The Indian Way

I have a certain fondness for the way things are done in India. The sway of the head that signals “okay”, or the way everything must be bargained down, or how I haven’t eaten raw food in far too long. India gives what you give in return. When I’m in a terrible mood, my surroundings are merely reciprocated and I’m given the same attitude that I give it, and I think “oh, I get it, time to change my attitude.”

Except, there is a strange omnipresent reality to Karma in this country, and there really isn’t any way to escape it. It’s only a matter of making the best of the situation. I understand that people are most happy in the places that they love, and that things more or less, go their way when they put on a happy face.

Yet in India, if you hate or dislike anything at all, the customs, the food, the way things are going for you, things will get worse, guaranteed.

It’s physically uncomfortable, it’s hot, people look at you like you’re stupid when you ask for simple things, there’s a enormous language barrier, and traffic is enough to give you a heart attack. If on top of that, you have a negative attitude and feel like spewing your awful mood like a lawn sprinkler, it will hit the fan and India will become the worst country you’ve ever stepped foot in.

I’ve been incredibly lucky that I haven’t gotten too sick. I don’t have the immune system of a bull, and I've haven't been careful and worrisome, but I have been making sure everything is sanitized and clean.

I’ve been relaxed, letting things come as they go, and absorbing anything there is to be absorbed. Some of my friends have not been so lucky, having to call in shady doctors who, for some reason, always end up giving them shots in the butt.

My friend tried to get off a bus, and it started moving before she could properly get off and now has a grotesque wound on her elbow.

My other friend has nasty rash on her leg from that scummy hotel in Jaipur, and a doctor told her she may have contracted herpes from the sheets.. on her leg. So far, I've only had a close call when I took my malaria pill on an empty stomach. Nothing too serious, just nausea.

Every day is a new lesson. It’s about adapting to the way things are. For example, there was no gas in the kitchen at the orphanage last night and this morning. How do the cooks react? They cook their food over an open fire that they built outside.

How do you react to no power for two days? Lots and lots of candles.

No water?  No problem, just use these buckets of water for backup.

I can best describe the attitude here when I was watching a seventy year old man cross a busy intersection in Old Delhi. He had no expression on his face. All he does is hold out his hand to gently ask a racing car to slow down. The car honks and eventually stops, but the man makes it across unharmed, but also unfazed.

I have never seen so many hard workers. In addition to the uncomfortable atmosphere, people will push themselves to the bone. What they do have at the orphanage is nothing fancy, but they make it work.

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Bathing in the Ganges

I just got back from Varanasi, which is considered the holiest and the oldest city in India. It also has just about the vilest looking river I’ve seen in my entire life. Yes, the Ganges. I understand its holiness and beauty, but do people really need to shampoo their hair in it as well? It’s so strange; they’re cleaning the dirt out of their hair with dirty water. Not only do people do their laundry in this water, but they also have cremation ceremonies on the shore and send the remains out to the center of the river. In some cases, the bodies aren’t even cremated, just brought out to decompose in the city’s only water resource. Very sanitary.

Our overnight train ride to Varanasi from Delhi took fourteen hours. It was a sleeper train, and looked like it was running since the early 50’s. My bed was conveniently placed in the hallway at eye-level, where I could easily make eye contact with most of the passerby’s as I lay facing the hall.

The light switch was also on the wall next to my head and all night, those who were getting on were reaching over my head to flip the switch on or off. I didn’t get any sleep. When we arrived, the train station looked like a tornado had hit it. There were bricks and rubble laying everywhere, and people were sleeping in between a couple of the unused train tracks. We got off and a man dressed in white and a tie immediately started harassing us, “Where are you guys going?” and “I can get you to where you need to go” and “Madam Pleeeeezzzeeee.”

He is a man working for a prepaid taxi company. Why not?

Our driver was a character named Vinod. He had been a tuk-tuk driver since the age of fourteen. He had a distinguishing, deep off-colored scar above his left eyebrow. He expressively talked with one hand, while he maneuvered through the scary Varanasi streets with the other one. He asked me where I was from and I told him the US, and he asked me if I’ve ever heard of Denver, Colorado.

“I had a ticket from Delhi to Frankfort, Germany to Denver, no return ticket." He looks down at the steering wheel as I'm sitting in the passenger's seat of the white bouncy van, "but I couldn’t get my visa..."

The town is called the city of Shiva, the god of destruction. Varanasi would be the greatest city to die in, because your soul is already located in the city of Heaven. The dead are brought to the neighboring Ganges, where they are cremated.

There are women and men with shaved eyebrows and heads, meaning that they are mourning a loved one. They are not to talk to anyone outside the family for ten days, and are to pray constantly.

Older women with short haircuts and tattered white punjabi suits who had shaven their heads months before, sit on street corners, begging.

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The Ganges.

We got to float down the Ganges in a rowboat at sunset, watching coast of Varanasi on the way. We ended up at the main Ghat, where a daily ceremony was being held. Men dressed in traditional orange attire rang bells and swung incense in circles around their bodies. People chanted and prayed and released tiny flower boats into the river. All the while, I was sitting on a small step in a corner, in awe, while a small child kept harassing me to buy an Indian knickknack. "Nahi, Nahi! “No, No!” She ended up giggling and imitated me. She looked to be about ten years old.

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My friend has a new job.

In Varanasi, there is a monkey temple, a sanctuary for monkeys and where they are protected by the Gods.

They are also unshielded from the public, and we unshielded from them. There were hundreds of monkeys. At times, they were inches from you, nursing their baby monkeys.

One of them aggressively shook a friend’s water bottle out of her hand. He then took it, and played with the top trying to figure out how to open the bottle. He gave up and wandered away. She then opened it for him and tried to hand it back to him, and then he snatched it from her and dropped it on the ground, then drinking from it as the water spilled onto the ground.

Monkeys smell fear. I made eye contact with a particularly angry, adult male. He bared his teeth and started charging towards me. I screamed. I ran. He chased.

While I was running, I kept thinking that maybe more monkeys would catch on and that more monkeys would start chasing me. I kept running and it was still chasing me. My friends were laughing. An Indian family shouted at the monkey on my behalf and it limped off. My heart beating, they chuckled at my reaction. They asked how I liked India, and I said I love it. "Even with the monkeys," they laughed.

This man was trying to get us to come into his silk shop by claiming that Goldie Haan was a returning customer. I have proof.