India (Part III): But my guts were tender and my judgment poor and ended up with me only embarrassing myself.

After a few nights of celebrating with Flo's classmates – beers under the table in Bhagsu’s hippest café “Cookies” – our time had come. Leaving Dharamshala should have been harder given how generous it was to us both, but amongst it’s gifts was a new confidence and an ‘onwards and upwards’ philosophy. Although in this case it was more southwards and eastwards - across the baking plains of northern India, from the scruffy backwater town of Pathankot (Punjab), through Haryana and into the otherworld of Uttar Pradesh – the most populous state in India and therefore the most populous country sub-division (i.e. state) in the world. We had booked first class tickets for this 20 hour hop and I had been enjoying visions of table service on the Orient Express. The luxury carriage would also be the most sensible place to be with my explosive belly complaints (it happens to us all in India). But it turns out that Indian first class is little different. I really need to get my expectations in check.

My upper bunk was inches from the ceiling and the chilling air-con vat. Opposite was an Indian family - mother and son on the bottom, father on top. The latter’s horizontal mass a seismic mountain range of peaks and troughs. Every gurgle, splutter and snore was like a volcanic eruption only three feet away! I tried to fight fire with fire with a few zingers of my own. But my guts were tender and my judgment poor and ended up with me only embarrassing myself. In the morning the family departed without a goodbye. I think my pleas (or were they screams?) in the night to STOP SNORING were not well received. Or maybe my own form of attack had soured the air... Anyway, it was the first time in India I had an experience that I didn’t feel enriched by.

That afternoon we reached our destination: Varanasi. The infamous hotbed of Hindu worship at its most primeval. It was Flo’s favourite place in India from her last trip here in 2009, but that didn’t instill any hope in me as I know Flo, and Flo is very subversive – often choosing to understand the challenging rather than basking in the ease. An American friend, Maura, had literally welled-up with emotion as she explained to me what she saw here – when she saw bodies being burnt on the Ghats. Another pal, Brandon, had also said he hated Varanasi. He said, “it stinks”.

And as soon as we leapt down from the train onto the platform it hits you. Like a furnace. The intense heat is nothing I’ve ever felt. Perhaps whilst opening an oven – only this time there was no delicious, bubbling lasagna in sight. We wobbled over the bodies that litter the ground -  families and children strewn everywhere – amongst the actual rubbish and snack-sellers and meandering cows. A rickshaw driver thankfully picked us up still deep inside the enormous train station and directed us out and into his vehicle. We hit he traffic, the wall of sound, the dust. For a good 15 minutes we don’t really talk, only occasionally reconvening to mention again that its ‘so F’in’ hot’. We do love chatting about the weather! Eventually, we settle on the third hotel he takes us to after the second one didn’t even have a window in the room. I’ve virtually expired, having not eaten in a full 24 hours. Flo takes control, scaling the stairs to the third floor to view an adequate room. It’s got air-con at least. Luckily one of the kids takes both our backpacks up to the room – that’s 40 kilos worth! - and we both nearly evaporate on the bed.

Varanasi is probably the holiest of India’s cities and arguably one of the most evocative places on Earth. Gong’s gong, bell’s ring, fires rage and Brahmin’s chant and pray. It’s difficult for me to understand Hindu mythology but Varanasi is home to Lord Shiva, the destroyer and creator of the universe. The holy Ganga runs from Shiva’s matted hair and snakes its way through the city – it’s west bank a mosaic of over 100 holy Ghats: steep steps leading to the hundreds of temples above. Some Ghats are terribly shabby and some incredibly ornate. Some have rituals and “pujas” being enthusiastically observed whilst others have street-kids playing cricket on them and gangs of savaging dogs that only bite after midnight. I think that’s why Hinduism, and indeed India, can be confusing to the western gaze. Our primary religions are just so orderly in comparison. Our Houses of God are robust in their design and our icons are suitably grave to evoke solemn devotion. Our holy spaces are impeccably maintained, so everyone knows the difference between the church and the street: the sacred and the profane. But in India there is no distinction. (Much like there isn’t one between the body and the mind). The brash colours of Hinduism and the mischief of its gods are vividly realised through the garish architecture by the river. Flo says Varanasi reminds her of Discworld’s “Ankh Morpork”: a delirious smorgasbord of reality and fantasy. Some of Ghats are ancient fortified edifices, sandstone in colour, Moorish in look and feel - they are imposing and mighty. Whilst others are shambolic: painted pink or bright blue, with twisted torrents or wonky watchtowers, drawn by a child who’s been on one too many Helter Shelters. It’s completely mad! But I sense that being exposed to Hinduism can help someone appreciate what a religion can be. It doesn’t have to be all righteousness and tucked-in shirts. Indeed, Flo has studied Hinduism and therefore has a much richer appreciation of it all. But for my Catholic schooling, I just find it all a bit bonkers!

As one of the oldest continuously lived in cities on Earth (allegedly it was an important hub of culture and education as far back as the seventh century BC) and the one place where most Indian’s will pilgrimage to at some point in the life (especially at the end of it), it strikes me that this ‘ere “Bengali Tola” – an ancient alleyway that is maybe the only one that generally follows a straight-ish axis and doesn’t lead us into a labyrinth of hellfire – has to be one of the most well-trodden paths in human history. Buddha visited here in 500 BC and the Islamic Mughal’s conquered Varanasi (and much of Northern India) a good millennium later. And then we witness the intensity of the evening puja at the Dasasvamedha (Main) Ghat – which has been religiously observed every single day without fail for nearly 3000 years – and my tiny little mind starts to explode... It is here where civilization as we know it emanates from. Not London Victoria.

But to be honest I think I was so exhausted by the 45c heat I barely noticed a thing. And my insatiable appetite for the local fare had completely gone - I couldn’t even muster a samosa! Through luck or instincts, we found the one gentrified café (Korean owned) where we could “trust” the food: pickled cabbage seemed much more digestible than ghee-fried anything. The inertia was so rife that we actually returned to this place the following day. But come Day Two we were starting to feel a bit more gregarious, especially after an exhilarating yoga session with Yogi Manoj. He is “convinced” I have what it takes to be a yogi, but I will need to concentrate and abstain from cigarettes, alcohol, drugs, meat and sex. I tell him (and myself) that I’m only in to it on a surface level! His mangy yoga studio is high up on one of Ghats, and with the morning sun rising over the Ganga, revealing the sands dunes and horses on the opposite shore, Varanasi for the first time displays something close to beauty.

That evening we venture down to The Burning Ghats and whilst petting some baby goats (perfectly normal behaviour in India) a young man called Soman starts telling us about what we’re about to see. He is “an untouchable”, the lowest form of Caste, and his family for seven generations they have been cremating bodies here. He tells us that Hindu’s have only seven hours from the moment of death to return the corpse to the river in ashes. Therefore families are constantly pilgrimaging their way to Varanasi with their sick loved-ones, whilst wealthier ones fly the body in as soon as they pass. From our vantage point, we witness two funerals.

A mount of 260kilos of wood is made. The corpse wrapped in white (man) or red (female) is carried out on shoulders by family members and onto the mount. There are no women present. One man only, the next of kin - be it father, brother, son – has already had his head shaved, then washes in the Ganga, adorns a new white toga and then lights the wood. The fire has to come from Shiva’s temple. The corpse, coated in balms and spices, slowly catches, and begins the burn. The smell isn’t as bad as I expect. Men crouch near the fire and chant prayers and share stories. The next of kin seems to be the only who outwardly displays grief, pacing up and down tirelessly like he’s in a cell. We presume one funeral must be for a father as a young boy lights the fire. The emotional refrain – no wailing, no tears – is a powerful one: it is an ardent belief in the gods and reincarnation. As you know, my last funeral experience was my fathers and the most horrible, sad time of my life. Possibly because I had had no contact with death before; no realistic concept of what it means. So this public ceremony seems to act as a public education – ‘This Is How We In India Process Death’. At first what seems brutal and primitive – burning corpses in the open – quickly becomes something humane and enlightening.

That said, I am thrilled we have our train booked for the following eve and we are leaving Varanasi behind. In the final week of our trip we would sleep three nights onboard “Sleeper Class” – banks of three single beds suspended on three levels by old chains: it’s potluck where you land and who you’re next to. It’s pretty filthy but the whole thing seems to work somehow on a community level. I sense that when you sign up to sleep in pubic in a crowd of bodies, putting yourself in quite a prone position, people naturally look after one another, maybe as a way of saving their own skin. One night there was a sudden mad rush to close the windows and a young Indian below us slammed ours shut. Obviously we are oblivious to what was actually happening but we learned there were thieves on the tracks grabbing what they could through the bars!

We reasoned that one moment of “Oh F**k!!!” wasn’t bad for 35 accumulative hours onboard, especially versus seeing Indian life in all it’s diversity in the tiny microcosm of a train carriage. I felt prepared enough, having spent much of my youth on the 23.58 “Vomit Comet” from Liverpool Street to Southend East! Gymnastic gypsy children, street-sellers, corrupt police and the infirm and the poor - all pour through the carriage as you try your best to pretend your asleep. The open windows are the only “bins” and everyone dispatches their rubbish and whatever else out onto the land without a moment's thought. The myriad languages: coarse Bengali, playful Dzongkha (Bhutanese), recognisable Hindu and scores of others all muffle together under the threat of the train’s bulk. We observe yogic postures in full effect that allow passengers to devour their homemade curries crossed-legged and without a wobble, whilst we rattle around the carriage, bumping our heads here, stepping on someone’s fingers there! The old lady in the berth beneath is at least 70 years young. It transpires that she is deaf and I find myself turning into Alan Partridge - does that mean it's going to be deadly silent or ear-splittingly loud? Definitely the latter. It meant her daughter spend most of the journey hollering right in her ear hole. About three feet away from mine! But all in all, we become wise to the rhythm of the train and can nod off; under the influence of industrial fans, chai tea and the latest “Serial” podcast...

Photo Credit Flo