The rhythm of the day begins with the clanging of the temple bell up the street, shortly followed by the clanging of the bell and loud drumming at the ashram across the street. Traffic begins to flow at the same time I hear the woman getting up and bathed. I noticed that all through the night I hear the sound of huge trucks going by this small street. I'm sure it is the only time they would ever have been able to get through. Even the cows are off the streets at night. About 6 AM I hear Dadiji (grandmother, I too am Dadiji here ) at her little alter, saying prayers, reading scriptures, offering flowers to the little gods and goddesses. One small candle burns. We will see her there, on and off, throughout the day. She laments that at her age she no longer has work to do. At 7 AM one of the bahoos brings us chai and biscuits. After I'm sure everyone else has bathed, I slip into the bathroom. I am afraid I upset the finely tuned timing of bathroom use, but they always put my needs first. Breakfast is served to us in our room at about 9 AM. Today is was pakora (vegetable tempura), chura-matar ( rolled rice mixed with small pieces of veggies), and two types of chutneys. Of course, everything is deliciously spiced. Then comes coffee, an unusually large serving of about 6 oz. Outside, home and store owners are assiduously sweeping the dirt in front of their establishments. This seems like an exercise in futility to me, but is important to them. There is really very little of what we would call garbage here. It is mostly dirt, with a few small pieces of paper and a couple of small plastic bags. They sweep it up into small piles to be picked up by the garbage man in his bicycle cart, about 3X5 ft. Indians just do not create much garbage. There vegetables are bought fresh daily, brought to their door in carts and weighed by hand held scales, skins and pits thrown into the street where they are quickly scarfed up by a wandering cow. I think of all the things we Americans believe we must have to live: Metamucil, hair conditioner, zip lock bags, and of course toilet paper. I am always amazed how much stuff the Indians can pack onto a rickshaw cart, often loads that would strain my old Toyota pick up. These bicycle rickshaw guys may look skinny, but they must be all muscle.
I noticed that our friend, Brenna, was reading the blog. Brenna is a real devotee of the subcontinent and has spent much time in India working for various non-profits. She is in the US right now, planning to start her own non-profit in India. When she visited the Varanasi family here last year, they were shocked and very pleased when she spoke to them in excellent Hindi.
For the last few days we noticed groups of boys, mostly teenagers, following behind effigies of Saraswati, the goddess of learning, music and art. They were shouting praises to her and having a grand old time, reminiscent of high school pep rallies. We later found out that these statues were brought to the river, offered to it, and placed into it. This was something new to JP.
We took JP's cloth to a fancy men's clothing store to be tailored. The suits on display looked garish to me, but beauty is in the eye of the beholder. As we walked along the narrow allies of Varanasi, along with crowds of people, scooters and the occasional bull, I happened to look up (a dangerous thing to do) and saw that many of the houses above the shops were adorned with magnificently wrought iron fretwork, coated with centuries of grime. Beauty is everywhere here, you just have to look up or through the mayhem to see it. I know I keep describing the congestion of the roads, but when I manage to take a peek through many of the walls lining the streets, I see well tended gardens, or the wide expanses of green school courtyards.
As we walked along the ghats yesterday, I started talking with two little girls, about 8 and 10. The both spoke English well. The older one proudly explained that she went to school and liked it very much. Regarding her little friend: "She does not go to school. She sells bindi on the ghats". The little girl looked down at the ground as her friend said this. Bindi are the pretty little stickers that you wear on your forehead. JP said that all kids are supposed to go to school, but there is no one to police this. I again tried not to judge, and told them I wished I spoke Hindi as well as they spoke English. There are much fewer beggars here than in the past. I am very pleased because I take a hard line on beggars. They are not good for India and drive away tourists.
We ate lunch at the Brown Bread Bakery. It was difficult to find in the narrow Vishwanath Gali (lane) because people were lined up for blocks waiting to get into the sacred Vishwanath temple at the end of the lane. Only Hindus are allowed into this temple, so I am excluded. Jai has gotten into it though. The restaurant was on the second floor of an old mansion and we sat on the Indian style bed, onto which a foot high table had been placed. This place is recommended in the Lonely Planet guide books and was filled with travelers from all over the world. JP was the only Indian in the place, and the cook, who was from Nepal, talked to him for quite a while. I'm sure they do not get many Indians here. We sat under the opening to the sky two floors up. I ordered Pad Thai, which was delicious. The restaurant donates much of its profits to schools and other worthy causes. Many of the travelers we met had been traveling the world for many months, even years. I applaud them, but even when young, would never have done so. I am basically a home body. As one of my favorite songs, Gulf Coast Highway, puts it: "....now jobs are gone, I tend my garden, I set the sun ".
As I look from my perch, I see saris hanging from balconies across the street, drying in the sun, a riot of color and design. I remember the story of what happened on the 4th floor balcony of that building about 5 years ago. Somehow a baby managed to climb the iron railing of the balcony, and fell to the ground. I still can't see how it was not impaled on the arrows atop the wall surrounding the house, or killed as it hit the roadway. Somehow the baby fell onto the foot of dirt between the wall and the road, and was miraculously unhurt. The mother, who was working in the room next to the balcony, did not realize anything had happened until she heard a man yelling "Whose baby is this ?". The railing of that balcony was immediately extended to the ceiling. There are other miracles here: we have seen no dead dogs, and cars are unscathed.
Today is Sunday, bright and sunny. Both Smita Bahoo and Anita Bahoo have washed their hair, drying it in the sun on the balcony. It hangs coal black and shiny to their waists. They are laughing and chatting, joined quickly by their husbands, Dadiji, and JP. I have no idea what they are laughing about, but it doesn't matter. I just love the sound of a happy family chattering away.
Aradhana and I went shoe shopping today. I bought men's sandals, as woman's were too narrow. They cost a whopping $45 bucks, so they better last. Of course, they are not leather, which would not be acceptable in a country which revers cows. We are ready to go out of the house now.
Peace,
Nadine
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