印度人

I debated even bothering to finish blogging about India.  So long after the trip it hardly seems worth the effort, but then I told myself I've only got two places left to tell about, and thousands of clamoring blog fans who'd be disappointed if I left them hanging.  Also, it's much more fun than grading papers.  So this is for you, the 1 ½ of you who actually read this.

Our second to last stop in India brought us to that primeval, feculent, and some would say holy river, the Ganges.  We traveled to Varanasi, where many Hindus go to die.  According to legend, the city was founded by Lord Shiva around 5,000 years ago.  It has the reputation of being one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world.

So there I was, eating corn flakes and thinking they may indeed be the secret to happiness in this life.  I was so busy shoveling them into my open mouth I didn't notice the guy who sat down beside me.  He stopped me, mouth open and spoon perched in mid-air with a question.  And then another.  Soon we were having an in-depth discussion about the problems of Chinese education, the inevitable rise of China as a superpower, the economic disparities in developing nations, and everything in between.  I love that I can meet someone for the first time and within minutes we're talking about the problems of the world.

That's why, if you asked me what my favorite part of India was, without hesitation I'd say, "The people."  We saw beautiful things, and ancient buildings, and experienced life on a whole new level but I'd still say I loved the people the most.  Here's an example of a conversation with one vendor:

                "I only have a 100, do you mind giving me change?"
"I don't mind anything, except when girls make flirt with me."
                "Oh I'm sure that must be terrible for you."
"Yes.  But luckily it never happens."

It was there that we took a boat ride from Raja Ghat on Mother Ganga.  I could show you a picture of our guide, Babu, but pictures can be so incomplete.  By looking at his photo you'd never know that his head is shaved because his sister died 20 days ago in childbirth.  Or that her ashes are now flowing in the river where he believes paradise lies.  You wouldn't know that he's been married for 14 years and has three daughters.

By just looking at a picture you wouldn't know about the rhythmic slapping of the clothes being washed at the edge of the river, keeping perfect time with the drum beats of those worshipping her waters.  You'd remain unaware of the two tiny kids asking me for a pen, or watch them multiply into four and then six kids; pointing at me and asking, "You name?  You name?"  They shove each other to get in the picture we take and we can hear their teeth chattering after bathing in the river to wash away their sins.  They shiver with the wind and grin at us.

We didn't stay long in Varanasi.  It was just enough to notice that special feeling old places have.  It's something intangible, that a new place has to grow into, and can't fake.  I felt its presence and wondered, if I were born there, would I want to leave, to go to a place with no history and fresh beginnings?  I suspect at least part of the reason I'm attracted to such an ancient place simply because I come from the metaphorical babe of the world.  We moved on to Goa but I took with me the memories of the smoke rising from a cremation ceremony on the edge of the river, and the sound of 4 cricket games being played simultaneously on the riverbank.

"Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together."
-Mark Twain