Sunday, February 21: Bus, Plane, Bus, Rickshaw Bus

Sunday, February 21

Sitting in the lobby of the Taj Delhi, waiting for the day to begin: soft carpeting on the floor, domes in the ceiling filled with embroidered fabric in bright colors, lighted with soft cove lighting, a curved, windowed area overlooking the pool, a white marble fountain in the center of the room, an area for tea, many seats in matching colors, desks for several concierges, plashing water, soft music, with a huge ball of white lilies at the entrance that even Barbara Taylor and Jake Boone might envy. Oops; it’s time to leave for Veranasi.
Since the bombing in Mumbai, airport and hotel security have been even more severe than in the US. We had to show our passports just to enter the airport. With our boarding passes, we got tags to hang on our hand luggage that had to be stamped after passing through security before we would be allowed to board the plane. I set off the alarm with my titanium knee as usual and had to be frisked. Oddly with all of this, we didn’t have to take off our shoes. Then be fore we could board, we had to show our passports again and the tags on our hand luggage were inspected both to be sure we had been thoroughly checked before boarding the plane.
The flight was only a little over an hour but we were served breakfast – I didn’t eat any since the night before I’d had some trouble with my colon and was thoroughly empty, and not wanting to eat anything – and I sat between Mark, an anesthesiologist from New York, born in Lithuania so with a slight accent. He’s a member of our troupe. On the other side was Purim, an assistant to out Indian tour guide, Anil, who speaks English very slowly, without the lilt we’re so used to when seeking help from AOL, so we could actually understand what he was saying.
The others in our group are Ron and Chad, from the DC area (Ron’s father was in banking and his mother lives in Blakehurst off Joppa Road); Caesar, of course; Bob, a gregarious attorney from LA; Dennis and David and me; and Andrew, our tour guide and representative from the tour company.
Veranasi is a sacred city for India’s small Buddhist population. It’s one of the oldest living cities in the world and a good Buddhist, like a good Muslim making a Haj to Mecca, must come here at least once in his life. The city is on the Ganges and a place where people go for dipping in the waters to purify themselves and where they go when they die for cremation. After checking in at our hotel, we went to visit the excavations of a temple compound where it is thought that Lord Buddha gave his first sermon. At the site, there’s a huge stupa, which, unlike those I’ve seen in Thailand, all covered with gold leaf, is entirely of exposed raw brick. An enormous structure, it was examined by archaeologists many years ago and found to be entirely of brick, without nothing inside. It seems impossible.
Late in the afternoon, we took a bus through the city – population several million – the most cacophonous ride ever! Indians pay no attention to lanes of traffic but travel, instead, down the middle of the road, their horns blaring and avoiding head on collisions at the very last minute. The bus was surrounded by bicycles, and motor scooters and cars and people walking. It was hard to believe all this could continue without someone being hurt but like birds seem to move in flocks and all turn at the same time, there seems to be a kind of mass consciousness that prevents accidents. As we neared the old city, we transferred to rickshaws – two to each one – and were pedaled through the city to the steps leading down to the river. The noise and the confusion was unbelievable! It was like a traffic jam, all moving at the same time. There is no way to describe it accurately. Our guide wanted us to experience the real India, and this was certainly it.
At the rive, we transferred to a boat and rowed down to the steps where cremations take place. There were about six fires, all going at the same time and we learned a lot about the rituals of death. At dark, we rowed back to another section of the steps where we watched the ritual ceremony of life. Death and life, all in one evening. Then the rickshaw ride back to the bus. We were asked to give the driver a total of a one dollar tip, which seemed totally inadequate for taking us to, and getting us back from the ceremony, pedaling hard through the unbelievable traffic for more than a half hour in each direction.
Oh, and I left out the part where we went to a weaving factory, where we saw men sitting at primitive looms, weaving in silk, an industry for which this city is known. Of course, the major part of the visit was to their salesroom where we were tempted with incredibly beautiful fabrics: shawls, scarves, bed covers, etc. Some of us even bought some of these wonderful items.
Later, back at the hotel, there was no room in the coffee shop for us because all the empty tables had been reserved by some group. The head waiter shifted us to the more fancy, Indian restaurant where he said we could have the coffee shop menu. This only confused the waiters and the process of getting something to eat was a real farce. When it finally arrived, Dennis’s wrap still had some paper attached to it and when I complained to the waiter, he gave some explanation we really couldn’t understand, seeming to imply that biting into paper was perfectly natural. This is not a five star hotel!
I’m rushing to complete this before we leave at 5:45 AM – yes, I’ve already been up for an hour – for the morning purification ceremony at the river. So forgive me for errors in spelling and punctuation and the sloppy composition. India is certainly an assault on all the senses, just as expected. And Beverly was right: take Pepto Bismol. I’m better this morning, after eating very little yesterday. I hope it stays that way. I could go on about Buddhism but I think I’ll save that for cocktail party conversation. Stay tuned.