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.  

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."