The Adventures of Bindi Girl: (2012) (7 page)

I hadn’t yet visited this Christian “island” of a state—a place where meat and alcohol were fine with the religion, the white sandy beaches beckoned, and hedonists found their stomping grounds. Admittedly Goa, a former Portuguese colony just south of Bombay, had intrigued me. I had sidestepped the state because of a reputation for being too touristy, too busy, and too expensive, with too many Yahoos. But now, apparently, I was ready to yahoo a bit, too. It didn’t take much for Italian Monica to twist my arm. Hop off the train I did—and proceeded to spend ten sunny, holiday days in North Goa between the beaches of Anjuna and Arambol. Goa is famous for its trance scene, and I was able to “get my groove on,” barefoot on the sand, a few nights in paradise. As much as I like to turn my nose up at tourist trap entertainment, I needed it.

After about a week of mild hedonism and pure indulgent comfort, the original bug to get-thee-to-Varanasi was still biting me in the ass. I still had time to “get intimate” with one more locale in India before leaving for Thailand, and I thought I’d take three luxuriant weeks to settle in to Varanasi—also known as Benaras or Kashi—and really feel the place. Since I’d missed Shivaratri and the Israeli guys were long gone, I booked a horrific, solo three-day train ticket to get me up north in time for the next major festival, the full moon of Holi.

I had been warned about Varanasi; travelers would tell tales about “Shiva’s city,” and how “everyone gets sick,” “stuff will come up,” and “it’s super intense.” But I wasn’t afraid. No, not me. “Oh, I’m ready for it. I’m ‘Tough Girl’ now—been almost five months on the road. Give it to me, India. Show me your stuff, Shiva.”

As the saying goes, be careful what you ask for.

After months of being on the road, I praised myself as a strong, street-smart, savvy backpacker chick. “Look, ma! See how easily I circumnavigate this pile of cow shit? See how effortlessly I let the incessant taunting of touts, hecklers, and rip-off artists roll off my back? See how I find this quaint little room with river view for eighty rupees (US$1.50) a night in this sweet little guest house hidden away from the main drag?”

I was digging it. I was an off-the-beaten-track, solo traveling force to be reckoned with, and no one was about to tell me that Shiva’s city could kick my ass.

Clearly, I was getting cocky. It was time to be right-sized. And Lord Shiva did the job.

It’s all true, what they say. Varanasi is the most intense place I’ve been in India. It IS the city of Shiva—the most revered, feared, and worshipped god in the Hindu pantheon. He is both the destroyer and the nurturer, and he hits hard both ways. Shiva is about power, and respecting that power, and he taught me a powerful lesson indeed.

A few days after arrival, I sat on the banks of the river, adoring the view of the polluted city and the Ganga with her dead cow corpses and human cadavers floating downstream, watching the Brahmins perform their prayer rituals, their
artis
, at sunset, while the heat—inside and out of my body—became beyond unbearable. I turned to a traveling woman I had befriended, 24-year-old Niki from England, and said in all sincerity, “I feel like I’ve been drugged.” We were powerless to move, watching the holy men circle their cobra-head candelabras up and around their heads, inhaling billowing clouds of incense as they wafted up to where we were, just above the crowds. My mind was swirling. My heart was beating fast in my chest. I had been bitten by the cobra and the city got hotter and harder with each passing hour.

The next night I went down to the burning ghats, where they burn bodies twenty-four hours a day, making sure the skull explodes before the ashes are offered to the Ganga. Death is everywhere. The burning ghat was a peaceful place. I didn’t feel pained by being there. It just helped me to realize that death is the flip side of life. It’s Nature, and we are not separate.

Upon arriving at the holy city, the message I received through meditation was that “daily life is enough.” I did not need to challenge myself to do yoga, or anything that required more effort than buying fruits and veggies, staying reasonably healthy, eating and sleeping and bathing. It wasn’t just a physical test. I went through the emotional wringer as well—I could barely keep it together. Mentally? It doesn’t apply. The mental mind is blown to bits in Varanasi. There is no space; no time for logical or rational thought. Varanasi simply needs to be “lived through.”

After five days, I began deteriorating. I couldn’t breathe. I couldn’t find my “space.” A strange, crooked little Indian man would show up outside my guest house door several times a day: “Hello friend,” he’d croak through red, betelnut-stained teeth, with a crazed look in his beady little eyes. “Massage today?” “NO!
Nahi!
NO!” I’d fire back. Then I’d be flashed by “devout” Hindu bathing men on the Ganga, men who didn’t know what to do with their sexuality—repressed beyond control as they wait years for their arranged marriages. I felt sick and turned away, hardly in the mood to cater to their delusions that a white girl was going to appreciate the sight of their family jewels.

Finally, Holi kicked off with a bang for three days of sheer upheaval: The most boisterous festival in all of Northern India is feted with bonfires at midnight, followed by days of drinking whiskey and shooting colored paint water on each other. All guidebooks advise tourists—especially women, who tend to get groped—to stay indoors.

As the festival energy was building and boiling, young revelers would threaten to color bomb us as we tried to make our way through the streets. Shrieks of laughter emanating from groups of boys, yelling in Hindi (“You play Holi?”) were startling, as they taunted us with water balloons and water pistols filled with colored paint at every turn. The children’s antics were tolerable and even bordered on sweet as their faces lit up with innocence, play and laughter. The spray-painted kids in all their colors and glory reminded me of Halloween-time festivities in America. It’s the whiskey-swilling,
bhang
-ed up men I was concerned about,
bhang
being a super potent form of
ganja
that is consumed heavily during Holi.

Finally, I had to admit: the whole stewpot was too much for me. On the morning of the day the moon was full—the peak of the festival—I awoke covered in sweat. The sun was blazing, and I was sweltering well before 7 a.m. I got up, overdressed in enough clothes to cover my arms and legs thoroughly—because this is north India we’re talking about here, not the beach, and a woman cannot show her skin without more hassle and stares. With a dazed look on my face, I headed next door to Niki’s room, knocked, and she opened it. Niki’s own glazed-over eyes looked out at me from a face that had seen cheerier days—and I knew she was in the same state as I. If we had turkey oven thermometers stuck in our brains, they would have been popping out with a bang: “DONE!”

We headed over to the travel agency, dodging paint splatterers and stepping in puddles of piss and god-only-knows-what substance, and proceeded to book a train outta there for the very next day—festival or no festival. We were out.

I had planned on staying three weeks. I had lasted seven days. I was not immune to the transformative power of Varanasi. The full moon was exactly 4:05 p.m. (India time)—the exact hour I was blessed with the onslaught of my very own special case of Varanasi “Delhi belly,” now renamed by me as “Shiva’s revenge.” “Well, that’s gonna make for an interesting overnight train journey,” I said to myself.

My theory about getting ill and enduring diarrhea in India is that heavy-duty traveling holds “too much information” to process, and the body has got to let go somehow; it’s an emotional-spiritual detoxification turning physical. I believe that when we accept this process, it becomes a whole lot easier to endure, to nurse ourselves, and let it pass—no pun intended. Of course it’s important to be cautious and sensible, but it’s much, much deeper than lack of sanitation standards or cooking conditions. Rather than worrying about food poisoning at every turn (which definitely restricts one from enjoying India’s culinary discoveries), it’s easier to remember that it’s about digesting the intensity of experiences and sensory input while on the road.

Keeping all this in mind, with train ticket in hand, I bucked-up, accepting my tricky tummy. Niki and I hopped on the night train in the middle of the Holi festival. Actually, traveling smack-dab on a peak festival night made for a fairly quiet, unpacked train ride to Delhi, which was nice for a change—and good for me as I had to climb out of my upper berth several times during the night to tend to toilet needs. My little Varanasi souvenir, keeping me humble, and letting me know who’s really the boss.

One pre-meltdown day in Varanasi, I remember thinking to myself, “Oh, how I love India, and She loves me right back!” This
is
very true—I feel nothing but embraced and cared for in this land, very “taken care of” as I surrender to Her totality. I know Mother India still loves me back, even after She’s had Shiva whip me back into shape. Goodbye, grandiosity. Hello again, humility!