Experiencing Opposites

Varanasi. Craziest place in India so far. I have experienced both pain and enchantment, fear and joy. Survived my first real attack of traveller's diharrea and accompanying homesickness/loneliness. Saw Brahmin priests perform Puja to the river Ganga. Basked in the light as I strolled along the river, got henna on my hands, and an ayurvedic massage. Tonight I head to Ayodhya, the birthplace of Lord Rama. Here is a sketch that I wrote a few days ago:

Last night a bleating animal cried SO mournfully from the streets below my window that it sounded like someone was slowly torturing it to death. At first, the sound bothered me, but when i allowed the darkly humorous aspect of my situation to settle in, I couldn't stop cracking up. Laying inside my mosquito net in my small, $2 room, with my bowels splishing and splooshing inside my gut like a plunger in a pipe, I noticed how insanely opposite everything is here. If I am feeling the least bit weak or gullible, the world seems to leer at me from the moment I step outside. There is no organization, no rhyme or reason to anything here. I am happy to be leaving Varanasi soon. It is one hell of a place - I both enjoy it and wrinkle my nose at it!

Every morning a host of smallish, dust-colored birds come quacking at my window. yes, they really do quack, as they peck their reflections in the glass.

The best way to describe Varanasi is ludicrous. Peoples' dead bodies burning 24/7, ashes thrown into the river. 200 meters away, men in skimpy loincloths bathing in the same water, soaping up their hair and slapping their clothes onto flat rocks. onshore, miles of clothes strung out on lines to dry, flapping in the wind. Cow shit on the ground - sometimesin big, pie-sized dollops, othertimes smoothed over the concrete like crust. Free bathrooms everywhere for the men - I often see them peeing in public, and smell the results as I walk by the favorite bathroom spots.

No Hindu women from the dead person's familyare allowed at the cremations, because the tradition is that crying is not allowed here. To me, Varanasi sometimes seems like a city of men - touting me for boat rides ("boat, Madam? only hundred rupees. Helicopter?"), others playing the crazy sadhu role, wearing orange robes and asking for money. Nearly everyone wants to take your money here. Even the Brahmin priest, who kindly showed me around the oldest Hindu temple, gave me an incredulous look and complained loudly when I only donated 10 rupees. Then there are the men involved in funeral ceremonies. They get their heads shaved with a straight knife and watch sullenly as their loved ones are engulfed in flames.

Varanasi is not for the faint-hearted. It has taught me to stand by what I want no matter what, without allowing the gazillions of other people's judgements, proddings, and touts to sway my inner truth.