Varanaserating

Varanasi is a marvellous testament to the collective insanity that is India. More eloquently put, they're out of their wanking minds. Not that any of us can claim the contrary, of course; at least the Indians have the gut and (grimy) grace to do it in style (and by style I mean conviction and color.) July is one of 12 holy Hindu months (on the Gregorian calendar of course), though of particular importance to the Shiva-worshipping pilgrims of afar. From wealthy Indian MBA's and drunken rickshaw pullers to American graduate students, I've tried on numerous occassions to understand the theological premises of Hinduism - what overriding principles inflame their fervent beliefs, what inspires the celestial apple of their eye, what brings clairvoyance to the contact lenses of their third-eye... and all to no avail. Hinduism, its myriad gods, multitudinous traditions and multifarious manifestations, remains an absolute and utter mystery to me. That being said, you needn't always do the reading before you show up for lecture.

As we took the auto-rickshaw from Bodhgaya (the surprisingly uninspiring town where the Buddha is said to have achieved enlightenment - though more on that later) to Gaya, there was a strange conglomeration of barefooted orange-clad men carrying idol-adorned walking sticks strung with highly ornate silver incense burners. They seemed to be in and around every cab, corner and platform at the train station. Though they were a remarkable sight to foreign eyes, however, they were no match for Swiss Lilly and French B - my two traveling companions - and I.

I have often heard that if you travel to rural China or the bucolic African bush, the locals are likely to pinch you to verify (on a superficial level) the color of your skin and (on a more intimate level) the veracity of your temporal existence. In India, they mere form a tight-nit circle around you and stare. The comments and sly cell phone pix do not come until the third minute, after which you're relieved they haven't mauled you to death or sold you into an arranged marriage. I exaggerate, of course, and though it's not bad for guys - and can even slightly amusing - it's got to be one hell of a trip for the western woman to take that kind of visual beating from all ten thousand of the platform's freakshow participants (us providing the momentary entertainment). They don't ask me if I'm married until the second cup of tea (and only after I've annoyed them with too many intrusive questions about their religion) On the other hand, most girls traveling here can expect to reveal their marital status within 37.23 seconds of any normal conversation (which is why my traveling companions now respond with the utterly predictable "I'm going to meet my boyfriend of four years in Varanasi (the next train station)" after which their Indian interlocuteur aptly responds: "Only four years together?!" or "You twenty-two years and still no childrens?!") At one point in Bodhgaya, a man came and sat with us at our table. After the usual gibes at our variant nationalities and linguistic capabilities, he gets straight to the meat of any discussion worth having in the modern world: "What us your study?" was followed by a more subtley phrased "What is your hobby," only to be topped by the grandiloquent "What is your desire?"

But back to the little orange men. They were pilgrims from who knows how far, barefoot and henna-ed out, and ready for some transcendental action. Their median age couldn't have been more than 19 or 20 (though I am a poor judge of age when it comes to the subcontinent), yet they weathered the standing corridors of the human and fly-infested trains for hours on end to reach their metaphysical apogee incarnate, the magical Varanasi (and I say that with no hint of sarcasm - it truly is the most mind-boggling place I've ever step foot in), India's holiest Hindu city and primary urban host to the Mother of all Mothers (of the Indus Valley civilization of course), the river Ganges.

Varanasi is the perfect embodiment of the sheer and utter chaos that encapsulates every inch of urban Indian life. I have yet to see Mumbai or the center of Delhi, though would reckon to wager the aforementioned. (a six inch gecko just ran up the wall and into the corner of the internet cafe... he's come back down and is now about 24 inches from my monitor). In short, it's a painfully beautiful and monstrous display of human, animal and architectural density on a crack-binged amorous rage, struggling to test the limits of a sovereignly organized organic infrastructure. The thousands of orange-clad pilgrims that roam the streets by foot, float and SUV, chant the Shiva-worshipping mantras and bath in the disease-ridden, human ash infested Ganges, fade into the background of an even more eclectic human and animal tapestry (despite the impression one mistakingly gets that the Dutch Suriname has just won the World Cup on Queen's Day). You may be wondering why I constantly evoque the 'animal' element of Varanasi. That, my friend, is because in between the asphyxiatingly narrow, meandering and adventurous four foot lanes that criss-cross the old town through stairs, tunnels and (literally hundreds of) temples, live, roam and rule the real sovereigns of Varanasi: the holy cow. Cows, bulls and what honestly look to be bison linger around every corner of the old city, in every crevice (however small!) and every narrow opening. The sit in the middle of an already disorienting narrow lane, at the bottom, middle and top of the stairs, in front of the door to the hostel, hotel or restaurant. They eat the humble refuse of local residents, or the oats of (the all too) generous neighbors, swatting their tails at tourists and flies alike as you pass. The old quarter is excruciatingly hard to navigate as it is. The narrow streets (sometimes a mere 4-5 feet wide), packed with merchants of every spice, fabric, sweet and incense, already vertiginously strained by the multitude of the faithful, must now contend with ambitious motorcycle drivers and pastoral life alike. When it rains, the slippery cobblestoned streets become awash with the run of their liquified stank, and you begin to regret rocking the open-toed sandles.

All that being said, the city comes together marvelously. Varanasi, that intricate web of explosive and pious humanity topped off by an army of holy cows, roaming rooftop hordes of monkeys, mendicant baby goats and myriad meandering temples of every shape, size, color and god, exudes a baffling and mystical charm unlike any other I've had the pleasure to witness.