… city of shiva, city of cow poop
Further back in the journey, someone had pointed out that you couldn’t really have experienced everything that Indian trains had to offer unless you had at least one trip in general class. The sleeper class that I had used up till now had reserved seats, and allocated bunk beds. General is chaotic, allocated only in theory, sometimes standing room only, with floor sleeping, hard benches and half of India trying to squeeze into the same spot. I didn’t think I’d give it a go for the 36 hour ride from Jalgoan to Varanasi. What I hadn’t figured on was general class coming to me.
May/June is the Indian holiday season, also the Indian marriage season. Lots of folk are on the move and trains are hours late. With general class carriages brimful, and ticket inspectors notably absent, the obvious reshuffle takes place. All of a sudden the sleepers are jammed to more than overflowing. The allocated 6 seat booth has about 10 people, sleeping 2 to a bunk … my berth is being used, and I have no qualms waking up the occupant to claim my spot … the middle bunk, which folds back down to become the back of one of the booths benches. Fortunately, there is a pair of French travellers heading to Nepal in the same booth … a bit of mutual support is a big help in the situation. Still, I find 3 people in my seat after getting off at one station for a chai. There is baggage everywhere … this booth, the floor of the carriage people everywhere … same time both funny and aggravating. Boxes and luggage piled against train doors … hysterical situations of Indians trying to barge through the rabble or open the door which has baggage piled against it. But on the whole it is a shanti experience, and hot emotions are mostly absent.
A couple of folk are curious about my sax case, and I end up being a minor part of the entertainment. Apart from the madness of moving from one end to the carriage to the other, entertainment is a constant stream of people getting off and on at adjacent stations: chai sellers, food wallahs, a blind busker, beggars with limbs missing, boys sweeping the floor of the booth for a few coins. Most of the food is a touch dodgy, and a colossal excess of chai is drunk just to while away the time.
Mid morning arrival at Varanasi. Most folk are getting off here. Best lodging is down by the ghats, and I decide to do the pilgrim thing, walk down to the Ganges and wash my feet. On the way I nearly get dragged along in an auto by a lodging tout … realise the situation, and jump out. But this is one of the most persistent touts I’ve met so far, and he just won’t go away. Still I make him wait for about an hour while I meditate on the ganges … it smells a bit like the river in a dodgy port district, quite polluted … I change my swimming plans but a foot bath feels great. I drag my feet, walk slowly, stop suddenly and quietly … tout still clinging like a limpet by the time I find a place. He had helped with directions, so I give him a 10roop tip to get rid of him. Fortunately this isn’t a hotel which will give him a commission.
The ghats are a series of steps and platforms lining the ganges for about 5km. Just behind the ghats are stairs and lainways, small hole in the wall bidi shops, general stores, chai shops, tourist clothing, restaurants, and lodges, houses. A tight squeeze for a motorbike to pass a cow. And there are plenty of cows, plenty of 2 wheelers, garbage everywhere, and a thick crust of cow poop. It’s India, and cows have right of way on the road, and the right to poop wherever they feel.
First evening, I take the sax for a midnight stroll down the ghats, run into a group of Japanese, and Korean travellers … with a single Brit, Ben, going out with a Korean girl, Sogyo. Nice crew, staying closer to the main ghats, but I’m minded to blow while the mood is on me. Turns into a strangely auspicious beginning to Varanasi … cranking out dodgy versions of Miles and Monk, I get cheers from what seems to be a party boat. Turns out it is a party boat, but for press covering the upcoming elections in Uttar Pradesh (the state in which Varanasi is, aka UP) … and they have more cameras and video gear than an average bunch of travellers. An entertaining photo shoot ensues, grandstanding and sending cheesy horn across India’s most sacred river. Well at least I felt like a rock star for a few hours.
My first lodge, Ganga Yogi, is decent, but is quite deserted. Varanasi isn’t far enough north to dent the heat, and most travellers are heading to the foothills of the Himalayas to beat the Indian summer. But the owner puts me in touch with one of the music shops/teaching establishments, and I make enquiries about shennai almost straight away. My plan is to be here for about 10 days, which isn’t a lot of time to even learn one end of an instrument from the other. One lesson, and I’m being asked to spend about 2000Rs on an instrument without checking the market, or trying out a few options. Some of what I’m taught in this lesson is a bit different to what Narasimhalu taught on the same raga. I feel like I’m in the hands of a new kind of tout … musical touts. A lot of westerners take up sitar or tabla here, so it’s a big part of the tourist industry. It’s such a different situation from what I’m used to from Narasimhalu and Kadri, and these aren’t players/teachers of anything like that calibre. I bug out on it, and decide to find my own way. Move hotels closer to the main ghats, and start checking out the rest of the ghats, which are the hub of the tourist area. Kumiko, Ben and Sogyo’s lodge, is full … but I find a decent room around the corner, rooftop view of the river and a 20m walk to the banks. Cheap and friendly, and I stay here for the duration.
Next few days, I spend hanging out near the main ghats, watching the scene. There are nightly devotional concerts and ceremonies, lit by flashing rope lights, and sacred flames … two similar events in close proximity run by different temples. Vocal music mainly, tabla accompanied, bhajans, the occaisional kriti … one male singer, and the other group’s vocalist female, both running from similar repertoires of music sacred to the ganges. A large part of the accompaniment is bells … rung largely out of time, and pulled by devotees, pauses in music filled with bells … and the pauses between bells just don’t happen. There is a soft dance like fire ritual taking place in front of the 10 or so altars attached to each group. Occaisionally a call and response between singers and audience. The peak of the nightly puja, around 8-00 … after sunset, anyway, is the release of small floating tea candles across the ganga, some to make it to the middle of the river before fading, others to get tangled early in boat ties, each one carrying a devotees personal wishes or blessings. It’s a beautiful scene, and must be amazing in peak pilgrimage times. Chai wallahs, market stalls at the top of the ghats, charis-smoking shivite babahs, tourists and a host of the devout make this a scene to catch over and above the value of the music. It’s my nightly relaxation ritual entertainment and excuse to sit on the ghats smoking Indian cigarettes (Gold Flake minis) and guzzling tiny cups of tea.
Second evening, I meet the first of many odd characters on the ghats, erstwhile healer mystic and lifestyle adviser, Prem Sagar. I’m moody at the time … he asks if I’m happy … my reply, something along the lines of ‘if you can tell me what happiness is, I’ll tell you whether I’m happy’ … all very existential … we have a brief philosophical meander around the subject … a bit of nattering picks my mood up, and he invites me over for tea within the next few days. Turns out he has a morning Shennai concert at his temple by one of the cousins of Bismillah Khan (the undoubted but recently deceased master of Shennai). The indulgence of these more or less private concerts occupies my mornings for the next few days, much of which I record. Prem is keen for me to really take the Shennai on within the Khan family. It’s a very tempting proposition … I’m still confused by but committed to Karnatic music, but at a loss for a consistent teacher … this seems to be a good step. But as the days progress, and I end up shelling out a good few hundred rupees for the privilege of mixing down 3 cds worth of the daily sessions to give them. Prem’s conversations turn frequently to his status, his poverty, his life as a German based guru which ended with his visa and his marriage to a german girl, his rich European friends who cover all the bills, and his indispensability to my studying within the Khan family … I’m starting to feel I’m playing into the hands of another higher order tout. But it gives me an opportunity to hear a worthy shennai player live (there are many many dodgy players along the ghats), collect some great recordings, and, most importantly, play a decent shennai (one of the Khan’s old instruments). This is a treat, and I decide that there’s definitely something appealing hear, something that may give me an insight into the workings of wind instruments withing Indian music, perhaps an approach more genuine than trying to adapt sax or a western clarinet. But, wary of middlemen, negotiators, translators et al., I decide to back out of the situation, and follow my own path for the moment.
My highlight for the stay is about 4 days before I leave … perhaps the reason that I’ve stayed in Varanasi so long … a solid lap across the Ganga at sunset. The crew from Komiko have been swimming the Ganga every night, but I’ve been put off by the pollution, and talks of dodgy bacteria counts. Another extended bout of bad runny poo (probably from railway food on the way here) adds to my caution. But the challenge is on, and for every nay-sayer, there is a western traveller who will attest to the ecstasy of swimming the Ganga and their own health. So it’s into the togs and into the river … I’m a bit cautious about the mud on the ganga floor, so I launch straight into the depths headed for the other side. It’s my first lap swimming for the year, I’m unfit and fall behind my Korean running mate. Halfway across, and the other side is looking further than the distance travelled … I switch to a more leisurely backstroke. This eases the stinging in the eye, and the occaisional bad taste in my mouth. Whatever the feelings are, and whatever the spiritual strenght of the Ganga, the water is crappy. Kicking my way across, floating over the bones of probably 6 millions dead indians, it’s an uplifting feeling. I watch the sun across the ghats and fall towards the low Varanasi skyline … in no time, I’m on the sandy beach of the opposite shore. Ben and a few of the others have cheated and taken a boat. Before the sun gets too low, I set out back across the river to ghatside Varanasi. A bit tired now, but confident that I can make it without being plowed down by a Varanasi boat or otherwise joining those 6 million Indians on the bottom of the river. I’m out in what seems like no time, and though there were no electric shocks or improbable colors in the sky … I’m not seeing auras or talking to animals … but I’m elated, particularly after a hot shower to wipe the slimy water off. And I don’t actually feel like a cigarette. Wow! Ganga magic. I’m running on shiva power through the heat for the next few days. I do lapse to the small indian organic leaf wrap cigarettes, beedies … damn social habits … hopefully these will be easier to give up than the filter tips.
Later that night I run into Sanjay, the enigmatic shivite, and Varanasi gives us a taste of how the monsoon will be. A session of chillum and charis under an overhang on the main ghats turns wild as the humid air ruptures, and the sky is split with lightning and the rain comes down in buckets. Predictably, power is lost across most of Varanasi … no moon, and ghats are pitch black … more buckets. Sanjay acompanies chillum lighting with chants and shaivite songs … I noodle on the shennai, and pick up more sense of what the shennai is about, picking up fragments of the chants, than I have from doing scales in my hotel room. This overhang is home for several folk, temporary shelter for many … these are the underclasses of Varanasi, mainly Dalit, though also some wandering babas … and it is now packed. But with each big blast of lightning, we shout back ‘bom bom’ … as if the sky and river had joined into our smoking session. In a quiet moment, song from a few feet away, mournful but beautiful folk song, different again to anything I’d heard so far in Varanasi, coming from one of the underhangs residents. He’s a rough figure, labouror or beggar, but his voice is rich, gentle and full of life. For this moment, my perception is shifted back to another older India. Finally the rain shifts enough to let me walk back to my hotel in the dark … half of the street muck, dirt and generations of cow poo have been washed from Varanasi’s grubby streets onto the ghats. It’s dirty, slimy, slippery and awkward in the dark, but omehow I make it back without a slip.
The idle life in Varanasi continues over the next few weeks. I get strange looks going to the Indian breakfast joints for a proper breakfast, masala dosa or puri with sambar … I think this is a hangover of the specialness of Varanasi for Indians, and its excessive tourism by young westerners. They’re kind of expecting us non-Indians (corrupt and outcaste) to stick to the tourist haunts. A couple of times I venture the wierd looks, but mostly I’m taking to the western style cafe’s: musli and fruit salad with curd isn’t such a bad way to start the day … I’ll be returning to chennai soon, and I can get my fill of proper food there. Occaisionally I run into Sanjay for a session of chillums with the Babas, most nights I hang out for the pooja, and the out of sync bellringing. Time to head south is coming, but I’m still in two minds: whether to do a visa run to Kathmandu, and stay another 6 months in India, or to move on to Europe. India is surprisingly easy, now that I’ve fallen into the groove, and Europe feels threatening. Meetings with young Europeans settles it for me, I have a few contacts, a few ideas about places to visit … I’ll move on from India … but maybe I’ll stay in Varanasi for just one more day … or one more, sipping chai (2Rs a cup), smoking beedies, enjoying the luxury of frozen water (one of the street stalls actually keeps his fridge on, and even keeps water in the freezer … he is much beloved by western travellers for this and sells a shitload of water), occaisional Bhang Lassees (reccomended to me by ‘my astrologer’ an Indian who read my chart, predicted success at 56, and a golden year or two starting from June 16th).
One chance nocturnal meeting gives me good cause to return to Varanasi at some stage. Walking around one night, slightly stoned, I hear an eerie and powerful violin note from an alley. A musician of serious caliber having his instrument repaired by a craftsman. And this is one interesting musician. Dr V. Balaji, a Karnatic musician from down south, but with good training in Hindustani raga … and an academic at Varanasi University. He invites me around the next day for a proper coffee (chennai style, not northern but a long way from italian) and a small recital. This is a treat, I pop over the following evening, Balaji is singing with his kids running around the house … an amazing voice, and a wonderful violinist. A few hints give me a bit more of an insight into improvisation with raga. He talks with very romantic metaphor, and a hint of eroticism, that gives a me a different perspective to the strict academic terms that the music is described in down south (though not from Kadri of course, he is a pure romantic!). Balaji’s instrument is likewise amazing. He has adapted a german viola with 3 sets of sympathetic strings, two sets across the top of the body, and one set straight through the body. The sound is something of a cross between violin and sitar. He explains the design in terms of the four rivers that compose the ganges … the ganges itself, and three mystical rivers that intersect it … well and good, but the bottom line is that the instrument sounds amazing.
Time in Varanasi is drawing to a close, my visa running short, and my booked flight coming up for the taking. Train trip to Bangalore first, picking up the large pack in storage … this is uneventful … almost boring after the mayhem of the journey north.
