7. Bamboo, Silk, and Hash in 3000 B.C.
The world is a book and those who do not travel read only one page
— St. Augustine Confessions
On September 13, 2008 five bombs went off within a span of 31 minutes in the Indian capital of Delhi. Initial reports put the death toll at 30 and over 100 people injured. The bombs were located in various markets and commercial locations around the city, including Connaught Place, a popular tourist destination. Immediately following the first blast, major news networks received an email from the radical Islamic group Indian Mujahideen, claiming responsibility. The email threatened nine attacks. Indian police subsequently diffused four additional bombs. The bombings were retaliation to India for what the group called 60 years of Muslim persecution and support of U.S. policies.
I tossed and turned, haunted by bombs and religious wars. I realized I was dreaming and awakened slowly. The now familiar motion began again. I was on a train. Conscience came flooding back. The bombs had already gone off. I had read about them the previous morning. We were somewhere in the middle of the subcontinent, chugging east towards Varanasi. My brain was foggy. There had been loud voices very late last night. The memories rushed in. We had gotten neighbors. I slowly opened my eyes to see that I was on the top berth and looked down. The bottom bunk across from Oskar was occupied by an Indian male somewhere in his late 30s. Roosevelt was lying directly below me. A woman was up in the top bunk on the other side of the car. I guessed it was her voice that had been the culprit of the late night ruckus. I rolled back over and drifted in and out of sleep thinking over the previous day’s events.
Roosevelt had woken up early and dealt with Sabu. He may have heard me mumbling in my sleep about wanting to punch the Indian travel agent in his fat face, so he jumped out of bed and ran out to secure the tickets himself, taking care of business like a good travel mate does when the other is preoccupied with thoughts of inflicting pain. After he got back it had been a leisurely morning in Mumbai with plenty of time for the internet and food before a roller coaster cab ride through the city to Dadar train station.
I finally witnessed an accident in the street as a cabbie slammed into a pretty nice SUV one lane over from us. The driver of the SUV was irate, getting out of the car and inspecting the damage, the whole time screaming at the cabbie. The cabbie basically shrugged, not looking too upset. Then a second man got out of the SUV whom I took to be the owner and said something else to the cabbie. But the cabbie kept the “whatyagonnado?” look on his face and then sped off after some rapid Hindi. I guessed he didn’t say “Talk to my lawyer.”
The train trip had so far been pleasant. The only difference I could tell between 2nd class AC sleeper and 3rd class was that there were only six beds to a berth instead of nine. They had eliminated the middle bunks which was nice because you could sit up on the bottom ones without having to worry about anyone getting on and putting the middle one down to sleep. Also, the steeper ticket price made for the cars to be less crowded. Our berth had been empty the whole ride and Oskar and I played chess and cards until about 6:00 pm when a young outgoing Indian named Nirad sat down to join us. He was 20 years old and a student studying to be a software engineer. He was returning from a Yatra, or holy pilgrimage, with his parents. He explained that these were non-obligatory pilgrimages made by Hindus to boost good karma, pay respects to ancestors, and attend festivals, amongst other things.
We taught him how to play Gin and he gave us a crash course in Hinduism. I figured we needed it as we were heading to the most religious city of the religion. We learned of Shiva, the supreme god, and his consort Pavarti. He told us the story of Ganesh, the god of luck and fortune and who’s festival we had crashed when we first arrived. He did indeed have an elephant’s head though he supposedly started life with a human one. The story went, Nirad said, that the child Ganesh was guarding his mother, Pavarti while she bathed. Shiva, the boy’s father but unbeknownst to them both, suddenly appeared and demanded to see his consort. When Ganesh refused, Shiva lopped off his head. Upon learning the news that he had just beheaded his own son, a grieving Shiva went off into the forest vowing to return with the first head he found. That just so happened to be an elephant. Nirad had entertained us with stories like these and others before his parents fetched him for sleep. The two of us had then turned in, only to be awakened by the raucous noise of the new arrivals in the middle of the night. I shuddered at the memory.
Yet there was a lot of noise right now as well and I realized Oskar was awake. Curiously, I rolled over and opened my eyes looking down from my top bunk. Oskar and the 30s something Indian were sitting up in their bunks facing each other. The Indian had a deck of cards fanned out in his hands and was looking at it intently. Oskar’s hands then went up to the deck and pushed the cards together. I immediately became excited because I knew what would happen next. Oskar turned the cards over in the Indian’s hand and then had him hold out the deck while Oskar brought back his own hand. He then slapped the deck out of the Indian’s hand spewing 51 cards all over the floor. One card remained in his hand and I knew it would be the card the Indian had chosen. I had seen Oskar do this trick many times. This was confirmed when the Indian flipped the single card over and his head almost exploded. His eyes became huge and he wagged his finger at Oskar, firing rapid Hindi to anyone listening. His face was completely lit up. For the next ten minutes he couldn’t sit still. He was practically shouting to the loud woman, obviously referencing Oskar.
Then an idea hit him and he brought out his cell phone. He began talking away and then suddenly handed the phone over to Oskar. This began a twenty minute conversation the would result in a question being posed by the Indian to the translator then to Oskar who would answer the translator and pass the phone back to the Indian. Finally the conversation ended.
“Who the hell were you talking to?”
“Well, he said it was his brother.” Roosevelt looked confused. “But then the guy said he was an Iranian priest.”
“An Iranian Priest?”
“Yeah, I guess he really wanted to know how to do that card trick.”
The day moved on slowly after that. Around 5:00 pm, Roosevelt started to lose it. I couldn’t really blame him. We had been on the train for 29 hours and there was no end in sight. His friend from earlier was long gone. In fact, most of the car was empty. Nobody could give us a straight answer on when we would arrive in Varanasi. And the train kept stopping. We couldn’t figure out why. The chai and masala tea vendors showed up less often and there was nothing to eat. I would have killed for a chicken lollipop. The Darjeeling Limited this was not. I got up for a walk. I had to get away from Oskar. I had never seen him look so miserable in his life. Well except for maybe after that one night in college when he was suffering what looked like the worst hangover known to man. But that was a long time ago. In another world.
I walked through the cars with my headphones in. The 3rd class sleeper AC was much more crowded than the three cars of 2nd class. I stopped before going into the hard seat cars. Nirad had told me that you can get locked out of the AC sleepers and not be able to get back in them until the next stop which was the last thing I wanted to happen. At the open doors at the end of the cars I leaned out and took in the view. The wind hit my face as the train gently curved through the forested landscape. I desperately wanted to see a tiger but had to settle for six camels being led through the trees by a shepherd. I switched sides to catch a magnificent sunset. Eventually I had to go back to Roosevelt.
“Look man, just chill out. We will be there soon. I’m sick of this train as well.” I told him.
“These bugs are biting me everywhere. I can’t handle it anymore. The spray is not working.”
“Just hang on.” I was looking out the window and we were now passing a sizable town. “Look, a goat on the roof! Eh? Good stuff”
Ever since we saw a goat riding between two guys on a motorbike, goat sightings had always made for laughter. He didn’t even crack a smile. I put my headphones in although the batteries were running low. I looked at Roosevelt swatting at bugs and looking miserable. We had to get off this train. I hoped we would get there soon. The train slowed to a stop. I looked out into the night. We were in the middle of nowhere. I closed my eyes.
********
Varanasi, once known as Benares, is the epicenter of Hinduism. The city is located along the western bank of the Ganges River in the Utter Pradesh state of India, a little over 200 km from the Nepalese border. Believed to be over 3000 years old, it is one of the oldest continuously populated cities still standing. Said to contain over a thousand temples, the city received over a million Hindu pilgrims a year. Every morning, the city’s famous ghats attracted hundreds of pilgrims who bathed in the holy Ganges River. Perhaps the most famous quote about it amongst travelers was from the famous American writer Mark Twain who said, “Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together.”
I thought about that quote as I stepped out of the Hotel Chanda and onto the dusty road. Twain must have said that well over a hundred years ago. Then again, 100 years doesn’t mean much when you are dealing with thousands. Oskar came out the door and we made our way up the dirt road. We were immediately accosted by young Indian boy.
“Bamboo, you want bamboo?” he said
“What was that?” Oskar asked, confused. I wasn’t sure what he was talking about either.
“Bamboo boat. Come, you take ride on Ganga. Bamboo boat,” he motioned for us to follow him.
“Oh, uh, no thanks, maybe later,” I told him. We began to walk off.
“Hash”
I stopped. Did he just say hash? The boy ran up to me.
“You want hash,” he looked at me quizzically. I looked at Oskar’s face. It told me all I needed to know.
“Uh, no thanks.” The boy shrugged and wandered off. I laughed. It was 9:00 am. Well, I guess it was never too early.
We made it ten meters up the road before a rickshaw approached. This was a proper rickshaw, or at least a bicycle one compared to the louder and faster auto-rickshaws. We had taken one of those into town when we had finally arrived at the station. My stomach was still upset from the ride.
“Rickshaw! You want rickshaw. You go to old city. Long walk. I take you.”
Oskar looked at me. That’s where we were heading. Besides, we had never ridden one of these. The driver was an old man who had no shoes. I gulped.
“Let’s do it!” We negotiated a price and hopped on.
The city was really alive. Lacking the tall buildings and wide streets of Mumbai, you could really feel the madness of India. There were less four wheel vehicles and more motorbike and rickshaw traffic. That didn’t stop the occasional truck from barreling through the narrow streets. The rickshaw ride was rather enjoyable. While the constant wailings of horns never ceased, you could take in the views of the ride without G-forces tugging at your stomach and the fear that your life may end in a fiery crash at any second. Banners and power lines hung across the streets. Cars honked their way through the rickshaws, bicycles, motorbikes, pedestrians, and animals. The streets were filled with Hindu Brahman dressed in whites, Buddhist monks in orange, Hare Krishnas with their mostly shaved heads, and of course backpackers. There were more backpackers here than we had come across in Goa and Mumbai combined. Our driver huffed as he encountered a slight incline. I couldn’t believe he did this without shoes. A family of five shot by us on a motorbike. A child sat in front of the father who was driving. Next came another child followed by the mother who was clutching the back of the seat of the bike with one hand and her baby in the other. Asia.
We came upon the old city where motorized vehicles were not allowed to enter. We didn’t have much of a destination in mind so we told the old man to pull over. He looked close to death anyway with the two of us probably equaling well more than three times his weight. We hopped out and turned into a narrow alley. Now I was completely amazed. The alleys winded in every direction and were barely wide enough for two people to pass each other, yet hundreds were somehow making their way through. I marveled at the fact that not much had changed here in thousands of years. We began walking aimlessly when someone ahead of us started speaking.
“I’m not trying to sell you anything. I have a job” Was he talking to us? We kept walking.
“I said I am just going this way too. I do not want your money. I have a job.” He was talking to us.
“Ok pal, that’s fine.” I said.
“So where are you going….to the ghat?
“Uh, yeah sure.”
“Ok well that is where I am going as well. I will show you the way. But I say again I don’t want any money. I have a job.”
We followed the Indian closely as he winded through the narrow alleys. He was dressed in the typical Indian garb. White shirt, trousers and sandals. He introduced himself as Bhadraksh., which took us a few times to figure out how to pronounce. He steered us toward the Manikarnika Ghat, the larger of the two crematorium ghats. We had learned that ghats were basically steps leading into the water and the whole city was lined with different ghats along the bank of the river. There were two ghats used to burn corpses and we had just entered the larger of the two.
Bhadraksh explained the burning. “The Ganges is the holiest river in all of India. And Varanasi is the holiest of cities. Therefore, to die here is a great honor. It makes the cycle of life complete and the corpses are burned in a holy ceremony and the taken to the river. The wood used for the pyre depends on the family. If you can afford the most expensive wood, you use it. And if you are poor and could only afford a small amount of the cheap wood, the corpse is burned in sections. Before a corpse is burned, the body is washed in the Ganges and all the hair is removed. A priest conducts the whole ceremony.”
I was fascinated. We were at the top of the ghat. I looked down to see a smoke filled pyre. Men sat around in white robes. Some were chanting. A priest moved about. I could see the corpse burning. The torso on fire. Men standing about watching. The smell. Chills ran through my body. We moved down a few steps for a closer look. I noticed other foreigner tourists taking it in.
Bhadraksh sensed my reluctance to go down. “It’s ok. You may go down further. You are permitted. You just cannot take pictures. There are no pictures allowed here. It is a very serious offense. Although, if you want to take a photo, I know of a place. In that temple there.” He pointed to a temple overlooking the ghat. “You will have to pay the priest but then he will let you take photos.”
I was picturing the inside of an Indian jail. “No thanks, we are fine just watching.”
We climbed down a few more steps of the ghat and I could see much better. Was that the skull? The flames grew. I was mesmerized.
“If you have time, I would like to show you a temple close by” Bhadraksh said.
Roosevelt and I looked at each other. What was this guy’s game? I shrugged.
“Sure,” said Oskar.
I took one last glance at the burning pyre before climbing back up the ghat. Once atop, Bhadraksh led us through the alleys. Along the way he pointed out temples.
“In Varanasi, everything is a temple,” he said. Here is a temple, pointing at a small opening leading to an idol and some incense. “And there, that is also a temple,” he continued motioning towards another opening, this one a bit larger. “Ah ha, here we are,” and we followed him up the stairs to a beautiful rooftop temple with elaborate carvings aligning the sides of it. Each carving was of a winged figure playing a different type of instrument. There must have been 50 carvings surrounding the temple.
Bhadraksh wasn’t finished. “I have more to show you if you would like?”
I couldn’t figure him out. He had claimed he had a job and didn’t want any money. I couldn’t figure out where this was going to end up, but I was enjoying myself and he seemed very knowledgeable and well spoken. We followed him through the twisting sections of the old city, occasionally pinning ourselves against the walls so a cow could pass. We stopped at different temples and other significant structures. Twain was right. You could feel the age here. It was stunning.
Bhadraksh suddenly stopped. “And now my friends, would like you to come to my house and try some of my mother’s tea?”
“Sure, let’s do it.”
We followed him to his home, a small humble abode in the middle of the Old town. It was the first Indian house I had ever been in. We greeted his father who was sitting on a rocking chair in the main room. A child played on the floor. The room was small and modest, but beautifully decorated with pictures and carvings. We passed through a tiny kitchen and into his bedroom. We took off our shoes and all sat cross legged on his bed. He then got up and found his mother and coarsely told her to make some tea. He came back in and closed the curtain to the other room. He walked over to his bed stand and fumbled around, pulling out a dark cloth.
“Now my friends, we must keep quiet. My family and wife do not know of this. But I want to show you my hash.”
Ding! Ding! Ding! We have a winner. I grinned knowing Roosevelt was going to love this. Bhadraksh placed a ball into my hand and I smelled it. It smelled like it was good shit. He spoke of its powers. The tea was ready and he jumped up to get it. Oskar gave me the look of death. I smiled and toyed with him.
“This is my mother’s recipe for Masala tea,” Bhadraksh had come back in carrying three small glasses. He handed them out. “So what do you think? You take a small amount. It’s very good.”
I took a sip of the most wonderful tea I had ever tasted. It had the perfect amount of spice. “Um I don’t think so. We really don’t need this.”
He grabbed the hash ball he had given me and tore it in half. He gave me back the smaller piece. “Ok my friend, no problem. But you just take this. This much is all you need.”
I shrugged. “Yeah, it’s cool, but I don’t want it. I’m sorry.” Action repeated. I now had a ball the fourth of the size of the original in my hand. “Look, thanks very much for the tea. It’s excellent and you have a very nice home. But we aren’t going to buy any hash today, ok”
He got a confused look on his face. “You come to Varanasi but you don t want hash. So what do you want to do?”
That was when Oskar spoke up. He had been mostly silent this whole time. “Well, we did want to try some yoga.” I turned my head in surprise. Did he just say yoga?
********
The sweat was pouring off my body. My stomach was burning. I was straining muscles I didn’t know I had. I couldn’t hold it much long…
“Breathe now” the old white haired man boomed as I let out all my breath. I almost fell over but was able soon able to gain composure. “Ok rest.” He said. Thank God.
I fell onto the floor and looked over at Roosevelt. He was as red as I must have been. We were at the top of a tower, practicing yoga with an old guru. He spoke with a high voice and was skinny as a beanpole, yet I had already seen him do things with his stomach that would give me nightmares for a week. Bhadraksh had dropped us off here over an hour ago. He told us this was the real deal, not the crap they dish out to tourists at the guesthouses. I wasn’t sure if I believed him but I did know one thing; Master Yogi certainly didn’t mess around. Another grueling ten minutes and we were finished. I felt refreshed. It was the first time I had ever done Yoga and who better than an Indian Guru to teach me. We paid him and walked out onto the roof, observing the many monkeys that climb all over the city. To my surprise Bhadraksh came huffing up the stairs. He was kind enough to hook us up with the guru but after we turned down his hash I figured he would be done with us.
“Ah, my friends. You enjoyed the class?” he asked. We nodded. “Good, and now, if you would like, I want to show you where I work. It is a short ride from here.” What the hell was he up to now?
Two hours later it was all clear. Fucking Silk. It was all about silk. All the time spent on us. The hash was something on the side. Silk was his game. Did we look like Marco Polo? The patient bastard had shown us around, waited for our yoga and then finally played his hand. We were given a quick tour of his workplace and shown how silk is made before sitting down with his boss on the floor of their shop and listening to his boss push silk on us for an hour. I was not impressed. I liked Bhadraksh but his boss was a pushy son of a bitch. He had broken Roosevelt quickly, convincing him he needed a fine piece for his girlfriend. Although I had to admit, Oskar’s purchase was quite nice.
But I had made up my mind that I would not buy anything from this man, even if just for spite. I didn’t like his tactics. And he didn’t like that. It was a battle of wills for 45 minutes. Every refusal was met with a counter offer. Every no was answered with a why not. I didn’t think the son of a bitch would ever give up which incensed me more. I held firm and he finally surrendered. Checkmate, pushy Indian Silk Dealer.
The only interesting part of the whole two hours was during the early stages of our silk seduction. The silk boss spoke of a trip to San Francisco and a visit to Costco. He then told of how difficult it was to explain the concept of the superstore to his friends back here. They could not grasp it. I found this fascinating because I never thought of it the other way around. I knew that most of my friends would not be able to get a picture of what driving in India was like. But I never thought about the Indian trying to explain America to his friends. I wonder if he told them it was backwards.
Back at the hotel we had a late lunch and spoke with a man who said he would take us down to one of the ghats to organize a bamboo boat ride. We heard if you went with a local you could get a cheaper price for the ride. But that turned about to be false and it was all because of the damn hash that the entire city seemed to be smoking. The boat guy happened to mention hash when we were eating and I don’t know if my face lit up or there happened to be a stoner thing between us. I seemed to recall being able to pick out the ‘heads in college with relative ease. Regardless, he must have recognized something because on the way to the boat he wanted to make a quick stop. Suddenly we were in another shop playing out the exact same scene that had happened hours before with Bhadraksh. The Indians could not understand why we wouldn’t buy even just a little bit. I couldn’t explain to them that my traveling partner was very anti-drugs at this time in his life and deathly afraid of winding up in an Indian prison. That I knew it was ridiculous, but there was no sense arguing with him. Besides, it was respect for my friend. I’d rather argue with the Indians, although they were turning out to be almost as tough to argue with as the attorney sitting on my right. But not quite.
They finally gave up and we left the shop though now the guy who was to take us to the boat wasn’t happy. He must have felt like a fool for bothering his friend with two scruffy looking, necklace wearing, hippy backpackers who didn’t want to buy any hash. Therefore when it was time to bargain with the boatman for a ride in his bamboo boat, he was of no help whatsoever and we proceeded to get as hosed as any other tourist would who hadn’t recruited help.
The boat ride turned out to be pretty amazing. We rowed along the ghats and right next to the Harishchandra ghat which was the other corpse burning one. The funerals were in full swing. Untouchables dragged the bodies and prepared them for the burning. Wood was constantly brought down from above. It was very organized and efficient. Thousands of years of practice had seen to that. We passed along to the other ghats and watched water buffalo and people alike bathe in the holy river. A floating corpse passed out boat. I thought of the sewage and corpses and shuddered at the thought of bathing. Yet it was done daily by the thousands. The power of religion was strong in the place. Stronger than anywhere I had ever been before.
I gazed at the beautiful view of the city from the water. It was like the city was crumbling by the second. The boat rocked in the waves. I did find it funny that some of the ghats were written on. Thousands of years old were these steps and a few of them were advertising German bakeries. The effects of tourism. Of people like me. We rowed on. Afterwards, Oskar and I strolled up to the Dashashwamedh ghat to watch the nightly Puja Lighting Ceremony. Thousands of people had shown up, a mix of both Indians and foreigners. We took seats and proceeded to watch the riverside light and music festival. The atmosphere was vibrant. This city astounded me. The sights, sounds and smells. The full circle of life, from children playing to corpses burning.
After dinner and a few beers, all the hash talk had gotten to me. We had met an Israeli the night before who had been too stoned to remember which guesthouse was his. He claimed it was from a Bhang Lhassi, which was basically a hash milkshake. They served them at all the rooftop restaurants around the city. This also technically didn’t fall under Roosevelt’s no holding rule, so I ordered one. It didn’t have much affect and I was disappointed. Either the Israeli was a total lightweight or he had smoked a bunch of it as well. But because I had just drunk the shake, I wasn’t ready for bed just yet so I made Oskar accompany me on a nighttime stroll through the streets. We were about to head back when we heard the loud roar of a crowd and the thumping of Indian music. Suddenly from around the corner came a tractor. On the back was about 30 speakers all wired to some sort of portable stereo system that was cranking out music at a volume so high it was impossible to not notice that most of the speakers were blown. Behind the tractor followed about 100 kids, all boys probably between the ages of 10-20 dancing wildly. It was strange that there were no girls but we were beginning to suspect that they weren’t allowed to participate. Woman seemed scarce is this country to begin with even though we knew that wasn’t true. They just seemed to stay indoors more, and especially at night.
We followed in astonishment. Some of the older boys took swigs of gasoline and spit huge flames of fire. Someone mentioned it was a Shiva festival. A totally insane frenzy of a dance party had broken out. These kids were grinding with each other. Putting moves on their friends with no restraints. We had seen many things so far that we didn’t take for homosexuality such as grown men holding hands on the beach, arms around each other in restaurants. We took it as a different culture. But this was different. This was raw sexual angst. I’m guessing some of these moves would put the San Francisco club scene to shame. Grind, thrust, shout with the beats.
“It’s a roaming all-male teenage dance party,” yelled Oskar. “This is what happens when you don’t let the girls out.”
Two boys came over to us and dragged Roosevelt to the middle of the frenzy. He danced for a few minutes before fighting his way back to where I stood. We had had enough. Once again, our minds were blown. We began walking away when we came across another tractor. In the back of this one was about 20 men armed with bamboo poles. They weren’t cops but they looked serious. I guessed they were keeping an eye on this “festival” and were ready to break it up at any time. The tractor lurched forward. I thought to myself that ‘any time’ had just become now. We moved on, not willing to see the poles put to use.
********
The next morning I was awakened at 5:00 am by loud chanting as hundreds made their way to the river to wash. Once again, I was struck by the awesome power of the city and the religion which surrounded it.