Varanasi, Kolkata and Goodbye India

First off, apologies for the lengthy rant below; limited wifi has combined the Varanasi/Kolkata/Goodbye India blogs into one interminable essay. Here we go…

On my last visit to India, Varanasi was my favourite part of the two week whirlwind, so I was really excited to come back here. Lowdown for guidebook-less goras: Varanasi is a small city in the large Indian state of Uttar Pradesh. It’s one of the world’s oldest continually populated cites, dating back to 1200BC. It’s profoundly religious and holds sacred importance for Buddhists, Muslims and most of all, Hindus. According to Hinduism, dying in Varanasi gives you moksha: an escape from the cycle of birth and death – so people close to expiry tend to move towards this riverside metropolis.

Despite the heavy scent (and I sometimes mean that literally) of death in the air, Varanasi’s energy is a palpitating heart of electric life perched on the slow-moving Ganges. It’s defiantly indiscreet, with intimate funeral rites, toilet breaks, and yoga classes taking place within metres of each other in full public view. I found it to be nothing like anything I had previously experienced in India; for one, it’s a lot colder than the rest of our stop-offs, and there’s an indescribable special atmosphere in the air that you can’t find elsewhere. Everyone who visits agrees: Varanasi is unique.

I have never been religious; I believe in science and sushi, but I can see how someone surrounded by the faith in this city could be convinced that maybe something above us, apart from the ozone layer, is holey. (geddit?) On our first day we were woken up at 5:30am by the nearby mosque’s call to prayer; by 6:30am I’d seen three burning bodies and four sadhus (holy men) wandering the ghats. Walks by the Ganges are punctuated by repetitive incantations of “om” and Hindus and Muslims singing their prayers. Each evening on Dasaswamedh Ghat Brahmin priests ring bells and swirl fiery lanterns, there are more holy cows around than children, and paintings of Hindu gods and sacred orange flowers are on every street corner.

We spent most of our time here getting lost in the tiny winding streets, sampling chai and lassis in terracotta pots, slipping in cow dung, and stocking up on Indian paraphernalia. We walked from Marnikarnika Ghat, where bodies are burnt in Hindu funeral tradition, past Vishwanath Temple, covered in 800kg of gold which we unfortunately could only see the tip of, as foreigners are not allowed in. We were also lucky enough to be staying in the city during a huge kite-flying festival, so spent a lot of time untangling our boots from tricksy fishing line on the ground and avoiding youngsters running to catch their crepe-paper kites.

Other highlights include dinner with a clown, osteopath and a yogi, lunch with a chef from Biarrtiz who declared India “dirty, ugly, and tasteless” with a perfectly French sneer, and getting lured by myself into a back alley at night by a 13-year-old asking for sex! I kind of laughed at the little guy and told him absolutely not, and he said “okay bye” and scurried away. Despite newspaper reports of daily rapes in India, and numerous warnings from family, friends and guesthouses, I’ve never felt threatened here until now. Luckily my rapist-to-be was shoulder-height and terrified, but it made me realize Varanasi’s labyrinth of dark, twisted backstreets is probably the perfect place for good old criminal activity. Don’t worry mum, everything is fine!

Kolkata wasn’t on our original trip plan but we ended up spending half a day here due to a 13-hour-turned-20-hour freezing cold and utterly sleepless train ride from Varansi. The combination of zero hours of sleep and the suddenly frigid climate sent me to bed with a headache and a case of the grumbles in the afternoon, but Will toured the majestic Victoria Memorial with a Malaysian buddy we picked up in the taxi rank and his classmate, a Kolkatan native called Neha. They came to collect a very sleepy Ella in the late afternoon and Neha whisked us all off to some classic street food stalls (Bengali food is superb, and Kolkata is the place to do it), and then back to her house, an incredible multi-storey mansion in the suburbs housing 20-something family members. There, her mother cooked us an amazing meal and we hung out in her sick room, which sported a drum kit, several guitars, disco lighting and a dance performance from her younger cousins.

Until now, I thought that the outrageous hospitality shown to us by good old Inder earlier in the trip had been a one-off from a very generous man. Now I can see that Indians are just the most giving, welcoming, warm and open people: a family had three strangers into their home for dinner without even a second thought, and spent so much time making sure we were comfortable and stuffed with food that they must have devoted their whole evening to making us feel at home. Unfortunately that backfired a little bit and I accidentally ingested a pile of gluten, which sent Will and I home early after a rushed goodbye.

Currently sitting in the flash Kolkata airport waiting to fly to Thailand… here are some closing thoughts on India:

Best meals:
– Channa masala and paneer butter masala on our first night in New Delhi; I won’t forget the exceptional taste of dozens of real Indian spices in that first spoonful, mmm!
– Chicken tikka and sikh kebabs with Rahul in the mechanic’s workshop in Jaipur
– Berry pulao from the 91-year-old owner of ‘Brittania’ restaurant in colonial Mumbai
– Chickoo flavoured kulfi (sort of like sorbet) from the Bengali street stall with Neha
– Crispy dosas from fastfood joints all over Mumbai
– Chai, chai, chai – every 20 cent cup was worth a million bucks

On the next trip to India (hopefully soon):
– Kerala, Hampi, Bangalore and the South of India in general. From the small tastes I had in South Indian restaurants the food sounds sublime, and it sounds like a very different experience to the rest of the country.
– Varanasi, but not in foggy January. I could spend much longer than the 2 days we had in this spiritual centre, especially if the view is as picturesque as I remember it from three years ago.
– Tea stations in Darjeeling, and panoramic views from Northern Ladakh and Leh – it’s supposed to be beautiful and as close to Nepal and Tibet as India gets.
– Delhi, Jodhpur, the Taj Mahal and Mumbai again and MORE.
– More trains, less planes – budget and horrible though they may often be, you learn so much more on a draughty freezer on wheels than an air-conditioned box in the sky
– I will actually learn some Hindi more advanced than ‘namaste’, ‘aloo ghobi’, and ‘ek, do, teen’.
– Figure out how to eat rice and dahl with my fingers. An art I haven’t even come close to mastering.

The other lasting impression I’ll have of India is about the impact of foreign tourism. We lugged around The Book aka the 1000 page Lonely Planet to every city we went to, and based lots of sleeping/eating/travelling choices off it. But it was clear to see that lots of the places recommended in the 2011 edition had since been “Lonely Planet-ized”: they were double the price, all had signs saying “Recommended by Lonely Planet” outside them and were full of fellow Book-toting white people. It’s a shame because lots of the places described by the guidebook were originally local joints untouched by the American dollar and Coca Cola. Today, they all have English menus and also hold directions to the nearest ATM/Post Office/national monument. Of course, there are still heaps of authentic places, and we learnt early on that you find more interesting spots if you don’t take the guidebook’s advice, but the fact that travel in India is so much easier now than it was ten years ago means there is more and more homogenization of the fascination Indian culture that is so unique. Obviously travel is good and everyone should have a chance to see the world, but I shudder to think of the influx of Nike-wearing, Big-Mac-eating, Canon-toting tourists that India has waiting for her. #globalisingthelocal #doyouevenpoliticallycomment # #wankytraveller #culturecultureculture #okayillstop

OKAY I’m nearly done I promise, all I have left to say in my teary farewell to India is I’ll be back.

Namaste.

PT

P.S. 23 days strong without a hot shower. Smella out.