Got into Varanasi precisely when we intended not to, 3 AM, Christmas morning. Jonah puked mutton out of the bus window for much of the 10 hour bus ride in. I dined on white bread and Jelly packets from a roadside stand for fear of catching his mysterious stomach ailment. First night, wandered to the only church in the city, St. Thomas, white room with neon lights and cheap, paper Jesus relics, and blessings being dished on the left/right, the superstitious way. I knew that I needed to evacuate, lest I certainly hurl. This mysterious sensation in my stomach evolved to gastric spasms that rendered me motionless, clutching the shoulder of a friend or brother and keeling in pain. Diagnosis- That spoonful of corsani piro (hot peppers) that I was dared to eat in exchange for a bhang lassi, a kind of marijuana milkshake that street venders dish out for 50 cents. We stopped into a concert hall on the way home, where the sound of my unloading into a squat style toilet certainly disrupted “the vibe” of India’s classical music, commodified for the flock of hippie tourists that circled Benghali Thola for the new year season, and have since migrated south, to warmer climates. My dues are paid, sickness by sickness, as all travelers pay here in some form or another. A friend of a friend paid his with death after an infection in his sinuses from swimming in the holy Ganga swelled up one side of his head. But what better place to die than Benares? where pilgrims come from across India to be have their ashes put into the river, escaping Moksha, the cycle of birth and rebirth. That night, listened to Vince Guiraldi’s “A Charlie Brown Christmas” overlooking the Ganga.
Collecting the spoils of my bhang lassi bet, days later, to experience the true insanity of this city. A playdoh-y, fruity beverage, ultimately untasty, cement colored, grey green, and chunky. Took a boat across the river to a country of sand and caked mud bricks. During the monsoon’s, this is the floor of the Ganga, but during the rest of the year, and arid wasteland. Full winter garb and not enough fluid to combat dry mouth that convinced me I was tongue-less. We are approached by 4 riders who offer to take us across this desert on their beasts. We fearfully accept their off. My horse disliked me, trying to buck me off after I ineptly scrambled up to ride him bare back. The horse despite his situation was proud, and it seemed to me a miracle that this strange, cow-ish, machine consciousness was willing to bear such a bumbling moron. I got off and asked the man if he loved this horse. “Yes, my horse”. Is it your friend? “Yes, friend.”
Jonah has left for Bodh Gaya to hear the Dalai Lama speak, and I am left “alone” amongst the masses and friends I’ve made here. An unprecendented cold spell plagues this city, according to the front page headlines of unreadable newspapers for their lack of American news and focus on professional cricket. I remain, despite the cold, in unwavering devotion to Guru-Ji. By day I explore the streets and sands, the corpses and cow pies. By night I spend 2-3 hours studying at the Mishra’s house, where I am flattered by my “Indian Momma”, who gifted me a grey paisley shaul. Brother there is the greatest Tabla player I’ve ever seen, 17 years, his practice session first introduced me to the Mishra lineage. One hour of perfectly syncopated and synchronized practice with his two younger brothers, an epic of applied Indian mind, heart, and discipline.
Guru-Ji and Deobrat Mishra
One day spent wandering with Walen friend, who I happily room with, discuss god and conception, discuss discussion and its merits-I defend the ancient past time of “the dialogue” over passages from “Yoga Vashista”. We woke to an early, South Indian style breakfast of Idly-puffy lentil and rice cakes with curry, and Paratha, a kind of vegetable pancake. We catch a boatman back to the other side of the river, this time to the tranquility rather than insanity of caked mud and sand, thicket and thorn, and wild mustard. We crossed the desert, entered the brush in hopes of finding woods, and at last settled for some farmland where we climbed a tree that bore strange, green, fuzzy, acorn sized fruit. The ripple of wind in the trees brought my mind to home, already feeling the moment as if a distant memory from my backyard dwelling. Then my mind slowed and I was present, conversing with the giant whose crevice of branches I was nestled in.
We ventured back into the sand where I busted out my brand new kite, 60 rs, rainbow stripes and flies like a hawk. Having a kite draws much interest from filthy stranger boys with basic English. Grotesque imagery is commonplace in Varanasi, but the grossest thing I’ve seen of yet was a human corpse we came across, stuck in the mud and reeds of the Ganga, chunks of flesh being ripped off and gnawed by a starved, mangey dog. I stopped to look for a few moments and actually experienced a feeling that everything is the same, without putting words to that feeling, without any kind of reminder from Yoga or Buddhism on high that this is what I ought to be feeling if I’m on the right track. It didn’t need to make a good story, and I did nothing to make it a certain way, to feel it more intensely. The only thing that compares in overall definitive disgusting-ness was the dead rat lying in that pile of shit I saw earlier in the morning. Maybe the dead puppy in the gutter of trash and shit water. Ever access to that feeling, reminder of fleet, by a simple visit to the burning ghats here, where you can watch bodies burn to your hearts content, if that’s what you’re into. A favorite hangout, watching the flames consume shape, listening the the crack of pressure when the human skull pops.