Shiva's Night

[Best read while listening to music by Emancipator]

Farewell Nepal, Hello India
The rickety bus winded through the lush Himalayas of Nepal, and through the window I  studied the terraced rice fields, chiseled into the mountain slopes like giant green steps.  One lady traveler had been loudly adamant about keeping her luggage inside the bus, worried that it would fall off the roof. I'd also read about this risk, but I wasn't about to pay double to keep my bag on a seat beside me. The road followed the bends of a half-flowing river, and I forgot all anxieties while taking in the scenic beauty. In the end, after a ten-hour ride, we made it safely to the border with nothing missing.  

After so much hassle getting a visa, the actual crossing was easy. Diego and I walked through one arch and it was goodbye Nepal. A further 30-metre walk through no man's land brought us through another arch into India. After weeks of frustration and banging my head against a wall, I'd finally made it onto Indian soil. The arrival form required a local Indian address, so I copied Diego: "Rasta Café, Gokharna, Karnataka". We hopped into a jeep for the last two hours to Gorakhpur, a transit town where we'd be spending the night.  

Toiling up the Himalayan road

Diego

I found out more about my new traveling companion along the way. Bald, blue-eyed, bearded and tattooed, Diego was in his late 20's. He'd worked various handy jobs in Italy for a decade before deciding he'd had enough, and as the onset of economic crisis affected Italy, he left. Making his way to India, he stayed for six months until his visa expired, then went to Australia for a one-year working holiday visa, picking fruit at various farms and roaming the continent in the process. Aussie fruit-picking money is apparently very good, and by the end of the year he'd saved enough money for more travel. He came straight back to India, a place he loved and where he could stretch his money.  

Diego spent a month here and a month there, from Srinagar in breathtaking (but conflict disputed) Kashmir in the far north to the Kerala backwaters in the far south. He'd seen much of India's beauty, and his stories added color, depth and a filter to my brick of a Lonely Planet. The plethora of experiences allowed Diego to know India, but he by no means understood it. By habit, I asked about every situation or observation that didn't make sense. He faced my questions with a wistful shrug, emphasizing his one-word explanation with a hand gesture and a heavy Italian accent: "India!"    

Having made a life of traveling, Diego had mastered the art of frugality. He helped me appreciate how cheap one could actually live in India, though it required a few more steps outside my comfort zone. At least we stayed in a guesthouse room that first night, overpriced as it was (typical of transit towns) and filthy to boot. When we bought our train ticket at the station, I stood gaping at the masses of people sleeping on newspapers and mats on the floor. It wasn't a new idea to me, but here it was expressed everywhere: regardless how dirty the ground is, the moment you spread something (comparatively) clean on it, you have a piece of real estate to call your own. People took off their shoes before stepping on mats, the same way I would before stepping into my house. Nothing beats free accomodation.    

The immediate perk to having Diego as a traveling companion was that he attracted all the attention from the locals. I didn't have to worry about being constantly approached by vendors, hustlers and curious Indians. They were all far more interested in my bearded white friend, allowing me to blend in and play second fiddle. Diego was easygoing and laid back, a man of action and few words. He was excited at the prospect of learning some martial arts, and possessed qualities that made him an ideal training partner: athletic, quick-learner, similar size to me, with a blue collar work ethic and, above all, abnormally low heart rate that made him a cardio machine.

The Way to the Holy City

We boarded the train in Gorakhpur at the break of dawn, and an eventful ride brought us to Varanasi shortly after midday. Leaving the station, I came face to face with the scorching Indian sun for the first time. The heat was smothering, and chaos increased with each forward step. We threaded the crowds only to be hounded by taxi and rickshaw drivers at the station's entrance. Diego figured that cheaper transportation would be found further away from the station, so we shouldered our bags and crossed the melee of traffic.  

In the middle of the road, unimpressed by the surrounding frenzy, stood a cow, smugly chewing. It must've been the cockiest looking cow I've ever seen, but I didn't have time to dwell on it, as I focused on maneuvering through the aggressive vehicles. There's a magic traffic signal I learned in Dhaka, which I call "The Hand": you walk purposefully in the path of an oncoming vehicle, look the driver directly in the eyes and hold up your hand. As long as they aren't coming in too fast, they will stop and let you pass, every time.     

A few long minutes later, as we approached the line of auto-rickshaws, I was already overheating. This severely hampered the negotiating process with the drivers, and we paid more than expected. I didn't care, relishing in the shade and mild wind generated by our rickshaw chugging through gridlock.

We arrived in the area of Assi Ghat, where I let Diego take charge of finding a room, given he was a) the more seasoned India traveler, b) more familiar with room rates, and c) on a tighter budget. There were very few available rooms and practically none in our price range. The innkeepers cited some holiday we weren't aware of, and we, thinking it was some bargaining ploy, moved onto the next guesthouse. And the next, and the next, until desperation forced us to settle on a room at the sixth spot. It was sparse and dingy, with no furniture other than the thin wooden boards of the bed. There was a large hole in the wall above the door, connecting our airspace to the hallway outside, meaning mosquitoes could freely come and go. But given the circumstances, anything would do. Exasperated and thirsty, we dropped our bags to regroup, waiting for the sun to wane before venturing out again.

Along the Banks of the Ganges

We emerged from the guesthouse to find two chewing cows lounging in our narrow alley, tails swiping at the bothersome flies. Diego knew of people who'd been gored on cow horns before, so we cautiously skirted by them, giving plenty of  space and watching for sudden movements. A short stroll brought us upon the banks of the Ganges River, where the energy thickened around us. The terrain was barren and dry, dotted with garbage and grass.  A large group of dark cows gathered at the edge of the water, socializing. The water itself was still and serene, and mirrored the color spectrum of the sunset sky above. It reminded me of an Impressionist oil spill, and there was a sense that these were no ordinary waters...whispers of the eternal floated by here. Looking across, the width of the river reached the horizon, where squat shapes of distant buildings broke up the flatness of the land. Ahead along the riverbank spread the ancient holy city of Varanasi, curving with the river as far as the eye could see. Small, simple rafts floated in the distance. 

Ganges riverbank

We made our way around a hill where there was a large pile of cow manure. Two women were bent low, packing the cow pat into crescent-shaped half disks and arranging them along the side of the hill to dry. I'd seen something similar in Bangladesh, remembering that the manure was used as fuel. We continued along the riverbank, and the activity gradually increased. Long boats were moored to the edge, while local Indians of all ages were bathing in the water. Some squatted next to the river and washed their face, some went in fully clothed. Others stood waist-deep in the river and dunked their heads in repeatedly, mimicking an upside down sit-up motion. Groups of women walked along the steps, vibrant saris swaying with their motion in the wind. There were more foreigners here, and we stopped to witness a young boy selling a floating candle to a Caucasian girl, guiding her footsteps into the river and murmuring blessings while she released the light onto the Ganges. Despite the huge crowds of people by the river, the spiritual aspect of the activities invoked a peaceful, calm energy.

The western bank of the river, on which we walked, was lined with the famous ghats of Varanasi. A wide, flat embankment ran alongside the river, with steps built in that led both down to the river and up to the city. At the top of the steps, sandstone buildings and temples perched on multi-storied walls. These walls were marked with holy graffiti, powerful messages and images evoking the spirits of the Indian gods.  

There were clearings on the steps where several bonfires blazed, adding their pungent smoke to the ancient dust. We took a picture of one bonfire, and a nearby man reacted angrily, waving us off. Other tourists were participating in Ganges rituals, next to Indian men that stripped down from business casual to speedos and jumped into the river, splashing around and thoroughly enjoying themselves. One building had holes that were leaking what smelled like urine, down the multistoried wall onto the embankment, and down the steps. 

I tried to take it all in at once, but I hadn't fully adjusted yet when things went from strange to mind-boggling. We were about to walk into the Twilight Zone.  

Bathing in the river

Holy Tents

As we proceeded, the holy color of orange became more prominent, and I assumed everyone wearing orange was religiously affiliated, like the Buddhist monks. Except orange cloth is where the resemblance to a monk ended. One holy man sat on the steps in an orange robe with a full, black beard. He had the longest dreadlocks I've ever seen, flowing from his head down his body and running along the ground as if on display. They must've been over six feet long. 

We entered a tent city, set up along both sides of the embankment. The intertwining smells of incense and ganja thickened as we walked through, the smoke billowing out from every open-faced tent. Holy paintings and artifacts were set up inside the tents, and the holy men sat cross-legged on mats.  

We tried not to stare too long at anyone, nor did we stop at any of the tents. Neither of us had a clue what was going on, so we didn't want to disrupt anything. My eyes took in a sea of face paint, beards, matted locks, beads and robes. The holy men started appearing with less clothes and more ash on their bodies, until every tent housed another naked, ashed and dreadlocked holy man. There was no standard uniform or pattern that identified hierarchy or roles, though it seemed to me that the ones who looked more extreme were held in higher regard. 

Alone or in groups, the holy men chanted and smoked ganja in chillum pipes. Others contorted their naked, ash-covered bodies in painful-looking yoga poses, genitals exposed.  A few Westerners sat amongst the holy men, travelers like us or apparent converts to Hinduism, judging by their own flowing robes and dreadlocks. It occurred to me that Rastafarianism may have borrowed many of their traditions from what I was seeing, given that this was much, much older.  

It felt like we'd been transported to another dimension, or maybe another millennium  I was completely unprepared for what I saw, and could barely process, let alone begin to understand, what was happening before my eyes. My mouth probably gaped open the whole time. Eventually the smoke thickened to the point of choking us and burning my eyes. We could no longer stand the embankment, and scaled the steps into an alley between buildings, entering Old City.

Marco Shedding Light

The narrow alley was dimly lit, quiet and empty. The assault on the senses abruptly stopped here, allowing us some respite. I took a few deep breaths and cleared my eyes before we stepped onto the main street, where noise and chaos resumed. However, this time it was the more familiar busy-ness of pedestrian tourism, advertisements abound for restaurants and guesthouses, internet cafés and yoga classes. The cobbled road was narrow, forcing us to walk single file in places when traffic came bustling the other way. There were droves of Indian pilgrims with painted faces and no shoes, chanting and yelling as they moved along the road. The air was charged with an inexplicable energy, and the locals seemed to know something we didn't. Here and there a holy man (with clothes on) walked the road, stopping to talk with shopkeepers. We explored the length of the road, and settled on a place for some dinner. There was precious wifi available, and Diego tried to contact his friend Marco, a fellow Italian he'd met in Kathmandu, who was also supposed to be in Varanasi. There was no word, so we started making our way back, intending to call it a night.  

Then we bumped into Marco.

He was comfortably sat amongst a group of Indian men when we came upon him. Cutting a prominent figure, he was tall and broad-shouldered, with a strong jawline, piercing eyes and blond hair that extended to the shoulders. Frankly he looked like Fabio in a pastel T-shirt. We exchanged pleasantries, and while Diego and Marco caught up in Italian, I chatted with one of my new Indian friends. He seemed quite charmed with Marco, and was happily extending his warmest hospitality to me as a friend of Marco's.  

Marco bid his group farewell, and we headed to his guesthouse around the corner. It was only then that I realized Marco had only just met those men, though they behaved like they'd been friends for years. The casual, confident charisma that Marco emanated was an unspoken declaration that he belonged, wherever he was. Reaching the entrance of the guesthouse, we climbed the steps to the fourth floor roof. Marco brought mats from his room and we sat there on the roof, between the noisy city below and the silent stars overhead.  

In this elevated state, Marco shed light on what was going on, from what he understood, being here three days more than us. Turns out we were very lucky indeed to get in today, because tomorrow was the last day of the 55-day Kumbh Mela. During Kumbh Mela, millions of Hindus make a pilgrimage to bathe in the sacred Ganges. This year was the Maha Kumbh Mela, "the big one", which happens only once every 12 years. (I later found out that it was actually once every 144 years.) The significance and cosmic energy was thus heightened, and thousands upon thousands of Indian pilgrims and tourists were descending on Varanasi now, the city's rooms swelling to the brim. Many would be sleeping on the streets tonight.

The last day of Kumbh Mela is a festival called Shivaratri, directly translated as "Shiva's Night". All I knew of Shiva was that he was one of the three main deities in the Hindu pantheon, called Shiva the Destroyer. But I would learn that Shiva had many incarnations, including being the god of ganja. Shiva's followers would be paying homage to him by firing the chillum; others by drinking bhang lassi, a notoriously potent drink that led to unpredictable consequences. 

I asked about the holy men we had encountered. Marco called them sadhus or babas (I later found out they're also known as yogis). He described them as ascetics--men who had renounced their families and material possessions to meditate in solitude. They were loyal followers of Shiva, given that another of Shiva's incarnations is the god of sadhus, in the form of an ascetic abstaining from all worldly pleasures. As such, the sadhus are much like monks in Buddhism, except that they don't follow a master and join a temple, but live in the mountains, caves and forests, making occasional pilgrimages to the holy cities.  

After 12 years of meditation, an ascetic should have achieved some measure of purification and enlightenment, and would return to civilization during Kumbh Mela and get voted in to become a baba or sadhu. It wasn't clear from Marco's depiction how the 'voting process' occurred, but regardless, a sadhu was considered a living saint, venerated by Hindus as such. Living in front of the Ganges in tents, the babas had disciples and followers devoted to them, and people would come to ask for blessings and give alms to them. The nakedness was an extension of the ascetic way of life, and the ash on their bodies served to purify them, supposedly warding off infection and disease.

Personally, Marco thought they were all crazy, and remarked that the social interactions between the babas often resembled kindergarten kids. They would hang out with foreigners because it made them feel special, and more powerful compared to the other babas. 

The bonfires where we passed marked the burning ghats, and each fire was a cremation. People came from all over India to die in Varanasi, and to have their bodies cremated so their ashes could return to the Ganges. In the same way, they hoped for their spirits to return to the afterlife for reincarnation, or even to escape the cycle of rebirth and death. However, not everybody could be cremated: babas, pregnant women and children under age ten are not burned. Their bodies are floated into the river whole, and left to decompose naturally. The bones and skulls apparently wash up on the other shore, the associated diseases a major health concern.

There was no question that the fire we took a picture of had a corpse in it; the wood was arranged around the body in such a way that it wasn't obvious to us. No wonder our picture taking provoked such a reaction. Out of respect for the dead, I made sure to delete it. 

The conversation then turned to Marco himself. He was in his mid-30's, and had started traveling at the tender age of 16. His wife was from Finland, and they lived with their son in Stockholm, though he operated a cashmere business out of Kathmandu. For the first three years of his son's life, they were a traveling family. To the point where the poor kid would pick up bits and pieces in half a dozen languages, but was constantly confused on which was which.  Luckily at age five he was figuring it all out.

Being based in Kathmandu, Marco had been to India many times. He was in fact at Allahabad during the Kumbh Mela last month, at the turn of the river where the millions went to bathe. For him the babas and sadhus were nothing new, and he'd already made friends with a few during his days in Varanasi.

Baba

We left the rooftop in search of chai. Finally there was a degree of familiarity here, as I'd bought tea from street vendors everyday in Bangladesh. But then I turned around to see a cow in the the middle of the street, a flowered wreath strung over its horns. It was also an incredibly wrinkled cow; it was at that moment that I realized I'd never seen an old cow before. All the cows I'd encountered had been slaughtered before they got to this age. I was turning to make a remark about this to Diego, when I realized we had company.  

A baba had walked up to Marco and was chatting excitedly to him. He was mostly naked, except for a loincloth that covered his private parts. Ash was smeared all over his skin from head to toe, and his hair was matted on top of his head. Judging by his lack of facial hair and thick locks, this baba must have been pretty young. Marco and him acted like old pals, laughing and joking together while Diego and I stood dumbfounded.  

The baba insisted that Marco join him on wherever he was going. Marco gestured to us, saying he was occupied and didn't want to go. But the baba wouldn't take no for an answer, and motioned for Diego and I to also join along for the excursion. So we finished our chai and set off, following the baba. He walked nonchalantly through the thickening crowd, stopping at various stalls and examining their wares, purchasing a few items. He was given plenty of space, other Indians passing by him with expressions of reverent awe, as if they'd seen a celebrity. Some cautiously approached him for a blessing, overjoyed when they received one.  

After the baba was done at the market, he headed back down to the embankment. By now it was so crowded that it became almost impossible to keep up with him. There were no longer any gaps through which we could squeeze, and the people bunching around us started to push and shove. The baba was probably unaware of this, but at one point he stopped, waited for us and, reaching into his bag, offered us a candy each.  

We accepted it graciously, and though the candy wasn't the most delicious, it served as a memento of the baba's patronage. Immediately, a respectable amount of space was created around the four of us, creating an air bubble within the surge of people. Everyone showed fearful respect and adulation to the baba, which extended to us as his entourage.

We were soon facing the Ganges again, descending a wide staircase to the embankment.  People were sleeping on every piece of available pavement next to the steps, the huddled bodies fully wrapped in sheets. I briefly wondered how they breathed with the sheets wrapped around their heads, but it seemed like the threat of the constant gnats was greater than suffocation.   

As soon as we were on the embankment we were caught up in a massive procession: huge crowds of mostly men around us marched briskly. The men all bore similar markings: painted face, bright sash worn over their clothes, no shoes. Each man carried a sack with them, and they yelled slogans and cheers as they went along, their enthusiasm pervading the entire embankment. Some men ran full speed through the crowds, as if anxious to get to the next destination. There wasn't a single foreigner in sight.

We saw the other sadhus again as we walked through the tent city, and one particularly well-situated baba was fully naked, wearing Ray-Ban's and swinging a hand drum in rhythm with the band around him. Reaching our baba's tent, we took off our shoes and stepped onto the mats. A disciple tending to the baba's tent began stoking a fire inside the tent. Instead of wood or charcoal, dried cow manure was used as fuel. I was surprised to find that it didn't stink at all; perhaps my sense of smell had been temporarily paralyzed. The baba, smiling, gestured for us to sit around the fire.

Hundreds of barefoot pilgrims passed by in a minute, an unending stampede. Some would stare at the baba as they passed; others reached into their sacks and threw a handful of raw rice into the tent. Still others yelled out greetings to the baba, in deference. Depending (I suppose) on how he felt, our baba would bless them, ignore them, or show disdain and growl at them. When the crowds moved too close to our tent, or someone threw the rice too hard, he reacted savagely and got up to wave them off. The effect was incredible: as soon as they sensed his anger they fled, genuinely afraid. He swatted the crowds away with a motion of his hand. I learned later that much weight was given to the blessings and curses of a baba, which explained the behavior.  

Boom Shiva

I felt like a VIP sitting on those mats. None of the thousands of pilgrims passing by were allowed the same privilege, while the baba was extremely friendly to our group. He offered us gifts of flower petals, and motioned for Marco to prepare a chillum for him.  Marco obliged, demonstrating all manners of etiquette for Diego and I. The pipe was orange ceramic and straight, the size and shape of a finger. A cloth was used to filter the smoke for the chillum;  when you are passed the chillum, you find a space on the cloth that hasn't been used, and wrap your fingers over it to cover the mouthpiece. Never touch any part of the chillum directly to your mouth, so hold it accordingly. Marco was very grave on this last point.

The baba took the pipe, and Marco declared "Boom Shiva!" before lighting the match to it. Sharply inhaling, the baba handed it to Marco, who received it religiously. He also smoked it sharply, exhaling a thick column of smoke. He then touched the chillum to his head and passed it on to Diego. Monkey see, monkey do.

At first we couldn't communicate so well with the baba, whose only English words were "no problem" and "heavy". But an important Hindu phrase came in handy: "shanti shanti".  Shanti means peace, calm, or tranquility, so shanti shanti is double that, describing (or prescribing) calm and serenity. Slow it down and chill out. When I thought that enough rapport had been built with the baba, I tried to give him props. He quickly caught on and seemed to enjoy this new gesture.

Marco explained that it was fine to take a picture with the baba, as long as he (the baba) was given a print as well. We took a few shots, and the baba showed us other pictures in his collection. The baba assumed I was from Japan, since there were quite a few Japanese travelers around. As soon as he realized I was from China, I got even more VIP treatment. It seems he was very happy to have someone Chinese in his tent (presumably a rare occurrence), and motioned for me to sit at the place of honor next to him. He then gave me a wreath of flowers to wear around my neck, blessing me as he did so.  

Diego and our baba

We continued to partake in chillum. When the ganja ran out, the baba addressed the nearest group of pilgrims and demanded they make an offering of their chillum. They were happy to oblige. When we finished with that, he sent his orange longyi wearing disciple to go procure from the next baba. This ended up taking too long for our baba, who personally got up and swaggered out, to return after two minutes with two handfuls of herb.

It's hard to say how much time passed in that tent, but at some point the crowd seemed to dissipate a little. We decided it was a good time to take our leave. He wanted us to come at dawn the next day for the morning puja and watch him bathe in the Ganges. He also expected us to bring charras as a gift, and to have dinner with him. Bidding him "namaste", we set off on the embankment. Marco pointedly told us that we could ignore the baba's requests, and to see him when we felt like it.

When we returned to our guesthouse, it was locked and dark. We pounded on the door for an eternity before we were let in.

It was days later when we found out that tourists and travelers had been advised to stay away from the embankment during Shivaratri, because "it is not safe."

Return to Kathmandu

Oh That Red Tape

India has the most difficult visa process I've ever dealt with.  

The online visa application takes forever, asking invasively for visible identification marks, my parents' full names and reference persons on both sides of the border.  India and Bangladesh don't have the best diplomatic relations, meaning I needed to wait for an interview at the India High Commission before I could get my stamp.  The interview could only be scheduled after my Bangladeshi visa had expired, meaning I wasn’t getting into India from Bangladesh. 

This threw a massive wrench in my plans, and a decision needed to be made quick.  Frustrated with the Indian system, I considered skipping the country completely and flying straight to Turkey, my intended destination after India.  But flights were expensive, and at the end of the day I didn’t want to give up so easily.  Nahid and Tanbir both suggested I go through Nepal, and looking at a map it made absolute sense.  They also told me the India-Nepal border is less stringent, that many Nepalese can go across even with no visa.  Flights from Dhaka were available and much cheaper, so I bought a ticket to Kathmandu.

Back to the Beginning 

I hadn’t planned on coming back to Nepal so soon, because I was focused on exploring new countries.  However, the return brought me back full circle.  I had come here with borrowed maps almost two years earlier, to find God and myself by solo traveling for the first time.  I loved Nepal, its people, and my adventures there.  Time slowed down and I could think, away from the noise and stress of Hong Kong.  It was there, walking on the majestic mountains of the Annapurna, that I heard the call.  I also met a rugged man who was traveling the world for 18 months.   Though he had a callous, hardened outlook, he was the most interesting person in the teahouse.  We were regaled with stories about sleeping in Indian train stations and walking through no man's land to cross borders in North Africa.  Up to that point, I didn't even know you could travel for that long. 

Last time I had planned Nepal methodically, but I was also out for adventure, purposefully reckless at times to see how far I could push it.  It's not surprising that I ended up in some sketchy situations, exposing the glaring mistakes and thus some valuable lessons.  One thing I learned was, never enter a new city after sunset.  

This is partly why my first impressions of Kathmandu were stark and unpleasant.  I had arrived in the dark of night, and though I negotiated for a taxi, I was put instead into a minivan with two men.  We drove into a lifeless city with no lights and no people, and for a while it seemed like our vehicle was the only one on the road.  When we turned down a narrow alley, I began nervously clutching my bags, choking back the fear of the unknown. 

Though daylight chased away the shadows, it also revealed Kathmandu to be a dusty and tumultuous beast.  It was something like the second most polluted city in Asia.  So many stimuli assaulted the senses that an hour-long walk through the city streets proved an exhausting effort, forcing me to beat a hasty retreat to my hostel.  I grew to love Nepal mostly during my days in Pokhara.  Kathmandu remained a city of chaos to avoid at all costs.

Perspective is relative, after all.  Coming from Hong Kong, Kathmandu seemed senseless and dysfunctional.  But this time I was coming from Dhaka, and Kathmandu now seemed a familiar, peaceful haven where I could rest and regroup.  By comparison, the streets seemed less dusty and the traffic far less crazy.  It was also quieter because it was low season.  But there was plenty of infrastructure around tourism, and most everything was available for me to resupply.  People spoke English, so getting around was way easier than Dhaka.  There were friendly faces at The Sacred Valley Inn, where I had briefly stayed two years prior.  Finally, Nepal is not a Muslim country, and I could eat all the pork I wanted.

Sabali

It took fully two weeks, multiple trips to the embassy and a lot of patience to get my visa right.  (I heard that historically, the process was intentionally difficult to solicit bribes, but the online format has corrected this practice some.)  In the meantime, I refreshed, reflected and fattened myself up, since I'd lost around 15 pounds in the previous two months.  It didn’t take long to overdose on bacon, pork chops and pepperoni pizza.  

Waking up to the sight of the Himalayas on the horizon fed the spirit, and I tried to think lofty thoughts.  It was time to focus my attention on the Pandora's Box that was India: where to go, what to watch out for, how to get around.  I wanted to do it all, but didn't know where to start. From Bangladesh, it made sense to stop at Kolkata first.  But now entering from Nepal, the closest points of interest were Darjeeling and Varanasi.  I even went as far as writing Darjeeling as my point of entry on the visa form.  But in the end, a landscape of tea plantations paled in comparison to the allure of the holy city.

I was now ready and anxious to go, but was further delayed two days by a series of hartals.  The term is commonly translated to 'general strike', but is more appropriately described as a 'shutdown' of business and transportation, in protest of the government.  I was used to these in Bangladesh, where I witnessed five or six hartals as election year heated up and opposition parties amped up.  There was nothing to do but wait it out. 

Finally the hartal ended, and I booked a ticket for the first bus to the border.  I was well aware of the risks of these buses: the aggressive drivers, the treacherous mountainous roads, the bags and suitcases latched to the roof making turns even worse.  But it was the only way to go, no backing out now.

I got to the bus station as the sun rose, struggling to stay awake while mentally preparing for the bumpy 10-hour ride ahead.  There was one other traveler waiting to board when I arrived, whose name was Diego.  The scruffy beard marked him as a traveler, along with his faded ethnic red paints with the rainbow trim.  Hailing from Italy, he had been traveling India for several months already.  He had come to Nepal to renew his visa, and was headed back to India.  We were both going to Varanasi, and decided to travel together. 

I had no idea that all the delays in Nepal would lead to me visiting Varanasi at the perfect time.  And nothing prepared me for what was to come.