Day One in Varanasi

 I am in Varanasi and it is morning time. The sound of chinking bells is issuing from a temple tucked into an alley wall nearby. The alleys here remind me somewhat of Venice. It could be an alliterative association, both cities beginning with a 'V.'  I somehow found a beautiful hostel for 250 rupees a night, with breakfast and lunch included! It is 42 degrees C and there is no air-conditioning, but I don't mind sweating. I just hang my sheets up to dry when I go out during the day.

The place is exactly the kind of place I could write a novel. The house is old, but well-kept, with a winding staircase and dark wooden furniture. The lights are yellow and dim. I feel as though I have stepped back in time. The women in the kitchen taught me how to make roti puff up over the flame yesterday and hugged me when I tried to do my dishes, pushing me playfully away from the sink. They call me "didi" which I think is a kind of endearment. They do not speak English, but we smile constantly at each other and mime things.

I arrived yesterday at around noon and vowed to myself that I would wait until it cooled down to take a boat ride to the burning ghats, but of course as soon as I walked down to the river, I was convinced by a boatman to go out for an hour. The heat was intense, but the price was ridiculously cheap because no other customer would be stupid enough to go out midday. What a sight though to see so many burning bodies! To see water buffalo churning around in the green water, to see men diving to the river floor and sifting through handfuls of pebbles for gold, silver, and coins that had been given to the river by devotees, storing their finds in their mouth (I at first wrongly attributed the bulges in their cheeks to swelling). These men were devotees too I suppose, but that didn't stop them from looting the offerings. Some men sat on the stairs and rolled chapati to feed to the river. Others drank directly from it, a kind of ritual wash, drink, wash, drink, spit, wash, drink. My boat-man asked if I wished to 'shower' in it. I declined, but I don't know how long I can last without a swim. I am tempted.

 I started Passage to India last night again. I forgot what a beautiful book it is. Reading it is so much more vivid here. The first page describes a town along the Ganges and, sitting in the rooftop library overlooking the oldest part of the city, I felt like I was reading an exact description of my surroundings. Kites dipped and swayed in the orange sky. I watched monkeys climb along the rooftops with their babies clutching their stomachs. Each time they leaped to the next building, the mother would hold her baby with one arm as a precaution. It reminded me of how mum and dad would automatically reach across to shield us when breaking quickly in the car. Monkeys fascinate me in their likeness to humans, to me. Does that make it an essentially narcissistic fascination?

I can't quite describe how at home I feel here, no restlessness, no need to see anything else really. Maybe it is the heat that is just stupefying me into a sense of unshakeable calm. No, it is much more than that. I wish I could just sit in the library on the roof next to the fan and read and write forever. Hopefully after six days I will be ready to move on. If not, it is always nice to leave a place with tears of love in my eyes. Pune never entranced me so totally; I loved it because it had become familiar, not because of its charm. This feels more like love at first sight, the existence of which I, a lover of magic ever since mum taught me to build fairy huts in the mountains when I was small, am always delighted to find proof.

Tinkers

My shoe fell apart yesterday. It was one of the shoes I had bought in Goa, after the tide carried mine away one night, near a shop where the vendor told Mikael and me that the music he was selling was sure to make us say "Ooh la la!". When it fell off my foot it was two in the afternoon and the heat radiated from the ground, the kind of heat that almost feels enough to move beyond sensation, and becomes somehow visible, too hot to go barefoot. I looked around and spotted a man a few steps away sitting in a rectangular metal box-like structure laden with shoes. Amazingly, there always seems to be someone here who can do exactly what you need, jobs broken down into pieces, leaving an array of experts on very specific things that have mostly ceased to be manually done at home. I stopped to sit on his stool and he took my shoe between his crossed legs and inspected it carefully. Sitting in the lotus position, the entirety of his thighs touched the ground and the soles of his feet were visible, resting on his knees. A picture of Shirdi Sai Baba on the blue metal wall opposite. I inspected his workshop. Impeccably tidy, with plastic bags stuffed in the shelves lining the wall, full of bits of things for fixing. Things we might so often throw away. I think I have praised the sweeping away of clutter as minimalism in the past or maybe I called it being unattached to things. But being so sure about the merits of not hoarding, I overlooked something else. How different it is to save things because you recognize their value! There is a shop I have passed twice now on the other side of the river full of collected things, lightbulbs, twine, oddly shaped metal objects (unrecognisable to me, revealing much about my past, void of any kind of 'fixing' or handiness). A broken shoe might stay broken because I would never think to cut up bits of leather from the last. And even if I did, I would never know where to start. This man was so adept. He could fix things so physically. How wonderful! I felt inspired, the way I feel after I hear someone sing beautifully or play the piano, that kind of yearning determination to change, to learn. This salvaging, this recycling reminds me of that book Tinkers about the clock-repairman all told as a memory. Patching, fixing seems to make newness less brutal because it lets the old in when need be, weaving, supportive, it can all get pretty metaphorical. I felt so full of wonder as I watched this man work carefully, each move deliberate, making my shoe whole again, like magic. His shirt was soft and clean looking his hair recently trimmed and my mind 'moved to distant places.' I wondered if his wife handles these things. I tried to imagine. The bags gradually revealed a portion of their contents, some full of scraps and shoelaces, others metal clips, buckles. A tube of glue replaced to its perch after each use, thread, a stapler, a needle he sharpened and bent when he needed it to act as a hook. After he fixed my shoe, the other suddenly felt flimsy, so he reinforced it as well. He noticed the tear in my backpack and silently took in from me and inspected the seam. He took more bags from the shelf and leafed through the contents, taking his time, fastening the bag. His quiet assurance and steady movements entranced me. He passed me my backpack, perfectly mended. My shoes firmly wrapped around my feet once more. I paid him 40 rupees and continued on my way. 

Chily Peppers When it Rains

Today I whispered my English poetry notes to myself as I walked down Bhandarkar road. The heat was so intense that I wet my scarf before I left the house and draped it over my head. I had been pacing the length of my room, which in this heat can be quite taxing, but it is the only way to memorize the form of a pastoral elegy and not day-dream about the coming trip to Rajasthan or the peanut brittle Raja gave me for my birthday. I also have a few bones to pick with this course, so conservatively confined to English with a capital E, beginning with Wyatt and ending with Robert Frost. The only allusion to India, that I can find in 'Leena Mam's (who people dread, teasing me by calling her my  'namesake') selections, are  the jewels on Belinda's dressing table in The Rape of the Lock. To make matters worse, she has chosen to teach an entire unit on metrics, which seems absurd and unfair to my Indian classmates. We couldn't help but laugh when she asked everyone to emphasize the stresses in the poem. Stresses scattered everywhere in the most lovely and musical way. Her voice rose in desperation over the cacophonous chorus, but to no avail. Everywhere in India rules bend and meld, which, despite the failure of metrics, leaves us in a pretty poetic predicament.

The fruit stands here are all piled high with soft orange mangoes that have to be eaten over the sink. Near the end of my road the stand is especially heavily laden and today I picked the ripest, most delicious looking one I could find, 'for today eating.' The fruit-sellers at this stand always make me feel so happy. As soon as I arrive, the youngest finds a fig and splits it in two, 'half for me, half for you' he says and smiles. I always buy four bananas because I like to say 'char' and get glimpse of what it might be like to know the language. Today the middle brother asked if I needed hot chili peppers and I shook my head. "Too hot, no?" he laughed. I held my palms up to my face to cool it and nodded. I will buy them when the rains start.

Weather aside, I don't know if I will ever again be able make my pre-exam days this enjoyable. When I get back to Kingston, I will have to be inventive.  Last week, I spent for days at Palolem Beach in Goa, reading The Myth of Sisyphus to the sound of the crashing waves. The location made Camus' painful consciousness much more bearable. I realize that the book isn't a great vacation choice, but it had to be read for a course here and I can't complain when I am able to break it up with an evening kayak around a small island and a swim down the half-moon shore. 

All of my study breaks have been pretty incredible (in the unbelievable sense of the word as well). The other day, Mikael and I went to a park across the river from our side of town that wraps around a temple. It was crowded with families of picnickers, young couples, and people selling snacks. It was nice to lie in the grass and look up at the sky. Outside, the gate there was a small fair, a few rides, some ponies, and lots of cotton candy. On a whim we decided to see the Rambo Circus and drove to a huge nearly empty tent, where for a few rupees we could watch a two hour show. Trapeze artists, trained dogs, bendy girls, a man who could drink barrels of coloured water and spew it back up again in separate streams, a clown dwarf, a 'wheel-of-death,' and a sad elephant holding a much-too-heavy lady. All the elements of a circus, just as strange and surreal as ever...no more-so, definitely more-so. 

Mikael wrote much more about the wonders of the 'biggest circus in India'...
http://www.brudfors.se/2013/04/rambo-circus.html

For Viviana

Sometimes I go to stay at Viviana's sunlight filled apartment. We sit on the colourful cushion against the wall and listen to music and read.  When the sun begins to sink, we head up to the roof to do yoga, spreading a blanket on the tiles. A man watches us from the balcony of his apartment building across the road, but we focus on the temple in the distance and he becomes nothing more than a floating orange light, the tip of a cigarette. We take turns leading, under the stars, feeling the warm breeze swirl around us. Later,  by the light of a candle, we talk. Our conversations are like pieces of music, rising and falling, moments of building, of reaching and then staccato thoughts, poetic in their disconnectedness. A stick of incense held by the red earth of a flower pot. The silky smoke curls up and out the window, a gift to those below. She dips an orange cup into a clay urn where the water stays cool and clear all day. In the morning we make arepas with our hands, kneading in the grated paneer. Finely chopped onions and tomatoes and eggs for colourful Viviana. We drink sweet coffee with jaggery, cafe campesino she calls it, and I wish that I could feel this beautiful language inside me, each word a kind of poem.

दिल

Waiting at the school gate today after my exam, I leaned against the red dusty brick of the archway and looked at the trees. I love seeing signs of the wind, cooling us on hot afternoons. Leaves rustling always makes the rest of the world feel still. I looked up, and thought of Yumi, who first taught me the importance of looking up. How often I forget! I hadn't consciously looked at the sky in a while, so it surprised me, arching over us all, so blue and vast and quiet. Eyes! Jake once told me that they were called far-reaching lassos of the water-lamp and I remember shivering at the beauty of the idea.

I wish I could describe the sky without describing it, without reducing it to an object. For that I would need to be a child again, sure that tipping off the edge of a mountain would mean landing in the soft wispy arms of the clouds, which would then dissolve sweetly on the tongue. I let my eyes soften, my vision expand, and feel my mind loosen correspondingly. I cannot remember all that I have been taught. A little boy walks past tossing grapes into his mouth. He misses and the grape rolls past my feet. We smile at each other. Not an ecstatic, crazed sense of unity, but something tender and simple, enough to feel part of things again.

This evening I attended a concert put on by a group of elderly singers in Pune. Gauri's father-in-law came onto the stage barefoot, led by the hand, for he is blind, and sang beautifully, his voice full of emotion. From sight to sound. The music made my eyes fill with tears. Fittingly, the only word I understood was 'dil.'

I feel at home, a calm perhaps partially induced by my licorice tea and the cool air circulating from the wooden fan. The daily rickshaw ride, the sweet tea, the vegetables I chose this evening on the street corner, the garlands of flowers colouring the streets, Varsha's smile, Huzaifa's company, the woman who stroked my cheek tonight, small moments of gratitude.

All I need is for my rose to bloom again. Which reminds me. Some of my classmates have taken to calling me gulabi, which means 'rosy.' In this heat, I don't think I can shake such a nickname. I have even come to like it.

Temples and Tourists

I climbed many steps this weekend to reach beautiful hill-top temples and watch the sun sink over red unearthly looking rocks and bright green fields of rice and sugar cane. The white walls reminded me of a picture I love of mum in Ladakh under the prayer flags. I felt as if she had seen this peaceful place, it is the kind of scene that I have imagined ever since I was little when she told me stories of her travels. I felt strangely reverent and could hardly speak, it was as though I had stepped into all kinds of pasts. I watched the white walls turn pink and I wondered if mum had also trembled at similar sights.

Night fell on our way down from the temple and we wandered in the dark, following what we hoped was a trail until we reached a field surrounded by ruins. Of course we made it back to town, but I half-expected to be spreading my scarf on the ground for us to sleep. 

Hampi has one of the most surreal and beautiful landscapes I have ever seen. We were told that the town is scheduled to be demolished and many of the buildings along the main street already looked more worn than the ruins that surrounded them. How strange it was to see tourists, and to really be one of them. It was so fun to wake up in the mornings and drink real coffee and a heaping fruit salad before the heat of the day set in, to look in the little book store and finger a silk scarf, to lie down for an hour to escape the heat, and eat Thali in rooftop restaurants, resting on cushions. Our first day in Hampi we visited the main temple and Mikael was blessed by an elephant. He jumped away in alarm when the trunk reached to touch his head, but the elephant was patient with him and tried again. I could have sworn the elephant was amused.  

A smiling elephant

We then walked down to the river and saw a woman getting her head shaved, men bathing in the water and a snake charmer. When he asked for money, I said that I would come back later. I do that a lot, avoiding the word 'no' at all costs, something I should work on. Two holy men who we met on the first day never forgot my promise, popping up everywhere with a not-so-holy smile and asking for fifty rupees. I finally paid them because I started to feel superstitious...they are supposed to be able to perform magic after all. I didn't want to take any chances. After I paid them, we laughed, mutually exasperatedly, every time we met on the street. Hampi is very small.

The air in the town was so fresh and the fields surrounding it so green, I had a hard time imagining returning to Pune, where a few days ago a machine outside of my house was churning out black smoke that hung heavily in the air for blocks around.

When we met a young Indian man with long hair camping out in one of the empty temples that overlooks the town I wished I could join him. My awe faded somewhat when he began to speak. He told us that he only ingests organic things, including the tobacco in his beedis, but when we offered him a cookie to go with the tea he had made us over a small fire, he took it eagerly despite our warning that it was replete with artificial flavours. I got the feeling he wasn't very good at rejecting earthly pleasures yet.

Our last day in Hampi, we took a tiny boat across the river and rented a motor-bike and drove to the Hanuman temple we had seen from the first hill-top temple we visited. I draped my scarf over my damp forehead and we walked up the winding white steps. We drove to the lake and disregarding a handwritten sign that said to beware of crocodiles, we went for a swim. I swam in all of my clothes because we had an audience. It felt so good after the heat of climbing the stairs and walking barefoot around the shadeless temple.

                                                 

I am back in Pune and I feel at home here. This evening I lit incense and swept the floors before making dinner with the spices Alice bought for me. How amazing to watch the mustard seeds pop! I think I may have gotten carried away with the novelty of having so many spices at my disposal, but the cinnamon and cloves tasted surprisingly good in the curry. The room smells delicious. I have hung scarves over the chairs and watered the rose. New soft green leaves are sprouting and it seems to be enjoying its spot in Eliza's room where the sun shines in every afternoon. All is well.

Kittens and a Trip to the Zoo

This evening as I was reading about the newspaper revolution in India I heard a strange sound coming from outside. Two tiny kittens were huddled in the corner of a box marked Pune in black marker. They were climbing on top of each other trying to keep warm or maybe in hopes of finding their mother. They must be only few days or a couple of weeks old because their eyes are still shut and their paws look almost translucent. I went to the store and bought milk. They don't seem to know how to drink it. Mikael came to over and suggested I bring them into the apartment for the night as they are so thin and it is cool here at night. The kittens are mewling in the kitchen now and every time I hear their cries my heart aches. I feel so helpless. I remember rescuing a bird when I was small and feeling its heart beat in my hands. We buried it in the garden. Let's hope that this story has a happier ending. Mikael just wrote to give me some advice. I will let them suck watery milk from a towel and warm them in my hands...his cat-expert friend also suggested I have them sleep on my stomach...we'll see.

What to do...(but really, any advice?)

This weekend Viviana and I put coconut oil in our hair and watched the sun rise on her beautiful terrace.
                                           

We ate fruit salad and sweets and I tried to ride with her on the back of a bicycle, but we tipped over, so she carried me instead. I seem to be the passenger a lot lately. In return I sang some of Dido's songs to her, "Stacey would Waltz" and "I'll be Loving You" and "We Three"...all the classics. The house where she lives is beautiful and she took such good care of me. It was lovely and just filled me up.  I spent the next night at Alice and John's, after a movie and a delicious dinner of cheddar cheese, salami, and tuna (none of which I had eaten in months). I guess I am rotating houses after all, to help ease the emptiness of the apartment now that Eliza is gone. Our rose seems to have taken it especially badly and I worry that I won't be able to revive her.

Yesterday was wonderful. Mikael and I went to the zoo! I think John may have said that it is impossible not to smile when you ride on the back of a motorbike and he is right. I even smiled during out minor mishap about five minutes in when a police-man pulled us over at a traffic light. He said that motorbikes weren't allowed to go over the bridge, which I now grudgingly admit might be an actual rule as retrospectively we both agreed that we hadn't seen any other motorbikes on the bridge. At first he told Mikael something about taking away his license, but soon he was on to the money. Six hundred rupees. Mikael said all the right things, apologizing profusely and saying that he was a student. I smiled and told him in what I hoped was a placating voice that we were heading to the zoo (which now that I think about it sounds like the most innocent activity we could possibly be venturing out to do...though a trip to a temple may have softened his heart still more). In the end we paid two hundred rupees and the police officer told me kindly to cover my head because the heat was intense. At all of the stop lights that followed I tried to look inconspicuous because really, we are the perfect targets. They can make up any excuse and we will have to pay. But luck was on our side, or maybe I am just underestimating the honesty of the police force here in Pune. We arrive at the zoo and paid the foreigner fee to enter. The animals were pretty sleepy, but it was so nice to just walk on the shady paths, so peaceful after the traffic and hot sun. The snake park had a funny sign that warned that teasing the snakes could result in a jail sentence of up to a year. The elephants were being given a bath and kind of obscured from view...as soon as we left, we saw an elephant only inches away from us on the road. I guess we don't really need to go to the zoo to see such sights here.

"Keep Watch on the Kids"...

We went for lunch at a mostly empty restaurant. The only other customers were doing some early afternoon drinking, but the food was good. I somehow ordered icecream when I meant to get the bill, but it was straightened out in the end. We went next door to get icecream and they had a chikoo flavour. Maracuya has now been replaced by chikoo as my favourite fruit icecream. I can't take a bit without exclaiming. It was too delicious to hold in, or maybe it was just another delicious day. We then went to Koregaon Park so that I could see some of the huge old houses and look with fascination at the entrance to the Osho Ashram. What goes on in there?! Then we went to see a movie. We ended the day with a nice plate of thali, a cup of butter milk (though I still can't stomach the salty, sour taste), and a mango lassi. What a day!

The kittens are mewling. I had better go tend them. I don't think I am ready to be a parent.