TEN
My impression of India was that it was the smokiest place on Earth. Everywhere I looked there were small fires burning rubbish. But in Varanasi it wasn’t only rubbish being burnt. As we walked along the ancient river Ganges, the fires smelt a little different. It was human remains we could smell as we strolled along the famed river. As westerners, we were just as strong an attraction at this holy site as we were in all the other cities of India. Men washing in the river waved at us as we snapped away at their curious rituals with our smartphones. The river, filled with flesh eating turtles to eat any unburnt parts of the many corpses that went in, did not deter the faithful, keen on taking a soul clearing dip.
The three-day layover allowed us just enough time to take the overnight train from Calcutta to Varanasi. Simon had suggested the idea and everyone else agreed that it would be a good idea. Attendance was compulsory of course.
The river was golden, lined with colorful fabrics drying on the banks. The river Ganges serves as holy bathing site, cemetery, washing machine and tourist attraction. My eye drops would come in handy now. Not to put in anyone’s drink, but for their intended purpose. My eyes were stinging from the combination of sleep deprivation and smoke.
On this occasion, we had paid a local guide to take us around. It was a time saving measure to make the most of the city before catching the train back to Calcutta. A small man in an orange shirt served as our guide. “So we are going up through this way, up the stairs and into that building. Some friends I know work in there. It is known as the ‘house of the dying.’ People will bring their family here before they die so that they can be burned on the river soon after they die. It saves a lot of time and allows for the preparation to made in advance.”
My lips tightened and I folded my arms, looking up at the split-level shack on the banks of the river. A stairway led to the rustic building with multiple chimneys billowing out smoke.
“It’s kind of the only way out from the river, up back into the town. Unless you want to walk all the way back the way we came.”
We climbed up the stairs and entered the dark wooden hut. Piles of wood were stored in random positions in the shack. There was a human shape covered with an old blanket lying flat on the floor only feet away.
“Don’t worry. He is not dead yet.” Said a local man dressed in only shorts and sandals.
I nodded my head. I was relieved.
“Ok, so you will see a lot of wood around these rooms. This is for the burning of the bodies on the river. The wood is very expensive and it takes about three hundred kilograms to burn a single corpse.” Said our guide standing alongside a skinny local also dressed in only shorts and sandals.
“So there are many, many poor people who cannot afford the wood so our friends would appreciate your generous donation.”
Our guide was now a salesman for his friends. We all doubted the sincerity of the claim. I had a few coins in my pocket that I didn’t mind parting with. Only about half of us handed something over.
We stepped out of the dark room and into a gravel area with a staircase leading up to another part of the building. Our guide started with more facts and figures about the building. I was completely tuned out to his story. I looked into a small fire that was burning right beside me. Just like the countless small fires burning around India, it puffed out smoke. My mind was elsewhere. I stared into it. Smoke floated towards me and onto my face. I winced as it stung my eyes. Light pieces of ash floated up from the fire and into the air, landing on my head and shoulders like snow. I looked through the smoke into the fire. The burning bones snapped me from my daydream. I stepped back. I had failed to notice that I was standing less than two feet from a burning body. And by wow I was covered in vapourised human cremains.
I was suddenly irritated and felt foul. I wanted to get out of there and scrub myself clean. Unfortunately the closest source of water was the Ganges. I would have to grin and bear the icky feeling for the rest of the day.
Our macabre tour of Varanasi was near its end when the others demanded a restroom stop. We found ourselves out the front of a school, which appeared to be run by missionaries. Out the front gathered dozens of small, skinny children. They were obviously impoverished but still smiling. I admired their positivity in the face of hopelessness. Maybe one day they would become bitter, like I was becoming, I thought. Maybe they would get tired of having nothing.
They surrounded us, fascinated by our bags and fancy clothes. One reached up to touch Ella’s blonde locks. They deserved something for their great attitude. I reached into my bag and pulled out a half eaten pack of Oreos. I handed to one of the children. They gasped and jumped with excitement.
The reaction from the crew was not so jubilant.
“Why did you do that Liz?!” Said Ella.
“You know you aren’t supposed to give them anything!” Said Simon.
“Now there gonna expect it every time they see a westerner.” Said another.
“They are gonna annoy all the tourists now.”
“Don’t teach them bad things like that.”
I had soon enough. Tired, dirty, cremains still stuck in my hair. Tired of the opinions of people concerned with nothing but their own comfort, and never shy to express those opinions.
“Just shut up!” I said.
They stopped talking.
“I don’t care about the other tourists. I don’t care if some poor rich white guy is bothered by a local who wants something. Do you really think that denying a packet of cookies to a group of kids on the streets of India will stop begging in a nation of more than a billion people?! Do you?!”
“But..,” Said Simon. Ella turned her eyes away.
“But nothing, Jesus Christ!” The irony of standing in front of a church was obvious.
“I mean, come on. The kid has probably never had an Oreo in his life but you would deny him that because you don’t want to be annoyed. That’s what people like you tell yourselves to excuse your selfishness and never give a shit about anyone. And if you think that being a tight-ass is going to solve world poverty, you are more stupid than you look!”
I breathed in deeply. My rant was over.
The train back to Calcutta was awkwardly quiet. I was happy to see the tea seller pass through our carriage. His masala Chai poured from a tank like contraption he carried with him was the by far one of the best things I have tasted in a long time. I was sipping on my overly sweetened spiced tea when a small girl no more than five, moved down along the cabin, with a dustpan and broom sweeping the floor. She picked up scattered rubbish that had been carelessly tossed away by commuters.
“There, there, you missed some!” Our guide barked orders at the child labourer.
“There get that!”
A man across the aisle emptied a handful of trash that spread like confetti onto the floor for the girl to clean up.
When she had finished, the underfed girl with dirtied knees and blackened hands stood up and quickly moved about the carriage, here palm out for anyone who appreciated her menial work. Not one person handed over a single rupee. Not even our guide, barking orders, nor the man who threw the confetti. One of the girls sitting next to me nudged me and I handed over some bronze coins that were handy from my pocket.
It was a scene from Les Miserables in the twenty-first century. It forced me to look at my situation, and try to see things a little differently.
I can suffer a little longer. I can find a way.
I did find a way. I adapted and stopped fighting against things I could not control. I flew with Tanya, and put up with it. I stopped caring–about my passengers and myself. I stopped thinking about home, because I knew it was not an option. I had a new man at my hotel room door in nearly every city. The routine became easier each time. I would introduce myself to a good-looking man on a flight and play the game. I would make him work a little for my attention but not too hard. I would ask what he was planning to do for his stay, and then tell him my plans. I would wait for
the signals that showed he was interested and then tell him where he could meet me later on. It was a good way to pass the time on layovers. Especially if time was insufficient to get any other sightseeing done. All the sights could come to me instead. I wasn’t about to let the rest of the crew have all the fun.