Hey
Now THIS is India
After nearly two weeks, I've finally arrived to the India I'd imagined... the "hard core" India, with images taken from the movies, books, postcards, dreams -- even, nightmares...
We left Darjeeling last night and arrived early this afternoon in Varanasi, India's holiest city. This is where the pilgrims come to bathe in the Ganges river, to wash away their sins. The old come here to die, as it's believed that passing here in Varanasi will stop the cycles of rebirth. It's said to be the oldest living city in the history of the world. Mark Twain described it as older than history, older than legends, and older than both combined.
I know I've not yet said enough about Darjeeling -- I haven't mentioned how much it reminded me of home: the chill in the air, the fog, the hills. Oh, the hills. The city is comprised of steep, curvy walkways that wind along the hillsides through clusters of homes and shops, narrow alleys of precipitous steps, magnolia trees, firs, pines, and ferns... Occasionally, during a walk, I'd pass a line of beggars sitting by the way, counting their coins, stacking them in neat piles -- or a Sadhu (holy man) with white lines smeared on his forehead and robes of orange, asking for 'baksheesh' while holding out a copper urn -- or school children dressed in uniform playfully walking with their friends. I could see the corrugated rooftops of all the buildings below me, glinting in the sun, many with the morning's wash laid out to dry: blankets, shirts, trousers. At one of the nicer hotels, I saw a pile of white gloves on the roof -- the gloves, and old-school turbans, are worn by the staff who serve high tea, a call back to the Raj days, when India was more British than Indian.
But here I am in Varanasi, where it is hot and dirty and colorful in the way that has nothing to do with hue, tint, or value. It's interesting, but 'interesting' is just too plain a word to describe it.
On the way into town from the train station, from the windows of the cab, I saw thatched roof huts in the midst of ruinous brick buildings, tent encampments of blankets and tarps, shantys, stacks of cow paddies drying in the sun, cows, goats, dogs. I saw people bathing, doing laundry, shopping, cooking, and getting their hair cut while sitting on a brick. Life happens in public, as with the rest of India that I've seen, but here, it just seems so raw.
Our guesthouse is near the Ganges, and all of this is just beyond the front door. That, plus a whole 'nother slew of sights and sounds. Holy men, travelers who have been on the road way too long (what Westerner in their right mind would walk barefoot in the mucky streets), touts, merchants.
While looking for our guesthouse this afternoon, I met a tuk tuk driver named Manjot who warned of the 'bad people' who might try to sell things at dishonest prices, or pull scams and the like. He held out his hand and pointed to each digit as he professed that people are like fingers: they are all different. Some are good, some are bad.
We left Darjeeling last night and arrived early this afternoon in Varanasi, India's holiest city. This is where the pilgrims come to bathe in the Ganges river, to wash away their sins. The old come here to die, as it's believed that passing here in Varanasi will stop the cycles of rebirth. It's said to be the oldest living city in the history of the world. Mark Twain described it as older than history, older than legends, and older than both combined.
I know I've not yet said enough about Darjeeling -- I haven't mentioned how much it reminded me of home: the chill in the air, the fog, the hills. Oh, the hills. The city is comprised of steep, curvy walkways that wind along the hillsides through clusters of homes and shops, narrow alleys of precipitous steps, magnolia trees, firs, pines, and ferns... Occasionally, during a walk, I'd pass a line of beggars sitting by the way, counting their coins, stacking them in neat piles -- or a Sadhu (holy man) with white lines smeared on his forehead and robes of orange, asking for 'baksheesh' while holding out a copper urn -- or school children dressed in uniform playfully walking with their friends. I could see the corrugated rooftops of all the buildings below me, glinting in the sun, many with the morning's wash laid out to dry: blankets, shirts, trousers. At one of the nicer hotels, I saw a pile of white gloves on the roof -- the gloves, and old-school turbans, are worn by the staff who serve high tea, a call back to the Raj days, when India was more British than Indian.
But here I am in Varanasi, where it is hot and dirty and colorful in the way that has nothing to do with hue, tint, or value. It's interesting, but 'interesting' is just too plain a word to describe it.
On the way into town from the train station, from the windows of the cab, I saw thatched roof huts in the midst of ruinous brick buildings, tent encampments of blankets and tarps, shantys, stacks of cow paddies drying in the sun, cows, goats, dogs. I saw people bathing, doing laundry, shopping, cooking, and getting their hair cut while sitting on a brick. Life happens in public, as with the rest of India that I've seen, but here, it just seems so raw.
Our guesthouse is near the Ganges, and all of this is just beyond the front door. That, plus a whole 'nother slew of sights and sounds. Holy men, travelers who have been on the road way too long (what Westerner in their right mind would walk barefoot in the mucky streets), touts, merchants.
While looking for our guesthouse this afternoon, I met a tuk tuk driver named Manjot who warned of the 'bad people' who might try to sell things at dishonest prices, or pull scams and the like. He held out his hand and pointed to each digit as he professed that people are like fingers: they are all different. Some are good, some are bad.
posted by Cheryn at 9:32 PM
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