"You can't never get to Tundla..." --adapted from the title of an Eastern Shore literary classic

"Tundla?" a headshake first to the left, then the right. "Tundla?" Again, a shake to the left, then right. "Tundla?" A headshake up and down, then left and right. So marked the absolutely baffling ordeal of finding the appropriate bus from Agra to Tundla, where my new Spanish friend Rafa and I were to catch the overnight train to Varanasi. There was no schedule for the buses, no numbers on the buses and certainly no one who had any idea which of the buses was actually going to the seeminlgy mythical land of Tundla. Finally, we did get a positive response to our repeated questions and sat down on what we hoped was the bus to Tundla. Sweating profusely, Rafa and I took our seats next to the window of two adjacent benches on the bus and got ready for the voyage. My row on the bus contained me, my backback and one other guy as we headed off. By the time we arrived at Tundla (which was miracuously where the bus was headed), I was sitting with three other people in the row on top of my backpack and with one leg directly over the other. Personal space does not exist in India and a seat for two becomes a seat for four in a pinch, or always. After sprinting from the rickshaw wallah to the train station (Rafa's train was set to depart in 5 minutes), we caught our breath as we waited the necessary two hours for the actual train to arrive. We passed the time merrliy, alternating between deflecting the repeated queries for rupees from the assortment of poor, crippled beggars (the truth of the matter is that there is a kind of poverty and destitution here unlike any place I've ever seen. At every train station, street corner and temple around, there are usually beggars with any number of physical deformities that are hard to look at. I've seen people with one arm, small unusable legs, no legs, and everything else in between in my travels. The problem is that you see the look of anguish in their eyes, but know that you giving them a rupee is not going to change their strife. I've personally resolved to find a way of making a donation of some sort to a relief group in India, particuarly for the children, who are the worst sufferers) and shouting to each other "Tundla?" and laughing.

Upon arriving in Varanasi, I headed out of the train station to find a ride to the hotel that we had heard about from some of Rafa's Spanish friends. I got an auto rickshaw outside (the process of getting a ride anywhere in India is exhausting. You have to bargain for each ride, knowing full well that you'll probably overpay or be taken to any number of shops or hotels of the driver's choosing before getting to your destination. The guy in Varanasi was the worst. He agreed to the fare, and about a hundred yards from the station, stopped and told me that he could take me to this great hotel where he'd get me a super low rate, and just wouldn't listen to me as I told him which area I wanted to go to. He took me to one hotel near where I wanted to go, then insisted on taking me to "his" hotel before he would take me to my desired location. After I went, saw the room, and told them no, he told me that he wouldn't take me back to where I wanted to go. I had to start shouting at him to get him to take me back, and when he dropped me off, I had to get another ride to get to my actual hotel, which was a considerable distance from where he dropped me off. I can chalk alot of this up to an interesting "experience", but plain and simple, that guy was just a jerk) and after much rigamarole ended up at the hotel Ganpati, a beautiful spot with a balcony overlooking the holy Ganges river. I met up with Rafa, who had had quite a travel experience of his own, and we took our breakfast at a table overlooking the fast flowing river (the Ganges reminded me alot of the Mississippi, fast flowing and brown as chochalate milk). That's when I saw the dead cow floating down the river. Eww. Not the best for the early morning appetite. After eating and a rest (on a bed that turns out to have had bedbugs. You can see the rows of bites on my back still as I write this blog some six days later), I decided to head out to the city.

The old city of Varanasi, where I was staying, is known for its narrow, labyrinthal (is that a word?) streets which contain an equal amount of people, animals, trash, and food for sale. I walked around, again overwhelmed by the smells and proximity of life that is India, until I heard for the tenth time "hello" and, for whatever reason, turned to look at the person who had spoken. (Everyone here says hello, most of the time to get your attention so that they can sell you something, so your instinct is to turn and see where the person is. As soon as you turn to look, you're immediatley innundated with the special du'jour of whatever it is that's being sold. Alot of times kids who are trying to sell you drugs. nice.) The guy, a nineteen year old who told me that his father had passed away and he needed to support his family, offered to show me around some temples and sights of Varanasi. I had had success in the past (Jaipur) sort of just going with it, so I decided to head of with him (one name I can't remember) to see the sights.

We first went to a Shiva temple near Kedar Ghat (a ghat is a kind of stairwell that leads to the river where people go to bathe. That's the way you can tell where you are in Varanasi, by which ghat you're near) where my guide took me inside, and helped me to perform part of a puja. It mostly consisted of putting a small amount of what looked like flour on my chest and forehead. Thus adorned, I next headed to meet a Guru friend of his. Turns out he is a palm reader and astrologer who had read the palm of one Goldie Hawn! (I saw the picture to prove it.) For a mere thirty dollars (aha! here was the sell), he would do a comprehensive analysis of my life and future fate. After a bit of persuading, I agreed to take the thirty dollar one life palm reading (as opposed to the fifty dollar two life palm reading) and he proceeded to take down my birthdate and place of birth. Then, amazingly, he pulled out a book that had the lattitude and longitude of the United States and lo and behold, for the Maryland section, Easton was listed! Here I was in Varanasi, India on some side alley street and they had the name of my hometown in a book. I was sold. We had to give the guru some time to work his...well, I guess it isn't magic... so we went to check out some other temples. We went to the Durga temple, where I was given a garland of flowers and a Shiva bracelet (Varanasi is the city of Shiva, so even other temples have Shiva related items in them) and a mark on my forehead. I came out looking quite Hindu, though I don't know if the other people in the temple were quite as amused at how I looked as I was. I sort of got the sense that they weren't too happy about my intrusion (I wasn't allowed in alot of temples and I think the only reason I got in this one was because my guide took me). Then, we headed to Tulsi Manas temple, which had a Disneyworld type area where scenes from important Hindu epics, the Ramayana, Mahabharata and Bhagavad Gita were acted out with puppets. It was a hoot and I nearly lost it thinking about how eerily similar it was to the It's a Small World Afterall ride at Epcot. With a smile on my face, we headed back to see how my life was going to turn out. Turns out, my life seems pretty good. I was informed that I was to have a hard period of work up until age 32 (it sure seems like I've been working hard at 'ol ACDS), marriage after 28 (whew!), a period of financial success after age 42 due to some sort of publishing (blog inspired??) and a period of rest and reflection in some remote natural setting until I kick the bucket sometime around 90. As the guru (who was at least seventy) told me all of this, he held my hand, called me dear and made me feel pretty darn special (I'm sure Goldie felt special as well!). So, with a warm fuzzy kind of feeling, my guide took me back through the pitch black (we actually tripped over a cow when we left the guru), scary looking alley streets and deposited me back at the Ganpati.

The next day I was planning a day trip to Sarnath, the place of the Buddha's first sermon, the sermon in deer park. Rafa, who I had missed the day before due to poor communication (his English was passable and my Spanish was adequate, though we sometimes missed the exact meaning of what was being said) had decided to come along and another Spanish speaker, Pablo from Mexico City (who thankfully spoke perfect English as well making Rafa and my communication both less vital and more enjoyable), made it a trio heading to Sarnath. After an unbelievably bumpy autorickshaw ride, we arrived at Sarnath and headed to Deer Park. The Buddha, upon enlightenment in Bodhgaya (another story for another blog) headed to Sarnath to begin speaking his message to his followers. Only five actually made it, but it was there that they heard the Dhammachackapavattna Sutta, or the laying out of the tennets of Buddhism, the four noble truths and the eightfold path. When we got to the Deer Park, the main temple was closed (set to open in an hour) so we wandered around for a bit. While meandering, we caught our first glimpse of the main attraction of Sarnath, the Dhamekh stupa (a stupa is a mound of dirt surrounded by a structure, often of brick or stone, that is said to house the ashes or relics of the Buddha. Not all stupas do have relics, but that was their original purpose), a 34 meter high brick mound with ornate decorations on the outside. Since there was a giant fence in the way, we realized we'd have to go around to get there and on our way back to the road we saw, you guessed it, deer. These deer, for which the area is named I guess, looked more like reindeer than the kind we see it the Eastern US. The deer were kept in this side area, like a zoo, and you could buy fruit from a lady to feed to the deer. After feeding the deer (Pablo couldn't resist), we headed to get a closer look at the Stupa. While it was impressive to look at and think about from an historical perspective, the thing that I'll remember best is the kids who were trying to sell stuff there. They had the usual postcards as well as some other useless crap, and they were resentless little salesmen. Poor Rafa just couldn't say no, and before we knew it he had two statues of the Buddha, a set of postcards and a kit for putting dyed stars on your forehead. I personally bought one of the little statues, but when they persisted about other things, I emphatically said NO. One of the kids smiled at me and said NO back to me, to which I responded with a louder NOO. He then screamed NOOOO and we both cracked up laughing. Though the constant harrassment of these kids is tiresome, sometimes you remember that they are just kids and it's easy enough to get them laughing by just being goofy (the reason I am in my current profession) It was with a smile that we headed back to Varanasi that evening.

One last note about Varanasi before I end this lengthy entry. That evening we headed to one of the burning ghats. The Ganges is the holy river for Hindus and people bathe in its waters as a part of a pilgrimmage. People also come to the Ganges to die. It is believed that if you die in Varanasi and are put into the Ganges you will have a better chance to be reincarnated into a better life. So, we headed to the burning ghat to see what the deal was. It was an odd scene. There were people milling about like anywhere else in the city, but one hundred feet away there was this platform that had a few lit pyres. You could see that they were burned down almost to the end and that the people who had been there, were no longer identifiable. After the end of the cremation, their bodies are placed in the Ganges and left to float down the river. (In the past if a man died, his widow was required to throw herself onto the funeral pyre to burn along with her dead husband. There was a famous story in the paper from like 1983 about a woman who refused to do this. It garnered national attention and since then the practice has been outlawed, though it still persists in some of the smaller villages in India) Thus the cycle of life can begin again as the body leaves this world and the spirit is reborn anew. Death is very much a public thing in Varanasi (I saw a number of covered bodies being carried down the street), but also not as seemingly final as in our culture. It is seen as a part of life and Varanasi had the feel of a place that would continue to be around long after the lives of generations of inhabitants. We checked out a little puja on the way home and went back to our rooms to chat, reflect and wax philisophical about life, death, laughter and everything in between.

The next morning, I headed to the train station and a mere four hours after the expected departure time of my train, I was on my way to Bodhgaya to seek enlightenment...