Banaras - 1

Banaras. Varanasi.  Kashi. 

Banaras called me. It has been calling me for some time at least, I cannot remember for how long. I have come to the conclusion that sometimes it is hard to pin point the exact origin of a desire. Some desires linger for a long time before you even notice them, perhaps Banaras was one such for me.

I am not in any sense a devout hindu. I have no conscious desires of making any teerath yatras. So I am not sure why Banaras was calling me, what could I have to do there. I wasn't in any hurry to respond. 

The reason for a watchful delay on my part was that years ago haridwar had called me, and I went. Only to be sadly disappointed in myself and in Haridwar. It was just so filthy and dirty, I did not get it. Why could we not even manage to keep our holy cities clean, why did they have to be so full of stray dogs, cow dung, and flies. Why did we insist on playing to the Indian stereotype in the western world. How could we expect non-indians to modify the image they have of India if we cannot modify our own behaviour. I was angry. but more importantly I was dismayed that I could not bring myself to bathe in the ganga. Now call me a hopeless romantic, but to me there is something very grand and poetic about ganga nahana. and I wanted to do it. Only I couldn't. Just did not have the stomach for it. and I kicked myself after. I mean, what the heck, how could I have been such a sissy. How could I have travelled eleven thousand kilometres to specifically take a ganga snan in harridwar and then chicken out just because the water was so dirty. I am not sure I have completely forgiven myself even now.

Hence, in no hurry to run to Banaras. I would go, as far as reasonably possible - I would go, at my own pace, in my own time, without any discomfort to anyone.

This time I would go prepared, expecting the worst, if foreign tourists could do it, so could I. This time I was older, wiser, stronger. What is a little bit of dirt.

What was that – easier said than done. Yes sir.

I had said that until I watched flies buzzing over feces and then sitting on top of mounds of dough being rolled into balls for pooris not one feet away. Feces, and pooori dough, and rasgullas all next to each other, right there. I cannot get that image out of my head. I wasn’t sure if some poor fly had not been caught in the roll and was trapped inside the little peda ready to be rolled and fried. I feel like I am going to throw up even as I write this. And no, as strong and resilliant as I think I am, I could not bring myself to eat any poori kachodi from any stall in Banaras. And man was I glad for the rain the spoiled M’s plan to eat chaat papdi after ganga arti. More on that later.

For now the story from the beginning, a quick flashback in true hindi film style.

At some point in the last year or so I became aware of a strong desire to go to banaras. After my lovely Yellowknife trip, I figured why not. I asked my husband, he said why not. I asked M, she said why not. Since none of us knew the answer, we just went ahead.

I think M did face some resistance at home, some querries that weren’t completely answerable, I am assuming her husband must have asked her the opposite, why, why banaras. And she must have not cared much about where she went as long as she went somewhere by herself without kids and husband, just being out and about on her own would have been reason enough to say yes to Banaras.

And so it came about that I found myself sitting beside M, on a flight to Banaras, unable to get rid of the incessant humming in my head of this crazy loop of ‘thaathon me thaath banarasia. Ghaaton me ghaat banarasiya.’ I had this reccurant image of a kathhak dancer in a white anarkali, gold dupatta, fragrant flowers dancing on a ghaat in banaras, and maybe a part of me wants to be that dancer.

There is a part of me that wants to dance right here in this flight, only, no leg room. Did you know that if you wanted to sit in the exit rows you must pay extra now, because they have extra leg room.

I had never heard of that. Time was they offered to move you out of the exit rows if they had space coz no one wanted to sit in them. Perks of getting older – when things surprise you, they just completely surprise you. You have absoblankinglutely no idea when the paradigm shifted, and how bloody long you have been out of the loop.

We take a couple of selfies, and then for no apparent reason M asks me - तेरा गंगा नहाने का तो कोई प्रोग्राम नहीं है न.  Now, in all honesty I had not thought of this option, yes, going to Banaras, not thinking about this, slow-poke. But now that this question has been asked, I am thinking about it, and now that I am thinking about it, I suppose it is the only logical thing to do, मतलब  प्रोग्राम था तो नहीं पर अब हो गया है. Talk about the observer influencing the observed. M tells me in no uncertain terms that she is not joining me in this lunatic plan. I offer no resistance. As long as she is not going to stop me from dipping into the ganga, I am good to go.


We decide to hire a taxi from inside the airport, figure that is the safest - बनारसी ठग मशहूर हैं, सुना होगा आपने. And as soon as we walk out are we glad we did that or what. Because even though the airport on the inside looks very similar to Delhi airport the scene on the outside is certainly different from Delhi. Men in white dhoti- kurta with long saffron tilaks, and ray ban sunglasses, riding triplicate on a motorcycle - sorry I have only seen that in movies.

To my credit I very quickly picked up that I was not actually on a movie set, so I corrected the curious smiling expression on my face as I ogled these people. Wasn't sure if M saw that, I would have gotten a glare if she had. I tried to hide my glee, and be mindful of what I looked like from their point of view. Two brown Indian aunties in capri and jeans had seemed so normal in the flight, but right now all those other people had somehow vanished. We were on new territory and we looked conspicuous. So we were glad to locate our taxi and prayed we find a decent driver. I think we did, he was a nice kid.

On route from the airport to the hotel.

I loved everything about our ride from the airport to the hotel.

Banaras was living up to my expectations. I had walked back in time, right into the India of my childhood, the small town India.

गलियों में घूमती गाय , साईकिल की घंटी, और छोटी दुकानों पर हाथ के पेंट किये हुए बोर्ड.

 Delhi with its high powered malls, and crazy car infested roads does not strike that chord with me, or so I found out as I clicked pictures here in Banaras.

M thought I was acting like a tourist (not meant in a good sense on her part).

My goal in taking these pictures is not to present an artistic composition, but to show you what you would have seen had you been there.

By the time we reached the hotel, I decided that I was not acting like a tourist, I actually was a tourist, and it was time I got comfortable being one.

So I told M to get over it and take my pictures as I let the lady at the hotel greet me with a traditional tilak, like I said if the goras can do it so can I.
















That is the beauty of a good old friend, you can tell them stuff, and they can take it. You can be comfortable doing things around them even those that they do not completely approve of. M took my pictures and slowly eased into accepting this new me.

It was still early for the hotel restaurants to open for lunch, and I was itching go eat real Banarasi food anyways. M had me hankering for malai gilloris by now.

At least three different people we spoke to in the hotel assured us that you could simply walk out on the street and find thelas for kachoris, so what if three other people in that very same hotel had given us the how-do-I-break-this-to-you-this-is-not-a-good-idea expression. They didn't know us, it seemed like a fairly easy goal to accomplish.

We asked them for a name to tell the rickshaw-wallah to take us to. I laughed at the door man telling me - आध घंटा रुक जाइए, इधर लंच शुरू हो जायेगा, आप खा नहीं न पाएंगी वहां पे. Yeah right. You think I have travelled all the way from Toronto to eat in your five star hotel.

मुझे तो सड़क के किनारे खड़े किसी ठेले पर, पत्ते के दोने में, खट्टी चटनी के संग, खस्ता कचोरी खाने की इच्छा खींच के ले आयी है. अब तो बस वही खाएंगे।

Not to ruin the surprise but, we when we left Banaras two days later, we left without eating either - malai gillori or kachoris.  आखिर किस्मत किस चिड़िया का नाम है...

We found a rickshaw who asked for forty rupees to take us to this place, which did not seem reasonable to me, for did they not tell us inside that we could just walk out and find a thela for kachoris, isn't that the standard nashta for Banaras. Why are we being sent to this far off place, I am not eating in any facny shmancy restaurant. Thankfully M does not think like I do, she also does not like standing on the road and arguing with rickshaw-wallahs.
अब बैठ जा.
चालीस रुपये?
कोई बात नहीं, तू चल बस.
पैदल का रास्ता होगा
She climbs on to the rickshaw not leaving me with many options.

On route I am still not sure why we are being packed off to so far away, there should be something right here, right next door. I suppose I have a notion that in India one should not have to travel very far to find good vegetarian indian food, it should just be available right where you are.

I decide to take more pictures. I am looking forward to exploring Banaras. I have decided to not eat at the hotel any day. I am going to walk around here and find some quaint little place to have my morning chai tomorrow. I am going to strike up conversations with strangers, I am going to enjoy being a tourist. Yes, I am aware of the security issues. No I am not completely devoid of common sense.

The rickshaw keeps taking us farther and farther from the hotel. Now we are both not sure where we are going, and how we could get back to the hotel.

He drops us near a rundown building that claims to be a mall. I clamp up, this is not what we were looking for, we did not ask you to bring us to a mall. He points to a large blue dhabha on the other side of the road. Oh.

But it looks strange, feels even stranger, something is not right here.

This feels like the industrial area of the town. There are used tire shops if there is such a thing, and some kind of auto repair place. Doesn't seem like a place local people would come to eat.

We walk into the very deserted eatery. Instinctively I wonder if it is safe to go further. I tell myself I cannot mind the dirty tables and grease smeared walls. I deliberately try to unsee the water jugs.

The man sitting in the small alcove like reception is surprised to see us, that is not a good sign. There is a dull TV set in the far left corner way inside. The two men at the lone occupied table turn around to look at us in puzzled excitement - not exactly confidence inspiring.

I don't know how to walk out from this, wasn't I the one so gung-ho about eating out on the streets.

Banaras has to be full of tourists, where are they eating, certainly not here. We should go somewhere else - not the hotel- but somewhere else.

I turn to look for M, she is dismayed. She walks away from the man in the alcove, and points to a pile of very filthy dishes, that I must have missed walking in. My safety detection radar takes precedence over my muck detection radar.  I close my eyes.

We look at each other. We are both thinking it. Who is going to say it. M does. 'I cannot eat here'.  Oh thank god, neither can I. We dart out of that place, like birds from a cage.

On the street we try to hail a couple of rickshaws, where to, I still want to find some place local to eat, M thinks not, go back to the hotel is her mantra.

Ridiculous, they want to charge sixty, ninety, hundred rupees to take us back. Are you kidding me.

Why would I pay you more to take me back the same distance that I paid you forty to bring me here for?

Like I said M does not like standing on the road and arguing with rickshaw-wallahs.

We are sitting in an auto who we have agreed to pay eighty rupees to take us back to the hotel.

This math is not making any sense to me. We are now spending a hundred and twenty rupees and the good part of an hour to get back to square one. I don't usually give up in one try. Besides, I am not looking forward to the doorman telling me  हम कहे थे न आपसे ...