Dodging Tuk-Tuks in Varanasi

by Jaymie Stein (United States of America)

Making a local connection India

Tinku, the Varanasi native, and I, dodged people selling jewelry, especially bangles, people selling street food, including roasted corn, samosa, pakora, sweets, we dodged motorbikes, tuk-tuks, bicycles, and rickshaws. It was the special Shiva holiday that had just begun and would continue for another month. Thousands of people traveled from all over the country to pray to Shiva. They wore saffron orange for Shiva and chanted mantras while walking on their dyed-red feet carrying sticks with water buckets to fill at the River Ganges, where, before sunrise, they bathe, and walk toward the golden temple. When I asked Tinku if he was from Varanasi, he said, “Yes, I am lucky to have been born here, but I will be even luckier to die here. Everything in me is from the holy city, which makes me holy. My head, my body, my skin, my hair, my eyes, my feet, and my soul are from Varanasi.” I thought I’d just go to my room at the Baba Hostel and wait until morning to venture out again, but I was hungry! Aneel, the teenage helper from the hostel, brought me to Santos’s restaurant after passing ten shops and twenty dogs, but only having taken twelve steps. He said, “Yes, first Indian name, then Latin name.” I didn’t know Santos was a common Indian name. He had espresso colored skin with saltier more than pepper hair and a thick Indian mustache like a Bollywood actor riding a camel should have. He wore a white tank top and a white cotton cloth around his waist. I ordered a lassi and vegetable pakora. The mural on the wall was an elephant with gods on it, but I’d be lying if I claimed to know which gods. I suppose it could’ve been Ganesha because of the elephant, but it wasn’t an elephant head, man body, so it couldn’t be Ganesha. Or could it? We talked about the mural and the rent across the street (which was less than $10 US/month). He stood near me while I ate and I noticed what I thought was previously part of his messy style haircut, was actually his out of control ear hairs. They were so long they blended with his hair on the sides. While I ate, he was picking his belly button and hocking loogies off the front steps. Santos was a character and the restaurant was memorable. I was laid up awake with a stomachache all night. It was 7 AM and I sat up to meditate. Then, I did some yoga, which made my body feel better. However, I was still not about to eat those left-over pakoras from Santos’s belly button. I bathed with cold water, using the ol’ pitcher and bucket technique that three weeks in India had me used to. Our first stop was a very short doorway not too far from my guesthouse. The doors are purposely short so one remembers to pray to Ganesha upon entering. We took off our shoes and walked up the steps to the open air filled with mantras and malas and a mission. Before I could say a thing, Tinku dipped his ring finger in the red dye and marked my forehead with a swiping gesture up resembling a tear drop. This mark would be the second of my trip that showed the world I had been blessed by someone special. Continuing down the narrow alleys, Tinku told me about Modi’s recent decision to knock down about 400 homes in the old city. It was a field of ruins, but temples still stood. As I listened to Tinku talk about the history among Hindus and Muslims in India, and in particular in Varanasi, while standing on and in the demolition, I could feel the world turning in a scary cyclical manner. A few weeks later I would have my final day in Delhi and visit Gandhi Smriti, where Gandhi spent his last 144 days and was assassinated. While walking Gandhi’s final steps, I felt the world turning again. This time, it was turning toward the great flame that keeps love and hope alive, the way that Gandhi kept India’s hope and love alive.