.  I had a pretty nice night on the train, actually, and I slept through most of it snuggled in my blanket.  When I finally got up about 9 hours later, it was green outside my window instead of brown!  There were forests and even fields of bright green crops that were taller than me.  The girl sharing my cabin was really nice and answered some of my questions about the area, but trouble began as soon as we hit the station. 

Have I mentioned that they don’t tell you when you’re at the station you want?  Well, I missed mine by about 3 or 4 stops.  The trick is to know about what time you’re due to arrive at your station and start looking out the window for station names a half or so before that.  Well, that didn’t work for me; I was told to get off because it was the last station, but when I tried to leave the station the Chief Ticket Inspector said my stop was about 40km back and won’t you please step into my office, madam?  Oh dear god.

I try to explain that I had no idea I had missed it and that I had asked the conductor to tell me when we were in Raiwala (I’m now in Dehra Dun) and that he said the other person in my cabin was getting off in the same station yada yada.  He says that it will be Rs500 for him to let me go and now I’m struggling so hard to keep from crying that I can’t even say anything, just nod or shake my head and open my wallet.  Let me be clear: I’m not trying to pull the girly maneuver of crying my way out of a situation, I’m genuinely worked up here.  Just because he happens to be a nice guy and agree to reduce the fee to Rs200 is his decision, I’m just grateful for it.  So crisis averted, but not the best start to the day.

The good news is that Dehra Dun is well connected to neighboring cities via bus, so I’m able to get a ride to Rishikesh for Rs30.  We bump our way through the countryside and I try to keep the ever-present clouds of dust off of my granola bar and peanut butter (one of my very few sources of protein on this trip).  My auto-rickshaw drops me near the ferry that will take me across the river to the ashram I’m staying in and I get my first view of the Ganges.

IT IS BEAUTIFUL.  BREATH-TAKING.  INVITING.  CALMING.  A slightly milky sapphire color, it moves surprisingly quickly around and over the black boulders that poke their way out of the silky-smooth grey sand.  Buildings and temples rise up dramatically along the banks as the mountains rise up sharply from the banks.  No rolling hills in this valley, the river is bang-up-close to the mountains.  I have been looking forward to coming to Rishikesh for the quiet and relaxation and chance to see the Himalayas all week, and now I’m here!  Hallelujah!

I walk along the riverside path to Parmarth Niketan ashram, where I’ll be staying for a couple of nights.  Unfortunately, no photography allowed or I would happily snap dozens of photos of the colorful, landscaped courtyards and gardens (**ha! I snuck a few!  Coming soon!).  Statues of deities are sprinkled around the compound and dozens of people of all ethnicities walk around wearing shawls and prayer beads, carrying a yoga mat tucked under one arm.  As I’m ushered to my room I notice a library and realize I’ve made a very good choice of where to stay.

With plenty of time left in the day I decide to take a quick walk around Rishikesh.  I cross the pedestrian bridge nearest PN, Ram Jhula.  It’s a gorgeous suspension bridge that looks brand new and gives incredible views of the Ganges and town.  On the other side are lots of the same types of shops: clothes, music, jewelry, German bakeries (which I can’t totally figure out, but they’re there nonetheless) and adventure companies.  In honor of Fred Liimatta I make my first impulse purchase: a sugar donut that doesn’t even remotely compare to Dawn Donut’s goodies but is comfort food, in any case.

So far it sounds like Rishikesh is pretty good, right?  Maybe what I’ve needed after Delhi and a good follow-up to Amritsar?  I’d say after the donut is when it went downhill.  There are many more beggars here than any other place I’ve been, and, incidentally, a lot more cows, which makes it harder to dodge the two S’s on the sidewalks: spit and shit.  Additionally, I’ve been traveling alone for a long enough period of time to really start missing having someone around to chat with and appreciate the sights with.  I’d welcome a friendly face, even if just for a day. 

One thing Rishikesh does have going for it is that it has the largest concentration of foreigners I’ve seen in India.  This is very much hippy heaven and I feel super-comfy walking around in capri running pants, a blousy tank top and pashmina shawl.  I also broke out my sandals for the first time this trip (mom: they’re my Nike sandals from our hiking trip in 1996.  Still got ‘em!), so at least I’m physically, if not mentally, comfortable. 

Things REALLY get bad, though, when I round a corner and see a small Hindu temple open to the sidewalk.  The priest sees me looking in from the road and gestures for me to come inside.  He guides me from altar to altar, telling me the names of the deities, then asks me to sit down for a minute so he can bless me (yes, I’m already expecting to give a small donation).  He puts a small orange dot on my forehead and neck then takes a long baton made of feathers, taps it on a statue then my head five times each.  He asks for a donation and I give him Rs20, which he doesn’t seem to think is enough (500?!  Yeah, right), but he really gets upset when I stand to leave.  He begs me to wait one more minute and take a picture.  I snap a couple then show them to him and he gets a bit, well, excited.  He shakes my hand then gives me a big hug and then kisses me on the cheek. 

Yes, I am starting to feel uncomfortable.  I say thank you and that I must return to my hotel.  Okay, now he’s getting desperate.  He says, “No, no, please see altars” and grabs my wrist.  I’m saying no no no, he says stay stay stay and then grabs me in a bear hug and starts trying to kiss my face.  His breath smells like chewing tobacco and his scraggly beard scraping my face is making me cringe.  Yes, I am mentally shitting a brick at this point.  He’s a thin guy, but he’s got that wiry musculature that surprises you and I start yelling and pushing him away as hard as I can.  As soon I see an opening I run out the door, grab my shoes, run up the road and burst into tears. 

THIS IS NOT WHY I CAME TO INDIA.  I was expecting it to be difficult, but not a flat-out in-your-face challenge to my view of humans as inherently good.  I also mildly expected the desire to turn to a higher power for support and guidance, but so far I’ve felt about as spiritual here as an atheist at an evolution conference.  Even surrounded by all of this religious iconography and teaching, I don’t feel an urge to pray or meditate.  I can’t block out all of the disturbing images I’ve seen since my arrival and the commoditization of spirituality churns my stomach.  I’m sleeping 9-10 hours a night, but I’m still so tired and overwhelmed. In the end, it’s not god I want to hear from, but my friends and family.

As I cross over the second pedestrian bridge, Lakshman Jhula, and take the beachside path back to the ashram, I’m amazed that so much beauty can co-exist with so much ugliness.  The river and the sun setting over it are truly beautiful and the path is welcoming and quiet.  I sit on a boulder and put my feet in the cold water and just sit for a while.  I let myself have a good cry for the scare I had, for the dirty children living on the sidewalk, for the waste marring the beautiful landscape, for my loneliness…then drag myself back to the ashram. 

I make a couple of embarrassingly emotional phone calls to the US (man, I can already hear the “I told you so’s”) and go to dinner.  This is when I meet Holly, whose conversation and encouragement put a patch on the flat tire that is my morale.  She’s an American working for the ambassador in Bangkok and who came to Rishikesh to study yoga for a few weeks.  She and I will be leaving Asia around the same time next year and both dream of living in London after that.  She’s traveled India alone several times and thinks that I need to stick to my original itinerary and that I’ll be glad in the long run that I did.  “You’ll hate Varanasi, but when you get home you’ll be so glad that you went.”  As we chat about work, India and relationships over glasses of hot ginger lemon honey drinks, it feels like I’ve traveled 2000 miles to a café in the US.  It’s a very welcome feeling, and the conversation warms my soul as much as the drink warms my hands. 

A third of me wants to continue on my itinerary just to be able to say that I did it and so that I can really learn about resiliency, self-dependence, and, for lack of a better word, hutzpah.  Another third of me knows that I have my bathing suit and could easily spend a week in a hut on a Goan beach and still pick up the last part of my itinerary.  The final third thinks maybe I could get something good out of attending the beginner’s yoga course that starts here on Monday and runs for ten days.  I’m going to have to give this some serious thought because I just don’t know what I want anymore, other than to go home, but I don’t even know if that means Singapore or the US at this point.  I’ll figure it out tomorrow; now I’m going to bed.