Hindu Day in Varanasi

It is eerie to walk through a dark and misty but busy street before dawn in Varanasi, as we did on our way to the Ganga River. Many people were already up and bustling about despite the early hour. We walked from the bus past already-open fruit stalls and vegetable stalls and pastry stalls and among dogs and beggars and bicycles and the occasional rickshaw. It makes me wonder if Indians ever stop working and go to sleep. They probably take a break in the middle of the day to nap, at least in summertime.


Out of the mist appeared a small wooden wagon, scarcely larger than the little red wagon I had as a child, pulled by a skeletal figure in rags, and inside the wagon lay a small, emaciated creature that scarcely seemed human, with twisted, thin, useless legs. A leprous woman in rags begged on my right; she had bloody bandaged stumps for hands. I felt a scream rising towards my throat, but I didn’t let it out. Instead I took several deep breaths and continued walking as if I hadn’t seen her. Another wagon containing a mangled human form rattled past on my left. Mostly I saw people in rags who were not incapacitated, though they were obviously very poor. Moving past them in the darkness and mist was like stepping into a nightmare or some sick and twisted idea for a Halloween celebration. It would be a fitting scene in a horror movie. But it was real, all too real.

We came to a flight of grey stone steps descending to the bank; by then the light was dark grey, and I’m not even sure by what light we saw, perhaps lanterns and candles, unless there are street lamps. Jagdish said not to take pictures of the naked saddhus, and as soon as he mentioned this, at a glance I saw to my left a crouching, longhaired and bearded naked man smeared with white ashes. A few others squatted or stood near him, just on the left of the top of the steps, or rather ghats. They seemed to have grayish blue skin, and I thought they were silently watching us, like alert and still cats, but I only briefly glanced at them.


We moved down the long steps and off to the right. Ubiquitous wallahs tagged along, with beads and incense and pink floral cardboard boxes. On the stone pavement a few feet from the ghats, while I waited for my turn to climb aboard the wooden boat, I spotted an intact bright yellow marigold, picked it up and sniffed at it, but it had no smell.
After each pilgrim climbed aboard the boat, Jagdish handed us each a saucer-size leaf plate on which marigolds circled a lighted tea candle. Following the example of others, I took my plate to the far end and leaned over the side of the boat. I slowly, delicately placed the plate on the surface of the river. I let go of it, and it floated like the other plates. The Gangaji offerings followed the current, slowly drifting together away from our boat, and I watched them till the candlelight was a group of tiny dots. I continued watching them gently floating away till they were no longer in sight. That’s a tradition I like; it was sweet and silent.

“Ghats are steps leading down to the Gangaji,” Shantum said. “Where we climbed on the boat was the original site of huge sacrifices. Hindus bathe in the sacred Ganga to get rid of generations of bad karma. This applies to Hinduism but not Buddhism. Ganges water has never been tested, but specific incidents indicate that it really has healing powers.”

Two skinny little guys rowed our boat, and throughout the boat ride we remained within sight of ghats and old buildings, many of which had domes and murals and were painted colors such as pink, yellow, and baby blue. One large structure was decorated with many colorful sculptures of Hindu deities, and my mouth hung open as we passed it. Groups of people bathed down on the bottom steps of some of the ghats.

I’ve read about saddhus, naked Hindu holy men. Shantum said, “Leaving society to them means abandoning clothes, haircuts, and money.” Naked saddhus did exercises higher up on the ghats; they reminded me of the ascetics with whom Siddhartha Gautama hung out before he sat under the Bodhi Tree.

“It is auspicious to die on the Ganga because Shiva whispers in your ear,” Shantum said. “Dying on the other side, however, means coming back as a donkey!” It seems to me like a deity whispering in your ear while you’re dying on the edge of a river would be a little creepy. Meanwhile, around us the atmosphere was surreal and somewhat misty even as the sun gradually came out and Shantum told us some local Hindu legends.

We passed a smoky piece of land that Jagdish described as cremation grounds, where men tended piles of burning dark wood. I did not, however, see anything that looked like a human corpse. Shantum said, “There are forty Sanskaras: these are the stages of life in Hinduism, starting before conception. The son is the only one to perform rites at death. Twice born means wearing the sacred thread; it goes diagonally across the naked chest and around back. Death is celebration: sometimes people dance and sing at cremation grounds.” I think that probably has to do with hope for a better incarnation next time.

During the boat ride, we glided past moored boats and floating boats, and once a guy swimming in the water. Our boat came close to a couple of guys in a boat with a television turned on, presumably running on batteries, and a travel video played on the TV. They were selling videos and giving this demo right there on the Gangaji. That was really weird. It was almost as weird as seeing a purple cow on a boat, but that didn’t happen. We didn’t even see a white or black cow on a boat.

Although we were not on land, we weren’t free from pushy salespeople. Some wallahs have boats, and their boats slowly glided toward ours till they gently knocked against the side. Shantum said, “The boat has a sensor that persuades other boats to stop or move away rather than wreck our boat.” However, it doesn’t prevent wallahs on boats from drifting right next to our boat. Eventually three boats at once surrounded ours, which made me laugh. John said that he had been glad to get in the boat, because we’d finally be somewhere free of wallahs. Oh, not so much.

We got off the boat at a different location and played follow-the-leader, climbing to the top of a ghat, and stepping around old stone domed shrines. I finally noticed, in the early morning sunlight, that Dean and Valerie wore white matching cotton kurtas with white cotton pants. I had to stop long enough to take pictures of what may have been goddess figures carved into the stone sides of a pale hexagonal structure, probably a centuries-old shrine.




We wandered through alleys: dingy, dirty alleys in which we avoided piles of cow shit. Every foot or two we came to a Hindu shrine or temple. These aesthetic manifestations of spirituality were so awe-inspiring and beautiful, even amid all the dirt, cow shit, dinginess and squalor, that I felt blissful and awed and smiled widely. I took a picture of at least one marigold-draped Shiva temple, a fine pair of dark wood double doors, and a shrine room with peacocks painted on bright green porcelain wall tiles. I raised my camera to take a picture of a Kali shrine, but then a woman in a green and red sari appeared, walking inside the little space behind the gate, so I shyly lowered my camera.

I found it painful passing rows of old women with begging bowls and trying not to look at them; maybe I should look at them when passing, even briefly, although I’m often too timid to look at people in general.

We passed people in faded, ragged clothing, buildings with cracked and chipped walls painted bright colors that hadn’t been repainted in a long time, and colorful Hindu murals. Painted good luck swastikas flanked a few wooden doors, and they didn’t remind me of Nazis; Nazi swastikas are at an angle, anyway. Finally we came to a section of the lane lined with little shops where people sold grains, spices, posters, beads, or statues. I saw on the stone pavement to my left a pile of discarded terra cotta bowls mixed with rubbish. I saw dogs and puppies with or without a skin disease.
My rubber-soled canvas sneakers slid occasionally on the slick stone pavement; so I walked carefully and watched my step, especially going up the few stone stairs, and somehow I managed to gawk the whole time, despite frequent glances at my feet. In the alley, scents that bombarded my nose included incense, spices, manure, burning trash, and sewage. Honking bikers and bell-ringing bicyclists came by as we neared a road big enough for vehicles, so in addition to cow turds we had to dodge bikes.

We made our egress out of an alley onto a bustling street crowded with rickshaws and bicycles and pedestrians and animals. A beautiful brown cow strolled through the center of the street, and I attempted to take a picture of the cow, but pedestrians and vehicles, especially rickshaws, kept blocking my view of the cow. I am cow. Hear me moo. Yes, the sacred cows wander around even in a metropolis like Varanasi. Since they’re sacred, they don’t have to worry too much about getting hit by a vehicle. The cow stands or wanders in traffic, perhaps thinking: “I am the It cow. I can block traffic all I want, because I am a Goddess.”

We returned to the hotel at about nine and had breakfast. It was bizarre to sit down at the table and realize how much we had already experienced. Like the White Queen of the Looking-Glass World, I could believe six impossible things before breakfast.

Next we headed for a contemporary art gallery called the Kiriti Gallery and dodged traffic across the busy street to arrive safely in front of the building. If it weren’t for Jagdish blocking traffic, I’m sure several of us, including me, would have gotten hit by now. Outdoors, looking at the art gallery, I had at first mistaken the white-washed building for a car dealer, but that’s because, like so many buildings in India, it has several doors that westerners only use as garage doors; by now I should be accustomed to that. A Ganesh plaque hung between two such doors.

Inside, we saw the exhibit called “Go Away Closer.” The artwork was all large black and white framed art photos by a young artist named Dayanita Singh. At least, I got the impression she was young, from something the art dealer said. She would have been there to meet us, but unfortunately she was sick with a cold.

After lunch at a south Indian restaurant, we returned to the gallery and had to wait for hired cars, because we would enter an area where large vehicles are not permitted. We waited for probably at least an hour in the gallery’s garden. I heard the constant swishing and rumbling and beeping of traffic and stared up at the weird nut tree and watched the mynah birds playing. In the garden I gazed up at the tree and the birds. I also closed my eyes to meditate, but Nandini interrupted to show me pictures; she was taking pictures of sangha members and showing them to us. Even her photos are good for a five-year-old. Ultimately I took out a book, Where the Buddha Walked.

Four cars finally appeared on the other side of the trees, and there was much cheering. They had been stuck in traffic all that time; that’s hardly surprising, given how much whizzing by and honking we witnessed during the wait. We had a choice among four cars that can each hold about seven people or more: two in front, three in the middle, and at least two in the very back, if you don’t mind sitting facing sideways. The wait had been so long that four people wanted to go back to the hotel and relax, so they all climbed into one car. The rest of us piled in to head for the ghats. I can’t pass up an adventure.
The cars stopped in a wide dirt path that might be construed as a parking lot, and we piled out to gawk at the big black cows next to our car; they were the kind of cows that have curled horns and big pretty black eyes. I didn’t think cows were beautiful until I came to India. We walked toward the beach and admired the Ganga, the boats, the animals, and the Hindu temples.

Three light-skinned young guys headed toward the water and glanced at us; they wore bright orange robes and sandals and had thick and curly shoulder-length hair. They reminded me of a Hippie guy I knew in college, who grew a beard and wore sarongs, but I could say he was trying to be what they really were. Perhaps they were a type of saddhu or Brahmin.

People gawked at us as much as we gawked at them, as usual. We heard music coming from a loudspeaker, and I said, “That sounds like Bollywood music.”

“It’s watered down Bollywood music,” Natalie explained.

Behind us, Shantum appeared in the parking lot, waving his arms at us: we had gone in the wrong direction! So we returned to the cars and cows. We followed Shantum down a road, past a shop selling colorful goodies like paper lanterns, embroidered bags, and metal statues of Buddhas and Hindu deities.

We came to a ghat, above which a beautiful and elaborate old building loomed, and down the steps came a pleasantly smiling and stout older man. We met up with him at the bottom of the steps. Shantum introduced us with, “This is my friend Rana Singh.” He may have said more, but I was distracted because the name sounded very familiar to me. I reached into my bag and pulled out Where the Buddha Walked: a Companion to the Buddhist Places of India by Rana P. B. Singh. Ann and I had talked about the book in the hotel lobby that morning, and she had looked through it, seen the many maps, and said, “What a wonderful book! It’s all the places we’ve been going to, and a few more.” On the ghat, she was standing next to me, so I gently nudged her and pointed to the author’s name on the book cover. She whispered an exclamation, and Rana and Shantum noticed. Rana said, “Ah, you have my book!” Ann suggested I get his autograph.

The sun was quickly getting lower as, led by Rana Singh, we took a walk through narrow alleys and past ancient buildings and shrines. It was truly dark out when we came to a strange old well with square walls and steps leading down to it on three sides. In the brick wall without steps, straight ahead of us, there was an extremely tall (and I might add phallic-shaped) alcove ending with an arch at the top. Far below, at the bottom of the well, was a square aperture with water in it, connected to the Ganges but cleaner than the river.

Rana Singh gave us a history and mythology lesson on Varanasi, concerning lingas and such. He explained that every linga has two purposes: power, and after the ninth century they became decorative, and that Ishvalla is another name for Shiva, dancing and controlling cosmos. I’ve seen numerous versions of this image, with Shiva dancing in a flaming ring; a small one sits in my front hall. Rana said, “Demons came here because of powers of gods. People come to this city to get their souls cleansed.”

“Ganga touches everyone on a spiritual level, as a Mother Goddess; it’s your mother you’re dealing with. Some people dismiss it because it’s polluted,” Shantum said.
“The well represents the sun god and the earth goddess coming together,” Rana said. That reminds me of Newgrange, the Neolithic temple in Ireland, where sunlight enters through the door on the morning of winter solstice each year. “The water and earth are goddess symbols. Traditionally, women took off old clothes and put on new to descend into the well and bathe in hope of fertility.”

From the well, we went to a nearby lively little Hindu temple that I had observed from a distance and where people kept coming in, ringing bells that hang overhead, and praying. A priest with a big grey beard, shaggy hair and Coke-bottle glasses, wearing a bright red robe, occupied a little room with windows and a centered linga. The walls and floor were white porcelain tile; the floor was dirty, but I slipped off my sandals and walked around barefoot inside the temple. My feet are washable. As for getting cold, that certainly wasn’t a problem, because Varanasi is the warmest place we’ve visited; it felt like it was in the eighties during the day, in January.

I didn’t ring any bells, but I did stand before the central shrine, press my palms together and bow. The most interesting thing in that shrine was on its floor: the yoni and linga symbols but with a snake (a fertility/ goddess symbol), specifically a cobra, wrapped around the linga, rearing its head and sticking out five tongues. Rana said, “Each tongue represents one of the ancient elements: earth, air, fire, water, and space.” Also, in the tubular part of the yoni was a baby cobra, looking something like sperm. This was all made from a dark metal.

Snakes and dragons are goddess symbols, according to various books I’ve read on goddesses and mythology. When you come across a myth in which some Mr. Butch invades and murders or chases away a dragon or serpents, that’s about rejecting the goddess and embracing misogyny, patriarchy, and patriarchal practices such as war. Examples are Patrick, St. George and the Dragon, and Apollo. Of course, such myths are smugly written from the goddess-rejecting, cootie-infested jerk perspective.

At the little Hindu temple, we also saw small shrines on the walls, representing death and a few deities. The Death figure was a black mother goddess with huge round eyes and crazy hair. Maybe Death has a thyroid problem. We stepped out of the little temple, thus getting out of worshipers’ way, and Rana showed us a shrine facing the outside of this temple and containing numerous yoni and linga sculptures draped with marigold leis and presented with marigold offerings on little leaf plates.

We walked away and could see people praying at other small temples or shrines close by, with their palms pressed together, and Ann delightedly commented, “They’re always praying!” A small stone ox, Nandi, the ox that Shiva rides, sat facing another temple; it is a common enough sculpture facing the front doors of Hindu temples. A few feet away we stopped to look at a shrine with steps down to a linga circled with marigolds and shiny porcelain tile.

Rana said the fertility stuff is from a pre-Aryan religion that “got confused with Shiva and Parvati.” The goddess Aditi is the Hindu variation on Mother Earth or Gaia, and I am certain that she predates Hinduism by a lot, simply because the original religion, across cultures, is centered on a mother goddess who represents the earth itself. Another aspect of Hinduism that I suspect predates the religion is how cows are sacred because they are goddess symbols; at least two Hindu goddesses are sometimes represented as cows.

We wandered out on a paved platform above a ghat Two goats were seated close together in a corner by a short flight of steps; one goat was black and the other white, and the smaller one was probably a baby. Near the patio was a small one-story building and also tall old buildings with elaborate facades and monkeys climbing around on them. I thought it would be odd to be aware of monkeys climbing around on the walls and balcony just outside your apartment.

We could hear chanting and drums and looked out in the direction of the Ganga. A long boat moved slowly in the water straight ahead of us, and since it was after dark, it looked as though the boat was floating in the sky. I had to look carefully to figure out where the black sky stopped and where the black water started; the main difference was the texture of the waves. To the right of the boat, down on the beach, stood a structure of some sort, I think a hut made of sticks and a thatched roof. We saw in front of it lights, a bonfire, and movement: this was where the celebration was taking place, and Rana explained that this ceremony is a tribute to the goddess Ganga and puts her to bed. It’s done every night. Sometimes even goddesses need someone nurturing to tuck them in.

To our left, I heard a horrible, squawking and shrieking noise, and I turned to see several monkeys running around on the white façade of a stone building with embroidery-like decoration. “It’s a monkey fight,” someone said. We watched as two of these monkeys came closer and got down on a roof to the one-story structure close to us, and Jennifer, who sat under the roof, moved away saying, “I’ve never had to move out of a monkey’s way before.”

We drifted on and descended steps till we stood straight in front of the festivities and could see the ceremony much better. When we showed up and sat down on the ghat, kids with baskets of flower offerings approached us to peddle their wares, and I told a girl we already did it from a boat. The offerings were just like the ones we’d had that morning: leaf bowls containing marigolds and candles.

I settled my attention on the shack and the group of chanters in front of it. Down below, in the ceremony, a row of people on the beach stood with their backs to us, and they clanged cymbals. There were other participants, but I couldn’t see them as clearly. The important thing was I could hear the repetitive music, which, although not gentle like the Tibetan chanting in Bodh Gaya, was nonetheless hypnotic. I gazed out at the water that melded in with the dark sky, while I listened.

The ceremony ended, and we headed back toward the cars. We took a short ride to a Mediterranean restaurant, where we sat down on cushions in front of low tables on a veranda. The roof was made of sticks, and wooden poles held up the front open end of the veranda. A guy from Palestine owned the restaurant, and Shantum introduced him to us. As he stood in front of our table, smiled and bowed, I smiled and bowed back while wondering if he felt homeless. Shantum ordered for us, a tasty meal consisting of rice, vegetables, baba ganoush, hummus, and pita bread. I asked for a banana-flavored laasi, a cool beverage made of yogurt; it turned out to be really yummy, tasting rather like a banana milk shake. While we waited for dinner, Rana continued giving us lessons.

Shantum, when he contrasted the British enthusiasm for history and archeology with the Indian enthusiasm for mythology, said that Indians take mythology quite seriously, even literally. They really think there’s a boy with an elephant’s head, and that some goddesses have six arms.

Boogie on Down to Varanasi

I knew we had reached Varanasi when I saw many typical Indian booths selling produce, and before long we crawled in clogged up traffic consisting primarily of rickshaws, motor rickshaws, and buses. Honking and zooming motors barraged our ears. The traffic moved so sluggishly that many pedestrians, drifting past shops and vehicles, moved as fast as the vehicles.

I noticed two young women wearing orange tunics and was glad to see that the one in the brighter kamiz wore it calf length, like two I recently made; it seems like knee-length tunics are much more common. As I gazed out the window calmly, watching dingy-looking buildings and bustling pedestrians and a policeman in a brownish green uniform directing traffic and a chaotic mess of vehicles oozing along in four directions, I periodically observed the two young women in orange: they were walking as fast as our bus was moving. The scene looked like a Where’s Waldo book come to life.

Something else I noticed shortly after we arrived in Varanasi was a vacant lot or piece of land piled with trash through which pigs dug. They weren’t only the hairy black pigs I’m accustomed to seeing in India but also a few Western-looking black and pink pigs and piglets. Previously I had noticed primarily stray dogs digging through trash, which is bad enough. Bodh Gaya seemed much cleaner than Varanasi, suggesting that people cared about the beauty of the village.

We are staying at the Radisson Hotel, which is even more posh and extravagant than the other hotels where we stayed before Bodh Gaya. A doorman in a maroon uniform and a hat with feathers sticking straight up stands by the door, putting palms together and saying, “Namaste.” I gave him a big smile and greeted him the same way. Anywhere you step, male employees are bowing and scraping and saying, “May I help you, ma’am?” I want to say, “Yes, end poverty and war, thank you.” True, at least we’re giving these employees something to do. Most of the guests at the Radisson are Westerners, and we must seem frivolous and spoiled to the staff.

The only female employees I’ve seen at the Radisson are two young women at the front desk; they wear perfectly pleated dark green silk saris with black blazers. Even the servers at the restaurant are all male. Funny how no matter where you are in the world, the most posh restaurants have all male servers, but maybe I’m jumping to conclusions; after all, I’ve only been to a total of eleven countries on the entire planet, and I rarely hang out at the most expensive restaurants. Even the fast food place where we had had lunch on the way to Varanasi was staffed entirely by males.

In Bodh Gaya, Feroza and I had stopped at a booth where a woman sold sparkly, colorful adhesive bindi; we each bought a little packet of bindis, and Feroza explained that she likes to encourage saleswomen because they have it harder and have to get some sort of permit, unlike men. Clearly this country isn’t big on equal opportunity employment, even on a low-paying job level. Or maybe it’s more accurate to say that farms are the only places that have equal opportunity employment, which is hardly surprising when they’re family owned. I suspect that corporate offices are also likely to have many female employees.

Perhaps the reason that Shantum chose the Radisson Hotel is because it’s more or less next door to the silk shopping center we visited tonight, or maybe because it particularly caters to Westerners, judging by the other guests I’ve seen. During “Strucks,” Val pointed out that from inside this hotel, it doesn’t look like you’re in India. Or maybe Shantum brought us here because he wants us to totally freak out over the contrast between the beggars on the streets and our staying at such a luxurious hotel. I suspect that he’s nonverbally telling us something.

After thinking about it for a couple minutes, I have to say: forget the fact that this hotel caters to Westerners. I seriously think Shantum means this to be part of our learning experience. It sure beats Zen teachers I’ve read about who, if you say the wrong thing, grab you by the throat and try to strangle you. I think Shantum is way too nice to do that! Or I’m pretty sure he is. I think he is. Um, never mind.

At approximately five thirty in the evening our sangha gathered in the lobby. A little bakery, consisting of one glass display counter, sits in a far corner of the lobby, and I was curious about what looked like a surreal brown and white sculpture on the bakery counter. I approached the bakery for a closer look, when a guy in a textured maroon waistcoat came up to me and smilingly said, “This is all made of chocolate.”
“Wow!” I said, or something equally eloquent.
“Would you like some chocolate, ma’am?” Great, he was a chocolate wallah.
I smiled and said, “No, thanks, I was just curious.” Before drifting away I did manage to take in that dark brown strips formed a perpendicular zigzag pattern on the chocolate sculpture, and round puffs of white and brown chocolate were at every point, except where a cone of chocolate was accompanied by a curlicue. It was definitely not a Tibetan butter sculpture but vaguely reminded me of one.

The sangha exited through the hotel’s front door and across an alley where a man crouched between two monkeys on leashes; one wore a purple cotton dress. This shocked me as much as a slap in the face. I had no idea people still had performing monkeys on the street, and I have to admit this was the first time I realized it was cruel. The only places I’ve come across such a thing before is in books or black and white movies. But I had not hopped into a time machine before seeing the monkeys; it was unmistakably here and now. I somehow felt unclean even looking at the poor animals, under the circumstances, like how associating with relatives when they make racist, phallocractic, or militaristic comments makes me feel unclean, as if I were an accomplice.

Weaving Varanasi silk

We crossed a threshold in the next building, entered a side door, and walked down a narrow white hallway and into a room containing a row of weavers working at looms. The wooden looms and the shiny purple and gold silk fascinated me so much that at first I didn’t notice a few less alluring details. We sat on benches, and the manager in a brown uniform-like outfit gave a lecture on how the looms work. I finally noticed that all the weavers were old men, not a single woman. Once again, I was weirded out by the absence of equal opportunity employment in the twenty-first century.

The manager said that on these looms the workers make brocade, from silk and gold, and that India is the second largest maker of silk, after China. It used to be made with real gold, for Maharajas. “Now it’s not for Maharajas, so it’s not real gold anymore,” the manager said with a big smile.

I sat with Feroza and Jennifer, and while everyone else ooohed and aaahed over the fabric, Jennifer pointed out a few things that I’m ashamed to admit I hadn’t noticed on my own. Under fluorescent lights that are not exactly good for the eyes, the workers sat on wooden benches that bowed in the center and that were held in place by a small pile of bricks at each end of the board. I looked at these appalling things that Jennifer had observed on her own so quickly and was suddenly abashed. I noticed that the weavers wear thick glasses, though that could be to magnify the fabric. Visiting India is, in some ways, like walking into a Charles Dickens novel.

Jennifer said, “Sometimes I get upset about things that don’t seem to bother others,” and she also mentioned the monkeys and asked me if I’d been upset about them.
I said, “Yes, the monkeys upset me! But I didn’t notice the working conditions until you pointed them out, other than that they’re all men.”
“Yeah, that’s another good point,” she said.

This got us on the topic of whether women are allowed to do handicrafts, and I looked down at my mirrorwork bag and said, “I’m sure they do embroidery and mirrorwork like this.” I remembered reading in a children’s book, at work, that at least in some regions of India women and girls are paid to do embroidery at home. That reminded me that in New York a hundred years ago, immigrant families, parents and even small children, made clothing in their tenement for a small wage; the conditions for these women and girls doing embroidery in India nowadays are probably better than that, however. I certainly hope so.

One of the weavers sat across the narrow room from the others, and his loom was right next to us. He handed me the graphed-out design of the image he was weaving; it was framed and under glass, and the same patterns are woven in varying colors. After looking at the design, I passed the framed image to Feroza and Jennifer, and they admired it. Perhaps he understood some of our conversation, because he also gave Jennifer a strip of shiny pink silk thread and tied it around her wrist. I thought that was really nice.

A green donation box is attached to the wall by the front door of the strange little room with the weavers, and as we headed for the door, Jennifer asked if the money goes to the weavers, not the manager. The manager said it goes to the weavers, and even a weaver nodded yes, so Jennifer, Feroza and I went ahead and donated. I put in two hundred rupees, which I realize isn’t much.

Disgust and sorrow at the weavers’ working conditions didn’t stop us from shopping enthusiastically in a silk shop on the third floor of the same building. Samples of elaborate silk brocade hung on the wall, shopkeepers showed us bedspreads decorated with elephants and peacocks, and Dornora looked earnestly interested in getting a bedspread. Shawls and scarves lay stacked and draped throughout most of the store, and many of us descended upon them like locusts. On a bench between two pillars, I noticed colorful silk scarves dotted with beads and sequins, and it didn’t take me long to pick out a predominantly turquoise one for myself. I selected three paisley silk shawls for gifts and headed for the cash register.

After I paid, many of the sangha were still absorbed in shopping, picking up and trying on many shawls and scarves, checking them out in a mirror, and often putting them back down. What better way to wait for other shoppers than to continue shopping? I finally spotted the fabric yardage: two rows of shelves contained bolts of silk in a rainbow of colors. I had been hoping to buy fabric in India but until now had only come across shawls, scarves, saris, and other ready-made garments, not fabric for cutting out my own tunic or for making smaller projects such as a patchwork wall hanging. I remembered that in Ireland the fabric was measured in meters rather than yards, and I asked a nearby clerk, “Is that fabric measured in meters?”
“Yes,” he said. Again, all the clerks were male.
“I’d like three meters of…this,” I said, reaching for a dark turquoise bolt. He pulled down the bolt of fabric and started to unroll it, and I smiled; the weave had visible lines and was a shiny deep greenish blue. I got myself some Varanasi silk!

After I paid for the fabric, Shantum asked me what I got, and I smiled and said, “Turquoise silk, to make a kamiz!”
“Oh!” He said. “You sew?” I replied in the affirmative, and he seemed impressed, even though I didn’t think to mention that I majored in theater costume design for a couple years before getting my degree in creative writing.


Before we reached Bodh Gaya, I was not truly ready to write in my journal about the poverty, but I think I can write some more about it now, alone in this posh hotel room. Normally it’s easy for me to write, but this has been a huge jolt, and I start crying every time someone brings up the topic of the suffering, poverty, and squalor, or when I think about it. I experience this emotional reaction but haven’t analyzed the situation much, which is really uncharacteristic of me.

After writing the above words, I felt terribly agitated, rose from the desk, and paced back and forth. I intended to finally write down some comments on the topic of the poverty and squalor, comments I more or less thought up several days ago but hadn’t gotten around to writing yet, but instead of immediately hurrying over to the big executive desk and writing them down, I first paced and fretted about it. Sometimes even with this journal open in front of me, I zone out instead of writing.

I thought I was poor when I lived in St. Louis and worked part time jobs with no benefits and no health care, struggled to pay for utilities, went for six months without phone service, got a twelve cent raise at my extremely stressful box office job, endured rude customers and vicious conservative coworkers for the sake of a regular paycheck, and drove an ’83 station wagon till it practically fell apart around me. I thought I was poor, even though my wealthy Jewish grandmother bought me stock when I was a kid, and so I still managed to periodically buy books, clearance fabric, and addictive chocolate.

When I thought I was poor in those circumstances, I sometimes reminded myself that some people had my earned income but no stock dividends, and they might be single mothers with dependent children rather than a couple of cats. They might work two or three jobs, as I did, and struggle to take care of themselves and their kids. They and their children might be living on ramen and boxed macaroni and cheese. Unlike me, such women probably don’t have a college degree and lots of artistic creativity that supplies the potential to eventually get a better life. When I reflected on this, I remembered that some people are financially worse off than I.

Varanasi silk samples

Someone is always worse off than someone else. I occasionally think about my potential to be homeless and even start to imagine what it would be like, and the first thing that occurs to me is that as a writer I wouldn’t have a wall into which I could plug a computer. Before coming to India, I had seen homeless people on the streets of St. Louis, Boulder, Chicago, San Francisco, Washington DC, London, Dublin, and even once in a while Topeka or Lawrence, Kansas. Everyone suffers.

Yet the suffering I have seen here in India is on such an extremely massive scale. Mairgret described it as a nightmare. I have seen squatter’s homes that have been transformed into rubble; a plethora of begging and filthy children; rows of beggars lined up on the street or at the edge of a path; both adults and children with mangled legs that they drag on the ground, and/or with a burnt face, because their parents crippled them to ensure they have a career as a beggar; bodies lying on sidewalks for lack of a better bed; and shops made of sticks and rags. Normally, I have strong opinions and think I know the answers and know how to take action and how to change the world, but the poverty in India leaves me shell shocked and out of my depth.

It is difficult for me to process all this, and I feel considerable shame and guilt. It could have been me, after all, and I am someone who now lives in material comfort but psychological and emotional starvation, yet is reluctant to move to the west coast because of the uncertainties of keeping up with extremely high rent and finding another job that pays decently. Perhaps this is cowardice, or just indecision. Whatever it is, I don’t misuse the concept of karma to callously justify why I have much more material comfort than other people have. I think a great many people misuse karma as an excuse for oppressing others, thus not only being devoid of compassion but also conveniently overlooking the little detail that oppressing others means reaping bad karma for oneself.

Part of why poverty upsets me is because I want to help and do not know how; it’s overwhelming. It is maddening to see so much suffering and to do nothing about it. Something has to be done about it, such as no longer having governments that would rather waste money on guns and bombs than spend it on helping the people, but to have instead the majority believing in interconnectedness and participating in a vast movement toward compassion, peace, and empathy and helping those in need worldwide.

Whatever life throws at you, you have to deal with it one way or another and decide what to do, how to handle the crisis situation or even just a situation that you simply do not like and think shouldn’t be a part of your life. Living in a hostile and alienating town where I have undergone verbal abuse from unbelievably intolerant and closed-minded relatives is all it has taken to cripple me with the most severe and despairing depressions I have ever experienced. I have experienced indecision over the past three years about when and whether I should give up the comfort of the house my uncle left me, pack up, and head for the west coast, to a community that will hopefully be tolerant, therapeutic, spiritual, and artistically thriving.

What if I had, in addition to psychological pain, the extreme physical pain of an emaciated polio victim who moves by crawling across the ground? What if I had, in addition to psychological pain, poverty such that I would be living on the streets and begging? People here in India endure that all their lives, and they beg and endure looks of revulsion or pity, or eyes quickly turned away, every day of their lives. I don’t think I could be strong enough to survive like that, even if it was all that life threw at me.

My sense of guilt over all this poverty I’ve encountered in India is in part because I don’t appreciate enough what I do have. In addition, I find myself suspecting that maybe if I were a wonderful person, I’d receive more acceptance and understanding and own fewer material possessions. Someone who is psychologically and spiritually healthy is less likely to use shopping as therapy; having more things does not compensate for what is lacking inside. Instead of feeling grateful for the excessive material things that I have, I feel rather ashamed. I live alone in a two-story house; “a room of one’s own,” as Virginia Woolf put it, is important for me, but a house that size seems extravagant now that I’ve come to India and seen how little space people have here. Why should I have so much space and paraphernalia, when others have so little? Far from feeling smug about my material wealth, I’m acutely aware, more than ever, that it doesn’t make up for psychological, mental, and emotional starvation.

Staying in such a luxurious hotel when I’ve seen so many poor people and so much squalor leaves a bad taste in my mouth. I pull aside the curtains in this posh hotel room, and I see ugly buildings partially torn down and a derelict building with one lit window. It’s like “The Masque of the Red Death.” In here is luxury and it seems safe, and out there is the plague.

Seeing so much suffering in India has given me a strong suspicion that Siddhartha Gautama had plenty of opportunity to see people suffering in much the same way, during his walks around northern India. Perhaps he even saw ragged figures pulling polio victims in small wagons when he crossed the river to Varanasi. Clearly, the Buddha was deeply moved by the suffering of others, and that was the main motivation and inspiration for his spiritual journey. Having been a social reject and an underdog from a very early age, I have connected with underdogs and far from kissing up to the evil status quo, I have sought to overthrow it and to live outside of it, thus to alleviate the world of suffering in addition to my own suffering. I have often done a poor job of this, but at least my heart is in the right place, and my actions have improved in recent years and should continue to do so.