Wow. Varanasi has almost left me speechless. Can you imagine? Of all people…me…speechless. I've never been anywhere even remotely like it, although I’m willing to bet there is no other place like it on Earth.
I woke up at 5:30AM in order to hire a boatman for the recommended row along the Ganges at dawn. The early eastern light cast a photogenic pall upon the western bank, and only served to compliment the throngs of people using the holy river for morning devotions. Lonely Planet claims that it is an experience that will "live long in the memory", and in this case they are absolutely spot-on.
Still, the triple-digit temperature and the unrelenting attention from scam artists sent me retreating to my room for refuge. While I enjoyed my air-conditioned asylum, and the TV that came with it, I could only keep my curiosity at bay until four in the afternoon.
The back alleys behind the Ghats are easy to get lost in; full of intrepid entrepreneurs, wondering cows (and the flies congregating around them), lepers cupping their fingerless hands asking for alms, corpses tied to the tops of jeeps. Despite my disorientation, I managed to find the Brown Bread Bakery, a place that runs a charity school and women’s empowerment center. I ate some homemade cheese, and a slice of chocolate pie that was drier than the Atacama. I looked into volunteer work through their organization, but as I expected, my short stay squashed any serious opportunities. But all was not lost, as I would soon find out.
Leaving the bakery, I saw a sign that read “Music House”. I decided to enter the dilapidated structure, and met the owner, Bablu, an award-winning master of the tabla drums, with two advanced degrees in music, and a song in a Bollywood film…and Vijay, sitar instructor and son of a renowned instrument craftsman. We chatted for about an hour over a pot of Chai, and upon learning that left-handed sitars did not only exist, but that Vijay could bring one to teach me with, I made an appointment for a lesson the following day.
Satisfied that I’d done something productive, I made my way through the maze back to my guest house, and happened upon two boys strumming guitars in front of a school. I approached them in order to snap a couple of photos, and was met by their guitar tutor, Anit. He invited me to come in and play a song. After I was done, he asked me if I would stay and teach with him. I had a great time. The boys were so enthusiastic about learning new chords and scales, and I in turn was interested to hear renditions of Indian pop hits. I ended up working there for four hours, and made a new friend in Anit, who hoped I could stay in town for another week to be a part of their academy’s upcoming recital. But alas, I had already bought my ticket to Agra. Teaching guitar to such appreciative pupils left me energized and excited for what the next day would hold. I had an excellent vegetarian dish made with paneer (a delicious cheese that doesn’t melt on the grill) on the rooftop of my hotel, and tried to get some sleep before my sitar lesson.
When I arrived at the music house, Bablu called for Vijay, inquiring as to why he was late. Talking on Bablu’s cell, Vijay said he’d taken his old music teacher to the hospital, and asked if we could postpone for a couple of hours. This didn’t bug me at all, but I could tell it bothered Bablu (the owner of the music house), and he began to open up to me about his frustrations with his younger and less responsible pal. He said felt obligated to give me a tabla lesson, but I could sense that he really just wanted someone to talk to.
Still, my tabla lesson was thorough. The differences between Indian classical and Western music are as vast as our differences in culture. Time signatures are few in number, but complex compared to the ones I know. I kept wishing that for a moment I could’ve switched places with the drummer in my band, Matthew, because I know he would’ve appreciated it more, and grasped the technique faster. But as I’ve alluded to above, I kept feeling like it was the conversation that Bablu craved most.
When Vijay arrived with a left-handed sitar for me to learn on, I was enthralled. Laboriously repeating scale and time exercises, I found sitar far less complicated than tabla, and knowing that options for those relying on the mano sinistre were out there, I couldn’t resist purchasing one for myself while I had the chance. As one might presume, the cost of the instrument was a fraction of what it would be in the US, and it was the first time I’d ever seen a southpaw sitar, so you know, I just had to have it.
The next day, I returned to the music house early to meet with Vijay, who had wrapped up my new toy and offered to escort me to the post office to help me mail it. Running late again, I sat with Bablu for a while and began talking. He seemed worried. It was during this conversation that he opened up to me about his recent troubles.
Married, with two children, and with his mother-in-law and sister’s family also sharing his household, Bablu told me about how a few months ago, his brother was murdered by a man who had firebombed his shop. I didn’t ask details about the nature of the feud, but just listened. He told me that in retaliation, he took his “licensed” gun (although I hardly understood why firearm registration made a difference) and shot the man responsible. He seemed more ashamed to have lost his head and done such a reckless thing than the fact that he’d capped the guy who killed his sibling. Although a court in Varanasi had deemed it “justifiable homicide”, he was now awaiting a new trial set to take place in the provincial capital (Lucknow) in just two days. In most cases, I might have been reluctant to remain in the room, but in the three days I’d known Bablu, he was one of the few people who never once asked for money…he gave me free music lessons, served me chai, and even bought me a Pepsi. You could see the distress in his eyes, and the fears he had about not being there for his family. Mind you, I’m not making excuses for a man I hardly know, but I have to say it was the first time I’d ever sympathized with someone charged with such a serious crime. He’s been the kindest guy I’ve met in India so far by far, and not once did I get a bad vibe from him.
When Vijay arrived, we took a tuk-tuk to the post office and shipped my sitar to Nashville, for less than either one of us had expected. Returning to the music house, we all sat around for a couple of hours, just talking, drinking chai, and having some laughs. Bablu even made a joke about a rope around his neck, which was a little awkward considering the fact that hanging is the potential punishment he faces if convicted in 48 hours. When I left, Bablu wished me luck on my travels and said he’d pray for me. I let him know I’d be praying for him too.
Prayer: It’s what Varanasi is all about. Millions of pilgrims come each year to the holy city. You can’t walk more than twenty feet before coming across some sort of temple or shrine, and cannot help but witness so many austere benchmarks of all aspects of life, from beginning to end. I’d been warned about the absolute lack of sanitation, the hustlers, and the overwhelming poverty. I knew it would be a challenge. What I didn’t know was that I’d fall in love with it. The “City of Life” marks the first place in India (and one of the few places on my trip) where I’ve made genuine connections with locals…and although I only spent four days there, Varanasi amazed me, and will hold a very special place in my heart.
