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.
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.
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