Varanasi Baby: Part 2
For the following day, I plan a sunrise boat tour of the Ganges. At 5.30am I walk downstairs, the staff is sleeping on the floor of the reception. And to think I spent the night huffing and puffing over a too-soft pillow. I realize I have no clue where I have to go, who I have to meet, for the tour. Akash sorted it out for me, but now he is sleeping on the couch, his suit on, impeccable even in his sleep. I sit on the stairs, mad at myself for not having asked the details of the tour the night before.
But again, a bit of faith and it all takes care of itself. Someone knocks at the door, a man is standing outside. I assume it’s my ride for the boat. I make my way through the mass of bodies on the floor, while they stretch and yawn. I'm off.
The ghats are getting busy already. The first morning bells ringing from the temples. Praying and bathing by the Ganges, facing the rising sun. Something not negotiable, the morning ritual. I know that too.
I step on the boat, the driver a man with incredibly deep dark eyes. Quietly keeps on rowing and rowing, all the way down the Ganges. The heat rises, yet he keeps on rowing. Unaffected. I am reminded suffering doesn't exist, if you are free in your mind. He scoops a handful of water from the river, and drinks it. Horrified, I pretend not to look at him while wondering what his microbiome must look like.
Who defines what's normal? Who decides what is right and what is wrong? Try to tell these millions of people in India, living with nothing, on the street, washing in a dirty river, even drinking that water, that you need a 3-rooms apartment to live in. And hot water, and 3 large meals per day. And new clothes. And multiple subscriptions to streaming platforms, because Shiva forbids you're bored one night. And comfort. Tell them about the comfort you are used to. Explain to them why you need the things you claim you REALLY need. The things you REALLY can't live without. I can hear Akash laughing "Not normal, miss." Isn't it wild? The things we consider normal just because we are born in one part of the world.
We are back on land, I find me some breakfast: aloo paratha and chai.
I have found a guide for my days here. His name is Rahul. He brings me around, showing me temples and hidden corners, explaining the history and customs of the city.
By the end of the day, he tells me I have lots of blessings on me, the temples filled with good energy after Shivaratri. I’m hesitant to roll with it, then I remember the moment I arrived, the family having dinner on the bed in the middle of the street. I already know I am blessed, there is no harm in accepting his words.
Another morning, another sunrise. I need to gather strength to go out. Somehow it's too much. My brain feels overloaded. I haven’t yet had time to process all the inputs and create outputs. Opinions, judgements. I decide to give up. No more seeing through my head. I leave my brain on the nightstand and go for a morning walk to the ghats. No processing today.
This river, this city: it contains all of life, every single bit of it. Every smell, every sound, that life makes, it’s here.
People sleeping on the stairs, or under a boat, or a tent. People bathing, brushing their teeth, getting haircuts and shaving. People cooking food, the smoke rising up through the air. People dying, bodies being burnt. More smoke. And I sense (though I have no proof) that people are born here too. Kids wake up on these stairs and face the sun, yawning. The same sleepy faces as the kids I saw waking up in a comfortable bed in a house in the Netherlands. Sleepy faces look all the same, worldwide.
People hustling for business, sadhus renouncing the world to seek liberation. Two forms of the same dance. Westerners meditating, playing the harmonium, practicing yoga. People spitting on the floor and others wiping it up. People asking the brahman for blessing, people staring at the sun asking for nothing.
You have all this, and a thousand more.
You have locals asking for selfies with you, and tourists watching the aarti at night while eating snacks.
Then, you have Radha.
Radha is a 15-year-old girl. She stopped going to school when Covid started. "But my two sisters still go!" she says with pride. She learned English at school, she says, but I bet she refined it on the street. She is a hustler. She is witty, smart, funny. She has a strong sense of humour. She is beautiful. She sells melon cut in pieces to tourists and does henna tattoos.
She asks me what I want to buy. I look at her fingers, black dirt crusts under her nails. She has gorgeous eyes, shining. She asks me again. "Henna tattoo, miss?" She doesn't take no for an answer, of course. We agree on a small rose on my hand. She takes my arm, of course. I get distracted while I chat with Gerold, the Austrian man I met on the rooftop earlier that morning. I look at my arm, Radha is busy with my elbow, fighting to keep the sleeve of my shirt up so she can reach even higher. I must stop her. "Happy, miss?" Well, for the next hour my arm is completely useless, but that's ok.
Now we talk money. I negotiate for a living, this is going to be easy. She starts with a very high opening position, looks shocked at my counter offer ("Miss!"), fake cries, plays the card "I have no change".. I know the tricks. Eventually we settle on a price that I know is a total rip off: four euros.
Four. Euros.
I am not happy, I feel robbed. Even slightly outraged. It's a lot, in a city where a chai is ten cents, max. And yet, there is a part of me that is ashamed. Back home, I pay four euros for a floppy cappuccino in a café. For a crappy glass of cheap wine in a bar. I pay four euros for selecting my seat on the plane. I do all this, careless. For this, instead, I feel robbed. Talking about double standards.
Four euros. She'll make two days' worth of food for her and her entire family. Four euros, she has done her part for today. She could go playing now, or, if she was living in “my” side of the world, she could go hang out with her friends, talking about boys they have crushes on. But I sense she'll simply hand the money to her parents, and come back to hustling.
She was born in Varanasi, she'll never have to pay four euro to select a seat on the plane. That's not her problem.
And I am left to think: why do I make one?
