Varanasi II: "The Real Deal"

Summary: On the banks of the Ganges, Varanasi is one of the oldest and holiest cities in India. It’s a photographer’s dream, and unlike anything I have seen before. Yet all I vividly recall is the aftermath, as Elizabeth, Anna, and I all get deathly ill. And, of course, no trip is complete without a train fiasco.

Will the real Varanasi please stand up? Wait, no, please sit down again.

The morning we left the Krishnamurti Retreat Center, we took a day trip to Sarnath, the place where Buddha gave his first teachings. There are lots of temples around this area (some which you can stay at), and an archaeological site.

Migrating to the main town afterward, we settled in at Assi Ghat and changed out of our kurtas into more touristy, less conservative, non-Lucknowian attire. We spent the rest of the day alternating between meandering along the ghats (platforms/stairs leading into the river) and eating and relaxing. And, of course, being attacked by monkeys and nudged by buffalo.

Let me pause and tell you a little something about Varanasi. Varanasi sits on the banks of the holiest river in India, the Ganges. As such, Varanasi itself has become one of the holiest places in India (for Hindus). Hindus visit Varanasi from all over India, to bathe in its water and to bring back bottles of holy river water, which is believed to cure illness. The only hitch is that the Ganges is one of the most polluted rivers in India.

Why? Because bodies are burned and cremated on the ghats, and then dumped into the river. Only, the bodies don’t completely burn, meaning you may be lucky enough to see remains of the corpses floating down the river. There are also 6 types of bodies, such as children and sadhus, who do not need to be cremated because they are already deemed “pure;” these bodies are tied to a rock and dropped into the river. The rope falls apart in 3 days, and the body resurfaces. Two or three hundred bodies per day are cremated and/or directly deposited into the river. In spite of all this, people continue to bathe in it and drink its water to cleanse themselves physically and spiritually.

My impression of Varanasi revolves around the ghats and the Old City. The ghats is a great place for people watching, if you don’t mind being harassed. Constantly. The Old City, home to the Golden Temple, is itself a chaotic mess of narrow lanes, filled with pedestrians, store owners, and the occasional cow and motorcycle. Everywhere you look, there is life and color. But I also frequently found myself frequently approached by aggressive Indian men. It was tiresome, and in many ways made me miss Lucknow.

Varanasi begins kicking our butt around midnight our second night, when Elizabeth bolts out of bed to throw up. Her body is so weak she lies face down on the bathroom floor; she can’t even muster the strength to crawl back into bed. She continues to throw up / diarrhea through the night, and Anna joins her about 3 hours in. They (barely) manage to survive through the morning, when I go downstairs to call a doctor.

Enter the doctor into a room that reeks of vomit, and he proceeds to diagnose each of them. Pulse, stomach tenderness check, symptoms, etc. Temperature. Elizabeth is 101 F, Anna is 97 F. On each of their prescriptions, he writes, 99 F. I guess he didn’t learn about the flaw of averages.

They stay in bed the rest of the day, alternating between states of consciousness and unconsciousness. In the meantime, I’m trying to enjoy my last day in the city. I start feeling nauseous that evening, my entire body breaking out into hives. We manage to catch our 5 am train, but it was not easy. I’m quite weak by this point, with a fever and continually on the verge of vomiting.

We board the train, and I think we’re home free. All I have to do is pass out for the next 5 hours and we’ll be okay. I can’t think or do anything else, other than push away the nausea and try to fall asleep. Suddenly, I feel a body loom over me. A deep, man’s voice: “Ma’m, what’s your seat number?” One eye squints open. Pause. “Sir, these are our seats.” “Are you sure you’re in the right car?” “Yes.” Another man chimes in: “Let’s see the tickets.” “Here you go.” “Ma’m, your reservations were made for April 11.” The helpful teenage girl sitting next to me: “Today is the 13th.”

At this point, all I can think is, You’ve got to be kidding me. This isn’t happening. Of course this is happening. This is India. I just want to go home. Maybe if I ignore them they’ll go away. But of course, I had to face reality, and we got up and inched to the back of the car. It takes all my mental and physical energy to stay vertical.

Anna looks at us and says, “I’ll talk to the conductor. Stay on the train, we’ll figure this out.”* We can make a last-minute decision to spend the day or another night in Varanasi, given the fact that we may not have seats. But the thought of staying in Varanasi another day makes me even more nauseous. The train starts moving.

I’m not sure what happens next. All I remember is finding chained suitcases occupying the seats at the back of the car, and me gradually pushing them aside. I remember Anna coming over and telling us we now have seats, and I proceed to sit down and pass out. I remember wanting to open the train’s side door and to stick my head out and vomit, but worrying about getting my head chopped off. I remember realizing that the bathroom is always an option, but I would rather try to control the nausea than gag there. It’s all too much; we finally reach LKO.

The autorickshaw ride back to the apartment was tougher than the train ride. We were so close, and I was awake and as conscious as my current state allowed. The heat and incessant honking penetrated my core and reverberated in my head. We finally get into our apartment, where I pass out for the next 8+ hours.

In fact, I’m pretty much useless for the next two weeks. I have a relatively high fever and diarrhea (silver lining: no vomiting!) for the next 2-3 days, and the girls talk me into getting my urine, stool, and blood tested with them. (I usually think my body will work itself out, and I don’t fret about it. Basically, I’m a doctor’s worst nightmare.) I find myself horizontal and inadvertently anorexic for the next week. And basically under house arrest for the week after.

I have no desire to return to Varanasi ever again.

Note: When Anna finds the conductor, she says, “Sir, mai dosti bimar hai.” [Sir, my friends are sick.] Him: “Apko Indian hai???” [You’re Indian???] Let’s try again: “Sir, mai dosti bimar hai.” [Sir, my friends are sick.] Leave it to folks here to know what's important.