Ten Minute March

I mentioned before that Varanasi is not easily captured by words, but I realized as I walked through a cloud of chili smoke that made my eyes smolder and stream in a familiar damp little alleyway, that I could at least use words to convey some of my feelings here. So I will simply describe, with little embellishment, my walk across town to my tabla lesson each morning.


The first sensation of "otherness" comes with my interaction with orange clad sadhus coming from their Ganga bath with sandalwood paste smeared across their foreheads, where a simple touch to the heart will gain a deep and respectful nod of the head and "namaste." Following the labrinth through shops and tea stalls, the next interaction comes in the form of government apparatus, where the occassional row of six or seven police sitting chewing paan (and projecting a thin line of the red juice on a wall across the walkway) hold their semi-automatic rifles as they tug at the tighter areas of their uniforms. This first stretch is still in the quiet and cooler quarters before the heat of the main road hits me like a fist, and then all erupts. Muslim women clad head to toe in black in the stiffling heat crowd into the scandalous lingerie shops, wedding processions march by somberly with the terrified bride and groom sweating through their costumes. People, rickshaws, bicycles, vendors, and processions buzz like bees in the intense heat, and I find myself crossing the road to get back into the shade. Even still after so many trips to this city I think to myself on this particular walk every morning, "holy shit, I'm in India."

Past the South Indian temple I find myself swiftly weaving in and out of waddling South Indian women back amongst the darkended cobblestone lanes. Picture me yelling, "Side! Side!" to a line of thirty-plus saried matriarchs to get them to give this Westerner with an agenda some space, and even when these non-locals realize their social faux pas and step to the side, I am weary of small children, motorcycles, or large, horned cows coming in the opposite direction and looking for similar openings. The motorcycles often balance three or more young boys dressed straight from a scene from Saturday Night Fever, who wiggle their eyebrows at me suggestively as I try to stifle a good laugh at their ill-timed coifs. Otherwise entire families balance babies and children on the handlebars, but the no matter who the drivers are, they always give the horn a nice blare right as they pass milimeters to the side of me. "Hello, madame!"

Garbage collectors reach into the filthy open sewage, beat cows aways from piles of plastic, and dump the dripping rubbish into rickety, metal wheelbarrows that could severe a toe or two if not careful. Also yelling, "Side! Side jaiye!" these trash collectors join the fray of other stick-like people pushing or pulling inhuman amounts of goods on other rickety carts that fill the narrow passageways and threaten canine tails as well as the aforementioned toes. The dogs are either asleep, dead to the world, amid the fray, or nursing one to six yelping puppies that charge for their mother's teats which are practically dragging on the ground. At this point past the vegetable market, I may walk through another waft of smoke or steam, sometimes a chai stall, boiling milk (for curd), spices and chilis for samosas, or just another old man or woman puffing endlessly on a bidi. As I weave in and out, the sounds of bells and sweet chimes comes closer, then land upon me, and recede as I approach either another temple with bells or (more often) a horrible soundsystem blaring sappy Bollywood love songs (Indians are suckers for mellowdrama) or an upbeat techno version of some ancient Indian mantra. The scenery rotates, but all are regulars on my daily excursion across town.

Along the whole way are the vendors, some tucked into nooks and crannies so small and dark you never see anything but an outline of the voice's owner, but most shopkeepers stand outside like peacocks, chests puffed, proudly displaying silks, jewels, or toiletries outside of their bursting stalls. "Something, madame, for the beautiful lady?" "Yes, I am here!" or, just as often, "Hashopiumbrownwhisky?" The city is ripped by deals in the Indian and tourist markets, and of course the black market thrives and is run by the well-known Varanasi mafia who have their hands in seemingly every bit of business in some way or another. But I walk on, knowing that certain temple doors are shut to sell some gullible tourist cheap heroin, opium, cocaine, or maybe hash that is cut with half cow dung or dhup (incense). Even the milk peddler adds about 70% water to his white jug so as to beef up profits - no one is safe from a scam.


Finally on the last little stretch of path before my oasis of music and refreshing coolness, the perfume wallah nods solemnly with a "namaste" as I round the bend, and the familiar forms of a leper I see everyday and lady with a small bundle in her arms beg, "Money?" as I brush past and keep my pace moving forward. Finally I am in the small shop that houses my daily lessons, and Muna (my teacher) without fail greets me with a chai as the familiar bunch of swamis and musicians who stream in and out grunt their hellos, namastes, and occasionally click with their approval at my slow improvement. It is an hour of highly enjoyable and oft-interrupted tabla lesson on the cushioned floor before my trip back through the bedlam.