Death, Varanasi

There is no beauty in death. Ugly, decaying, unholy. Death is death alone. 

Finally emerging from the winding labyrinth of Varanasi side streets we arrive at our little hotel, Sita Guest House, right along the Ganges River. We dump our bulging backbacks in our rooms and venture up the narrow staircase to the rooftop, wiping sweat from our foreheads and dirt from our leggings. The rooftop looks out on the garbage filled river, the holy river of India. Our eyes feast on the colors below, the pilgrims and the boats, the cows and the monkeys. And then we see him. Red plaid shirt, wide torso. Face down in thou holiest of rivers, floating along. Dead. Z is the last one on the roof and joins us at the balcony. He follows our eyes to the floating man and throws his hands to his head, recoiling in disgust. Swearing and stammering, he backs away from the balcony but then joins us once more. Staring out in silence at the man who once was.

Without warning our tour guide navigates us to the Burning Ghats. We follow him down a small alley and then there it is directly in front of us. Five burnings are happening at once. Young men walk back and forth bringing more wood for the fires. Back and forth, back and forth with more wood. A large box is opened and a dead man lies inside. Waiting to be burnt, crisped, singed, destroyed, sent up to the heavens? He wears a traditional outfit and there are flowers on his chest. His face is an inhuman gray. Our tour guide walks over to read from where this man has come, Bangalore. An older woman, presumably his wife, makes her way across the muddy hills and around the piles of garbage and shit and kneels down beside this man from Bangalore. And we watch. Stare as she rests her head against his, shaking from the weight of mourning. More wood back and forth. Six old men sit on a wooden bench and casually watch the happenings. Others just stand and stare like us. Mr. Bangalore is lifted up and placed on a freshly laid pile of wood. I bite my tongue to keep from vomiting and push my way back up through the small alley. 

Farther down the road are emaciated cows digging through the piles of trash, scavenging for anything to eat. Ribs protruding and eyes cast down, waiting to die. Holy cow, you do not look so holy anymore. On the side of the street lies a dead dog, eyes gauged out by other hungry creatures.

Tunnel visioned and heart racing. Click goes the lighter. 

Here in Varanasi death is everywhere. It bites at you, gnawing your ankles and making its way up deep into your once sheltered, but thankfully still beating, heart. 

In the West the sick are separated from the healthy, the dead far from the living. Death is hidden in deep wooden caskets, buried far beneath the earth, disguised in stage makeup, lost in the locked incinerator, warded off with penicillin, Botox, and carefully manicured self-delusions. 

But here, life and death are intertwined, both real and unflinchingly unforgiving. And I am terrified of this death. I can handle the death that is glorified, the one about which songs are composed and stories retold. But this death is different. It is in your face and it reeks. I am forced to white knuckle grab the thick flesh of my upper arm to prove to myself I am still alive among all that is not. Desperately feeling for the familiar warmth of life, digging nails deep to keep back the vomit. 

The body will rot, decay, it will mold. Bugs will crawl through and after a while there will be more dirt than body. Our bodies will inevitably fail us. So I keep telling myself that death lets us transcend our body's limitations. That dogs will finally see in color and humans understand that which bewilders us. 

But there is no beauty in death.

A Story, Set in Mumbai

Beginning.

Visit to Dharavi, Asia's largest slum. Tiled floors complemented by satellite televisions… Asia's largest slum? Approached by no beggars, only small school children with smiles and beginning English phrases. Piles of cotton set burning, smoke filling the cleaned alleyways with hack-inducing smog. Toilets built as add-ons to the shanty homes -- they are set apart from the house, on top of the river, so everything that comes out of the human goes down to the water.

Middle.

Invited to an after-party at the apartment of a Bollywood producer. Not the home in which he lives, merely his apartment where he throws parties. Pool table, chandeliers, countless bottles of Grey Goose, Macallan, Patron. DJ Sammy spins tracks in the leather-accented living room and actors mingle with painters and writers in the foyer. The host has to venture downstairs to pay off the police, twice. 

End. 

Curled up in the private van on the way back to Pune. Tap, tap on the windows. Girl of about 15 years old, pressing her face against the window with a young baby pressed against her chest. Tap, tap. She motions to her mouth, gesturing for food, lifting the baby up to the car window. She is quickly joined by many others, surrounding the car, eyes pleading, hands gesturing. Tap, tap on the windows.

The Tracks

To begin to understand the gross disparity between socio-economic classes in India, one needs to go only as far as the Pune Railway Station and walk besides the track, starting at the back of the train, cargo loading, and ending at the front, first-class AC. 

By mistake, or maybe as a way to mess with the oblivious Americans, our rickshaw driver drops us off at the back entrance to the station, the cargo loading zone for all trains heading into or out of Pune. At 6 in the morning the moon is still winning the relentless struggle with the sun, the darkness adding to the eery vibe of the day. N and I hesitantly walk in the direction the driver points us, a direction leading into a dark alley lined with rickshaws and motionless bodies, asleep on the wet gravel. Taking a deep breath, we assume our adventurous roles, lift our heads high, and power forward.

"Rickshaw?"

No.

"Where are you going? Mumbai? Rickshaw?"

No.

We see the outline of a train farther ahead of us, and with renewed assurance head deeper into the foreboding alley.

A man resolutely drags his debilitated body forward across the broken gravel on his hands and knees, legs mangled by polio. 

A mother frantically hurries past with her young daughter in tow. The barefoot daughter wears a tattered school uniform, hair messy and face darkened by soot.

We approach what looks to be the station. Cargo boxes are piled up, the puddled cement floor is strewn with bodies of the hundreds of slumbering. Naked babies intertwined with ragged fathers. Ripped saris and sodden underwear. 

Groups crowd around an old copper water fountain, waiting for their turn to wash their bodies with a couple splashes from the fountain's inconsistent dribble. Quick movements, they are ready to run towards the approaching train as soon as it comes, jumping on at the last second to obtain a precious ride to Mumbai.

The smell is foul, vile, disturbing on so many levels. It surrounds and envelops you, sending you into a little personal hell of scent. A mix between excrement, rotting flesh,  and molding hermit crabs, it is everywhere. 

Lying on the train tracks are little piles of shit as the toilets on the train are merely western toilet lids placed over holes that open up directly to the tracks below. 

Toto, we are definitely not in Kansas anymore. 

Side-step weaving around the piles of bodies we make our hesitant way through the station, and by station I mean outdoor tiled area next to a train track. As we walk through away from the cargo section the sights and sounds begin to change, the smells remain consistent. 

Gradually the puddles get smaller and the food stands pop up. Over time there are more people standing by their luggage than asleep atop newspapers on the ground. Men in slacks replace men in underwear, faces shine rather than fade beneath the dirt. 

But even as we get to the waiting zone for the First Class AC train, there is no way to pretend you are not in a developing country. At times like this I desperately miss the comforts of home. A sudden urge overtakes me to climb into bed, pull my down comforter up over my head, and force from my memory everything I have seen, smelled, touched, felt since arriving here. It is at these times that everything begins spinning, blending into one, chaotic and alien world. I cannot yet decide whether this is a weakness I am incapable of suppressing or a natural human instinct I will never be able to escape. Maybe it is both, maybe it is neither. 

Our train finally pulls into the station, and relieved we hoist up our backpacks and climb aboard, all too ready to exchange the smell of rotting excrement and the sight of naked slumbering babies for reclining seats and greasy made-to-order cheesy omelets.

Guru Goa

He gruffly picks up my hand and flexes the wrist backwards so my palm faces towards his round, hairy face. Unsatisfied he has me press my hand, fingers splayed, back onto the little wooden block between us. 

Press harder. I try.

Then again he grabs my wrist and bends it so my palm faces him, ready for scrutiny. He studies the reddened lines and crevices etched into a palm that is smooth to the touch, soft and tender skin alien to physical labor. No lifting, digging, trenching, washing for these college-educated hands.

Guru Shruti Prakash's fingernails are misshapen, the cuticles all but cover the nails. His hands are rough, mine go limp in his grasp.

I wish I could see what goes on in his mind as he gazes into the spiderweb of my palm. Is it a blank slate that he fills with pre-meditated phrases of prophecy and omnipotence? Or does there dance a swirling story of future mixed with past and present? 

Trying to give in to the moment, I resolutely look deep into his eyes, nodding as he foretells my future, understands my present, remembers for me my past. 

"You will have great success."

I perk up, lean closer, nod deeper. Maybe this Guru does know what he is talking about.

"17 makes for Saturn, 1 is 1 for Sun, 1991 makes 20 which is 2 as in Moon."

He loses me again, and my skepticism slowly ebbs away at all remaining faith. 

Replacing faith with distraction, I focus my attention on the mosquitos feasting on my legs and the sand still between my toes and the horns of rickshaws flying past and the sun slowly setting and the itchiness of the mat upon which we cross our legs and the thickness of his accent and his hands, rough, dirty, dark. 

We found this Guru, our Goa Guru, while walking along the main road trying to find an ATM to fuel our shopper's desires. Dressed in bathing suits still wet from the Indian Ocean and elephant-printed sarongs draped casually over our bodies, hair pulled back in salty ponytails and faces pink from the relentless sun, it is as if a spotlight shines upon our sunbrushed bodies. But we have become almost become immune to these clockwork stares. Even in Baga, one of the most popular beaches in Goa, we stand out. As Westerners we hurl ourselves towards the line of cultural insensitivity with our bare legs and shoulders and ankles and collar bones. But as girls raised in tee shirts and shorts, minuscule sun dresses and bikinis, there is only so long we can cover our bodies. 

(Rationalization for outfit choices in Goa: As you are white, you will be stared at no matter what you wear, so you might as well get nice and bronzed.)

A large sign advertised his services -- "Guru Shruti Prakash: NATURAL HEALING, SELF-REALIZATION & MYSTERIES EXPERIENCE CENTRE". Tempted by the desire to see into the future for only 70 rupees for five minutes, and fueled by sun-induced exhaustion and delusion, we turn at the sign and slide/slip down an overgrown weeded path into a long-neglected garden connected to the back of a run-down house. Giving final nods of support, I ring the doorbell.

Watching the time quickly pass, the rupees add up, and my self-realization just as stunted as before, I ask to end the session. Before leaving, my Guru allows me to pick a copper ring from a big wooden tray for him to bless for me. He begins the blessing rituals, filling a little goblet with water and pouring it lightly over the ring. He chants ineligible Hindi, pauses in the middle to ask for my name, and then finishes by placing the ring upon my finger. 

50/50 chance I am now married to an Indian Guru, but at least no dowry had to be paid in exchange for this Indian princess. How much more crunchy can I get?

Ode to the Woman

Preface:

Here in the Motherland we are celebrating the final day of a week-long festival in honor of all Hindu goddesses. So to take my part in the festivities, I am dedicating this to the Woman I have experienced so far in India. 

One of the things that continues to bewilder me about Indian society and culture is the dynamic between men and women. In comparison with the United States, in which the historical dichotomy between the two is pretty self-explanatory, things get pretty warped this side of the Indian Ocean. Since this is the semester I put aside to begin my epic quest to discover who I am, or make myself into who I dream to be, I think it is only appropriate to start by looking at other women around me.

If you are taking the time to read this, then please read it for what it is -- just my own thoughts. They are grossly generalized, and in no ways attempt to account for the entire Indian female population because that would be absurdly impossible. Finally, I am a 20 year old college student, I have never claimed to be totally PC. 

And this is not technically an ode, but I liked the way the title sounded.

Here it goes… 

The Woman is revered and ignored. Respected and beaten. Beautiful and ugly. Strong and silent. 

She wraps herself in a richly intricate sari of fuchsia and turquoise, draped open to expose the whole of her mid-section -- the folds and curves of her belly, hips, the small, or in some cases large, of her back. She is wrinkled, weathered, battered. She is regal, vibrant, strong. 

Her back is stooped from the years of carrying bushels of timber on her sculpted shoulders, metal containers of water balanced on her firm skull. Her head is held high and her eyes stretch into yours, confronting you, challenging you, accepting you.

Rotten teeth from a lifetime of neglect, deeply calloused soles and disjointed toes from the thousands of kilometers trekked. The Woman herds the cattle, the children, the Man. 

She laughs with pure delight and smiles without constraint. Her eyes light the skies when you amuse her and burn into you when there is nothing to be happy about. These eyes have seen it all, and will continue to see more. They remain open to that which surrounds her, but are ready to close when the sun dips low and the strays begin their roaming.

The Woman squats to the ground, butt hanging between her opened thighs, spitting phlegm onto the caked mud at her feet. She adorns her body with layers of jingling anklets, winged nose rings, sparkling earrings, elaborate bracelets, interlocking rings. 

She is labeled, marked, graced by a bindi between her eyes. She is integral to the Hindu rituals -- standing in support of her husband, reminding him of the lyrics to the songs when he falters. A master in the kitchen, she artfully mixes spices and sweets, serving all others first, and then waiting as her husband serves her.

Flinging her magenta scarf around her shoulders she braves the monsoon rains, clinging her purse close to her chest and plowing right through the slowly deepening puddles. No stranger to muddy feet, she slips off her sandals as she enters her apartment, then slowly washes the dirt from between her toes. 

The Woman stares out from her night black burka. Her eyes are alight with life and complemented by her fiery red heeled sandals and hot pink toenail polish. She walks with purpose through the nameless streets, an anonymous figure cloaked in black amidst the sea of colors.

In tight Levis jeans, a Hollister teeshirt, and Converse she meanders down the sidewalk, eyes barely lifting from the illuminated screen of her constantly vibrating Blackberry. She is immune to that which swirls by all around her, only half-heartedly lifting her self-bleached face when an auto-rickshaw slams his brakes in front of her.

The Woman splits a slice of warm, dark chocolate cake with the Man, making eyes across the table and slowly running her hands through her thick black mane, twirling the ends around her manicured fingers. She looks across at him through her mascara-coated eyelashes and straightforwardly challenges a claim he has made, altogether stumping him with her poise and wisdom.

She pours a glass of water from the copper pitcher and gazes out at her students and her classroom, urging them to question, to think, to understand. She picks up her misshapen piece of chalk and begins the afternoon class, ready to teach, ready to be heard.