More Babas (Shiva's Night Part II)

Between last night's craziness, the heat and the mosquitoes, there was no sleep to be had. When the sun came up, we got up as well. It just got too hot. Hugging shade every step of the way to the embankment, I felt like a vampire, fearful of the oppressive sunlight. Gone were the pilgrim hordes from the night before…the embankment lay deserted. Though it was only morning, the sandstone had already absorbed so much heat that it was searing to touch. As we paused for shade, a boatman asked if we wanted a tour on the Ganges, but there was no way Diego and I could survive more than a few minutes in the open sun.  

The narrow avenues of Old City once again provided shelter and respite. The buildings were huddled so close together that we were forced to walk single file at times. All the pilgrims had retreated into Old City as well, packing the alleys and streets. There were more women among the daytime crowds, but everyone was still barefoot and loud with elation. 

Wrinkled cows clogged the back streets here and there, and the passing pilgrims patted and stroked them, murmuring prayers. If more than one cow parked itself in an alley, there was nothing to do but find another path around them.

After breakfast, we went to go find Marco, but he was not at his inn. Thinking he might be with our baba, we braved the baking heat of the embankment in search of them.  We found the baba sleeping on the mats at his tent. A nap seemed like a great idea at this point, the sweltering embankment and the swarms of Old City leaving us few other options. We retreated for siesta, along the embankment and through the baba tent city. 

The light of day did not reduce the shock of walking through this otherworldly place. The cloying smell of incense filled the air, and I caught a glimpse of a pair of transsexuals (called hijra) dressed in saris, earnestly kneeling before a baba to ask for his blessing. Several tents over, an naked ash-covered man stood upon the shoulders of another. The man on top held a sword, and the man on the bottom had his penis wrapped around a long stick. They made a loud commotion to attract attention, trying to draw a crowd. It was like a circus act, and I walked by feeling a mix of curiosity, revulsion and amazement. Something wasn't right, so we moved on.  

Spiritual or spectacle?

Puja

We spotted Marco on our way back to the guesthouse, again when we least expected to find him. He looked a little worse for wear, in the same clothes as the night before, eyes faded. He sat cross-legged in a large tent, observing some smoky ceremony. Several babas and other holy looking people sat around an ornament covered with flowers and spices. They were chanting ceaselessly, smoke wafting up from the flower ornament. One baba’s hand was raised high above his head the entire time. Outside the circle sat a ragtag collection of travelers (including Marco), observing the ceremony. We joined on the outskirts of the mat, and as Diego tried to get Marco's attention, I took a closer look around.

  

The other travelers seemed more in tune with what was going on, but I was judging the books by their covers. Regardless of gender and age, wherever they seemed to hail from, all wore brightly colored, loose fitting clothes. What’s more, every one had dreadlocks—some wore them dirty and unkempt, others beautifully braided and arranged. One man had a shaved head, except for three dreadlocks that sprouted from where the knot of a ponytail would be. Even Marco sported a solitary dreadlock that was exposed with his hair tied up.  

The dreads seemed to be a reflection of their commitment to a certain lifestyle, as well as the unquestionable mark of their belonging in this place.  Having spent months on the road, I was used to feeling out of place. But sitting there in a T-shirt and jeans, with not a single dreadlock on my head, I was a complete outsider...not fitting in with the locals or the foreigners. Luckily there was Diego next to me, who had no hair at all.   

Finally Marco noticed us, and came out to chat. As before, he helped to illuminate the situation. The babas were undertaking a puja, or prayer ritual, specifically for Shivaratri. The baba with his arm raised had not put his arm down for the last three months, and would continue to hold it up for months more. This was a self-imposed demonstration of his will and commitment to the holy life, and to God. I later tried to see how long I could keep my arm raised for, and it got painfully heavy after two minutes.  Give it a try sometime.

The arm-raising baba came over to speak to the travelers after the puja was finished, casually leaning his upraised arm against a tent pillar to rest it. Seemed a little bit like cheating, but who was I to judge?  

Marco introduced us to his friend Manu, who had just arrived in Varanasi. Manu was a world-famous chillum maker, selling handmade chillums for up to 200 euros apiece. His chillums were pieces of art, uniquely designed and perfectly fitted. Comparisons simply couldn't be made with the cheap ceramic chillum we had encountered the night before.  

Manu was quite a character, and had been to Varanasi numerous times.  He provided further clarity on various things I didn't understand. Apparently, not all the 'holy men' in Varanasi were actually bona fide sadhus. Many were fraudulent and adopted the appearance of an ascetic in order to receive gifts and alms. Others enjoyed being treated with reverence while leading a ‘lazy lifestyle’, doing no real work. It was a rule of thumb that if the baba asked you for money, he was a fake.

After breaking bread with Marco and Manu, we returned to our guesthouse for siesta.  

Burning Ghat

It was dusk when we came alive again. On our way back along the embankment, Diego and I stopped at a burning ghat to watch the rituals. Four separate pyres were burning, and we now knew that each contained a human body being cremated. We sat and watched the fires in silence, each lost in our own thoughts. As I stared into one of the fires, I reached out to the soul that had been inside the body, wondering where they were now, what kind of life they led.  




This led to musings of why we're here and where we all go when we die. For thousands of years, this very spot would have been the threshold between life and death, where untold thousands had been released from human suffering. All the babas and sadhus we'd encountered were focusing on spiritual development beyond the confines of the human body. I wondered if perhaps some of them had achieved a state similar to the soul after death. 

There were no conclusions to be drawn here, only stray thoughts drifting up from my mind, like the smoke from the fires.  To rise and dissipate into the air of Varanasi.

The Young Baba


We returned to the tent of our baba, who we found entertaining other visitors. Sitting down, we joined the circle, and I studied the baba more closely. If I had to guess, he was no more than 20 years old. Given what I’d heard about the requirements to become a baba, he must have left his family as a young child to pursue the ascetic life.

There were times when he would withdraw to himself, sitting outside the circle, lost in his own world. I contemplated how it must be a lonely life, being revered as a living saint, with everyone appealing for a blessing or fearful of your curses. Watching the Hindu pilgrims interacting with him, it didn’t seem like there was much dialogue beyond this. 

It would be different to have embarked on the path of a sadhu in adulthood, after experiencing a ‘normal’ life and choosing to renounce it. Our baba would not have had a normal upbringing, with childhood friends, schooling, and a mother. Either he had some kind of divine inspiration early on and chose to be a sadhu, or the life chose him. Maybe his family was very poor and could not provide for him; this was the case for some of the novices studying to be Buddhist monks. I had no way of knowing.  

It did help to explain the drastic difference in his behavior towards other Hindus, compared to us foreigners. We existed outside of the religion and culture that governed his world, and therefore not bound to it. It was possible that because of this, he could find in us what he would never otherwise encounter: friends.

Naoto and the Tabla

Of the baba’s visitors, the most interesting was a Japanese man in his 30's, with long flowing hair. He had beautifully upright posture, and emanated a wave of calm. Treating the baba with the utmost respect, he would kneel with his head to the floor when asking for a blessing. His disposition was one of humility and religious reverence, which obviously wasn't feigned (like Marco). His name was Naoto, and he had been living in Varanasi for a few years. He was also a musician, and behind him stood a large instrument case with an intricate lock.  

I was hoping to obtain more information about our baba, and since there were translators present, I sought to inquire about his life. However, his answers were either too vague or escaped my understanding. In my frustration and eagerness to understand, I pushed the questioning further. Until Naoto laid a hand on my shoulder, gently chiding me for being too aggressive with my forward-leaning stance. He motioned for me to sit upright and regain my balance.  In other words, "shanti shanti".  

Embarrassed, I adjusted my posture immediately. This ended my questions, as I let go of the urgent need to know. Instead, I focused on inner peace and stillness, to be present in the moment. It was a lesson that I was to be reminded of, again and again. 

After some time, the discussion turned to Naoto's instrument, the tabla. He had been playing it for years, and moved here to Varanasi in order to master it. The tabla was clearly his prized possession, the expensive-looking case and lock standing in stark contrast to the tattered clothes he wore. We all implored him to play for us, and he finally agreed, secretly opening the padlock and taking two drums out of the case.

  

What followed was a mesmerizing performance: Naoto lost himself in the music, his hands taking on a life of their own as they hammered, stroked, tapped and caressed the two drums. His whole body melted into a trance-like state, swaying and jerking with the rhythms like a charmed cobra. The tabla quickly became my newest favorite instrument. It was hard to imagine that so many distinct and musical sounds could be made from two drums. We all sat enchanted, as if we were the snakes and Naoto was the piper. We were so caught up, that when the music abruptly ended and Naoto put the tabla away, an empty void was left in the atmosphere.

Distinguishing The Babas

After a few days in Varanasi, we were getting used to the sights on the embankment that initially were so overwhelming. The first time we walked through, it was like another plane of existence. The second day was still disorienting, but already a lot less shocking than the first, especially since the Shivaratri stampede was a one-off event. By the third and fourth time we walked through, we'd been exposed to everything (in more ways than one), and outlandish became the new normal.  I was surprised at how fast I adapted to it all, and started to believe that I could adapt to anything.  

  

Soon we were able to pick out the relative importance of the babas by their location on the embankment, and recognized which tent housed the sadhus who only ever hosted attractive Western women. We held our breaths coming up to the 'weeping wall', where the urine leaked down to the river, and tried not to step on the stinking wet trails. One ghat in particular attracted swarms of gnats and insects that flew into every open cavity, so we covered our faces with our shirts while passing by.

The "Weeping Wall"

As we acclimated to Varanasi, we began figuring out that some of the babas were not actually babas at all. There was a distinct element of fake to them, and much could be judged by their looks. Some had large bellies, not in line with the life of a starving, wandering ascetic. Lack of full body ash and dreadlocks did not necessarily mean one wasn't a baba, but a certain appearance came with the lifestyle that needed to pass the test of common sense.  If they did not look 'hardened' enough to have been living off the earth, and instead looked like they belonged at a manual job or an office, then there was a good chance that they were counterfeit.  

One so-called baba called us over as we were walking by. We tried to avoid him, but he was insistent. He asked Diego where he was from, and Diego replied, "Italy."  

"Ah Italy, good.  Italy need to pay, money money."  

Diego refused, so the ‘baba’ turned and asked me the same question. I said, "Hong Kong," knowing that he would have never heard of it. This proved to be true, because he responded with a confused "Ah…" forgetting in the process to also ask me for money. While he hesitated, we beat a hasty retreat. Later we realized that we both had yellow ash on our foreheads. Without our knowing or wanting it, the fake baba had 'blessed' us.

We made it a point to visit our own baba on a daily basis. He was always happy to see us, along with the various new friends we'd bring to him. Ever since I had let go of my questioning when Naoto was around, I made no further enquiries into the baba's life. I stopped wondering whether this young man had actually attained some form of enlightenment, stopped scrutinizing his expressions and movements for signs. Instead, we treated the baba like a friend, with whom we would hang out once or twice a day.  I gave him props constantly, which he delighted in. 

We even shared a running inside joke. The baba, Diego and I were all happily unmarried, and were thus united in making fun of all married men. Once, as we sat on the mats in the baba's tent, a pair of older European men walked by, gruffly ignoring our baba when he said hello to them. He turned to us and gave a reason for their rudeness: "Married."  We enjoyed a hearty laugh. 

A nearby baba tried to capture our attention with an elaborate sword dance, inviting us over to sit with him instead.  But we stayed true to our baba, and did not sit with another.

Narrow Escape

The time had come to decide the next move. Diego was headed south to Gokharna, where he had left his bag and things at one Rasta Café on Om Beach. He was also meeting an Israeli girl there to pursue a possible romance. During our time traveling together, Diego had continuously talked about how Om Beach was the best place in India.  

There was always a sparkle in his eyes whenever Om Beach was mentioned, and since he'd been traveling the country for months on end on two separate tours, I figured the man knew what he was talking about. I chose to go with the flow and follow Diego to this enchanting place. Time on a beach definitely sounded necessary.  

We embarked from the guesthouse forty minutes before our train's departure. When we went to buy our tickets, it had taken about half an hour to and from the train station, so there was ample time. Diego didn't want to take the more expensive auto rickshaw, so we hopped on a bicycle rickshaw and were on our way.  

We made steady progress through the streets of the city at first, until we became hopelessly stuck in traffic gridlock. In line with traffic behavior I'd seen elsewhere on the subcontinent, drivers battled for inches of forward movement, filling in any possible gap before someone else did. In this case, it led to a vehicular jigsaw in which nobody could move in any direction.  

Diego and I nervously sat while waiting for traffic to open up. A few blocks up ahead traffic was moving, so it was a matter of getting to the end of this street. We waited and waited, and hope came in the form of a traffic policeman, who had apparently identified that one old rickshaw driver was jamming everyone up.  

One choice slap to the old man's face convinced him of the need to move, and this opened up a few feet for everyone to progress forward.  Then standstill, again.  

At this point we were twenty minutes away from train departure, and a decision needed to be made.  We abandoned our rickshaw, paid our driver a token fee, and proceed through the traffic jam on foot.

Diego had an easier time, because he only had one bag. I had to manage two, include the bulky bag on my back, but I was determined not to slow us down any more. We jogged down the street, weaving through the vehicles where necessary, but mostly keeping to the side streets. A few long minutes later, we had bypassed the entire street, and were back on a (relatively) open road. It was time to hop on another vehicle. We saw auto rickshaws available, but once again frugality won out and we hopped in with a second bicycle rickshaw.

This turned out to be a bad move. The driver of this rickshaw was ancient, and he pumped his thin, tired legs as best he could, but we moved at a speed way too slow for our liking. We tried to convince the driver of our urgency, but he was unfazed. He even stopped to bicker with some other rickshaw drivers on the street, and we had to yell at him to continue moving.  

Finally, we saw the train station a few blocks ahead, through another traffic jam. The rickshaw driver was also noticeably slowing down. So as soon as we stopped at a red light, we handed him the money, jumped off the rickshaw and ran. This time there was more space between the cars for us to speed through, though with more moving traffic came more danger.  Being weighed down as I was, I fell in behind Diego and followed his lead through the fray, trying not to get run over while keeping up.

Once we were on the grounds of the train station, Diego broke into full sprint, and by this time my lungs were burning. The twenty kilos I was carrying felt like a ton, and my legs were lead as I struggled to follow the pale bald pate charging ahead. At least our frantic pace moved the crowds aside as we ran through the station, trying to find our platform.  

I was seeing stars by the time we reached the platform.  

The train was long gone…we’d missed it by ten minutes.