Masala Vagabond: Lord Shiva's Own City: Varanasi

After Bodhgaya, I decide to take the train to the nearby city of Varanasi, which sits along the sacred river the Ganga. At 3am, as I make my way to the train station, the streets of Bodhgaya are deserted. They slowly begin to fill with bodies as we approach the train station in Gaya, where at this hour hundreds and hundreds of homeless still line the dark, dusty streets, sleeping or awake, sitting and moving like zombies in the night. The air is cool and calm, countering the heavy heat of the days, as I make my way to the early morning train.

1. Kelly the Coolie

Another upper berth, another gentle sway of the train to lull me to sleep. As we near Varanasi, the train comes to a stop; all lines have been blocked (for who knows how long?). An old white woman taps me on the shoulder, prompting me to take out my headphones. “Want to share a cab?” she asks, “Varanasi is just the next stop over.”

I agree, partially because I want to go, but mostly because I worry about this poor old woman, traveling alone with a huge amount of luggage. I grab it from her and follow behind, suddenly taking the role of an Indian coolie, one of the poor whom are paid to carry packages on their heads. A bit less skilled, I carry the luggage with my arms (rather than my head, fat as it is) through the morning heat and the swarms of flies and mosquitoes.

Ruth, from South Africa, on her first Indian adventure. She's a bit stooped but extraordinarily vivacious for her age, and I can't help but admire her. I help her into the rickshaw for her first auto ride, trying not to chuckle as she talks to the driver. “You drive us safely, okay? None of this bad driving. You know where to go?” Watching her is to remember my first few days in India; her semi-hidden shock at the things that have become mundane to me, like the four locals who pile into the front and very rear of the rickshaw on the way to the hotel.

She reads to me from her Lonely Planet Guide, telling me about the guest house she's chosen, the itinerary she has. I don't have any plans, so I somehow unspokenly become her traveling companion, helping her into the hotel and navigate the narrow streets of Varanasi.

2. Welcome to Shiva's City

It's a massive city, and extraordinarily busy. The narrow streets and population of several million create an environment that's more exited than even Delhi (and nearly as polluted). I have to admit, my first few minutes in Varanasi were disappointing; it seemed so very commercial, so busy, so dirty. “I'm sure,” Ruth says, as if to herself, “this city will show us it's beauty soon enough.”

But then we venture into the old city, along the river. In the streets here, cars cannot fit, other vehicles are not allowed. Narrow winding alleys are filled with shops of all kinds as well as temples and, of course, the roaming holy cows. The old city lines the river, along which are 365 “ghats,” riverside areas. The hotel she's chosen has a spacious courtyard filled with Westerners lounging in the sun, looking out onto the river via Meer Ghat. I decide to stay, although a bit cautious about the gecko who will not leave my wall. Despite what Geico commercials will lead you to believe, this gecko was the only thing in this part of India not trying to sell me something. So we get along well.

Ruth sits, carefully watching me eat parantha Indian style while she takes a knife and fork to her own. The sun is bright, the birds are singing, and the river flows by. The courtyard has a feel of a beach resort, with pale bodies tanning in the sun of the garden or reading in the shade of the courtyard. I wonder if it's almost worth it just to lounge by the river rather than expending energy to explore the city. Crane 89, the lucky slob, gets to stay behind to lounge in the sun.

The spontaneity of my trip means that I'm fairly ignorant about what to do here, but Ruth (or, “Roof,” as Indians call her) is the vigilant traveler and checks her travel books every twenty minutes or so. “Shall we go to Sarnath this afternoon?”

Sarnath is about an hours drive (through the traffic) by rickshaw, and we watch the busy town pass by, in the middle of the chaos yet oddly detached.

Yes, there are deer in Deer Park

Roof is a well-practiced Hinayana Buddhist. She's chosen this type of Buddhism, she tells me, for it's simplicity, and (as if in admission) for it's self-centered nature. She is free to cultivate wisdom and focus on her own development. Despite all of this, she seems a bit more compassionate than she lets on. She pauses to talk to every beggar, every child following us through the streets and the sites, looking for coins in exchange for their local expertise. She patiently puts up with the con-men, the false tour guides, the cheats, telling them all firm but polite “no thank you”s. She is, in every way, a Buddhist granny.

A monumental stupa has been erected in Sarnath at the site of the Buddha's first teaching. Around it are the ruins of monasteries, through which the local children play. Following Ruth, I circumambulate, once, twice, three, four times... and on. I say the Four Noble Truths, the subject of the first teaching, to myself we go. I say the four-line Refuge Prayer. I say a round of Om Manis. I think about the teachers who have dispersed the Dharma, and the teachers who have taught me personally. When I run out of things to think, I stop thinking and just meditate as I walk.

Crane 88 sits on the stupa ledge, next to the bits of gold flakes glued on by pilgrims, like folded thank-you note.

A monumental Main Temple, a beautiful Tibetan stupa, another stupa (the site of Buddha's first Enlightened meeting with his students), and many temples, like embassies to the various forms of Buddhism, line the city. Ruth is all business, very Hinayana. She does, however, pause at Deer Park to feed the deer and give the local children some coins as they follow us through the town.

The Sun Sets Over the Ganga

All along the river, boatmen wait to take passengers to aarti, the evening puja (worship ceremony) at the river's edge. The river is lined with incredible temples and old buildings, like an Indian Venice. We pass the Burning Ghat, a place where the riverbank is made of ash and fires, small and large. Two hundred and twenty bodies, our boatman tells us, are cremated here each day. To die in Varanasi is to go straight to Heaven. It is Shiva's Own City, he says, proudly.

A little boy awkwardly rows up his boat to ours, giving us small vessels made from hardened leaves, filled with flowers and ghee for burning. We light them as an offering to the Ganga, and watch them float away, carrying our hopes with them.

The river is filled with these old, wooden boats, and as the sun sets it becomes indescribably beautiful. It grows dark and aarti starts; our boatman paddles back to the nearby ghat so that we may watch.

Little white moths have descended over the crowd on land and by boat and shine in the darkness. Completely surrounded, it is as though a warm snow is falling over us, the moths causing no more harm than an occasional tickle. On the shore, the singing and music continues as burning lamps are swung in circles over the crowd.

Perhaps it will not be until morning that the boatman discovers crane 87 has stowed away.

We have dinner that night on a rooftop, watching the city and river in the dark.

A Thousand Little Pathways

Ruth is of to another destination, leaving me alone to explore the city a bit. With no desire to go outside of the old city, I simply wander the thousand little alleyways near the river, pausing at shops to enjoy the feel of some of Varanasi's famous silk. The shops here are recessed into the building, but completely open. I remove my shoes before sitting on the padded stop floor and buying things like yoga pants from a nine-year-old boy (who, by the way, was a very good salesman). Every so often, my wandering is interrupted by the less-than-clandestine salesman: "Hashish, madam?"

Quite often, I run across men with tan uniforms and caps line the streets with tall guns: the military. “There are many Muslims in this city,” a waiter tells me. Temples and mosques scatter across the landscape, giving no obvious indication of the underlying tension between the Hindus and Muslims here.

A short while later, I find myself again at the railway station, this time taking refuge in a little secret room I discovered. It appears that most major cities have an upstairs “cafeteria,” which consists of half of a dozen tables and poorly made food. These are, most probably, the best place a Westerner can retreat from the prying eyes down in the station. By the time my train is about to arrive, I'm relaxed and refreshed.

I am happy to be back on a train, again on an upper berth overnighter. But Ruth was right about one thing:

Varanasi is beautiful.

Room Service, Madam?

An Ancient Stupa at the Site of Buddha's First Teaching

The Stupa overlooks the ruins of a monastery

Some of the Pillars of Ashok, Placed throughout India by the Emperor in celebration of Buddhism

Proof that there are, in fact, deer in Deer Park. And they love carrots (which are red in India, by the way, adding a new twist to my English lessons).