ANURUPA

Anurupa is a wonderful woman, extremely active. She is a puppeteer by choice, following her ways of being active rather than the successful path many of her classmates have chosen. She works in many directions, building shows, organizing workshops, empowering through performing arts disadvantaged children, training young puppeteers… Her father had bought a land outside Delhi, when the outskirst of the city were still surrounded by forest. On the land is a small organic farm, growing vegetables and allowing few farmers to produce and sell locally. There Anurupa’s company has moved recently, and a house stands, used as workshop, storing space and residence for local and foreign artists. The rehearsing is made outdoors but they plan to shortly build a straw rehearsing space. It is a live dream for Cécile and Perrine. However, the peaceful green outskirt as become a busy, densely populated and poor suburb in the fastly growing metropole.

We discuss with Anurupa about India, the hints we have seen and she opens us a new vision of India. We get a glimpse that allows us to understand what was behind many images we saw.  

SOCIAL INEQUALITIES AND APPEARANCES

It is time to get back to Delhi. Cécile has a plane, and Perrine should meet an Indian puppeteer there. First we go to the almost inexistent train station of Bundi, where happiness radiates from the people working there. Only side note to this warm atmosphere is the coming of an American lady, in her late 50’s, who arrives completely stressed out, thinking she could have missed the train (and must have been hell for her taxi driver the whole race through). She asks about 5 times to different people if the train for Delhi leaves from here, showing her ticket to be sure there would be no language misinterpretation… A bit more and she would manage to disquiet us. We exhange a few words that show us she comes from a wealthy background and will not see the India we know, but that “beautiful and authentic” India meant for tourists who take the ready made tours. We calm her down, saying we take the same train. Silence.

Maybe we shouldn’t have told her not to worry, for Indian trains are never simple. If they aren’t late, they’re cancelled. Ours was cancelled. As a train comes in (45 minutes before our scheduled departure) our American starts asking around if that’s the train. She runs everywhere and some wealthy and English speaking Indian tells her our train has cancelled its stop in Bundi and will depart from Kota. He gives us two options : we can jump in this train, jump off in one small station and jump in our scheduled train at its 2 minutes stop there; or take a taxi to Kota. For us there is no question, we take the train option, our American follows doubtful because “she has to be in Delhi”. In contrast with her, we notice how calm we have grown since we arrived. If there is a problem, well there is a problem, and we will deal somehow with it. India has helped us with a new philosophy: the “let’s see” philosophy. However, to be really fair, without her over worrying, we don’t know if we would have reached Delhi as we planned. Of course the train we are in is the slowliest train of India and our American is going up every ten minutes to ask for more information. Our calm is highly challenged and we notice how contagious her stress is. In the end, our local train reaches the station before our Delhi train comes in, by more than 45 minutes. We spend them with a bunch of Indian businessmen who happily showcase their knowledge about Europe!! It is a pleasant, funny and instructive conversation. We hear for instance that “Indians go to bed 2 and wake up 3”, that Delhi is 3 times the population of Finland in a similar superficy. They learn that French toilets can be as bad as Indian ones. The Delhi train arrives, we jump in and so does the American with her 40 kg luggages.

We don’t expect as we jump in the train what we will be the witnesses of. Our wagon is the SL10 (Sleeper class, the middle class and the equivalent of the 2^nd class in Europe). We get in the SL 7 and think we just have to walk up three wagons before we reach our beds. But as we get through the 9^th wagon, there is a locked door. Those doors usually lock the different classes so that they can never see each other, a way to hide the social difference as we do in planes between the business and the economic with curtains. The rich cannot see the poorest and vice versa. There is no way this door can be opened. We ask an Indian and he tells us we have to jump off at the next stop and jump back in again into the next wagons. Many more Indians are in the same case as us, and since the stop is very short, everyone pushes his way through. When we climb back up (the train starting to move already), we step in another world. The wagon is full of spacious little rooms, perfectly heated up, very cozy and comfortable, where a few people only are seated. We are welcome by a sikh, who almost bows in front of us and shows the way to follow, extremely politely. Even though our bags and our clothes scream “we don’t fit here!”, because we have our two little white faces we are treated the most respect, like ambassadors. The other Indians don’t have this chance. The sikh really thinks we have bought the upper class ticket. We pass through another wagon, less spacious but still extremely wealthy compared with the Sleeper class. Where there are 8 beds fit in the SL, only 4 are here, much wider and soft, in which one can sit straight. The windows close properly and the heating system is on. We meet again our American here. Again, thanks to our white faces, we are seated on one of these beds, while the Indians are parked next to the doors and toilets. We offer one of them a seat (since we don’t fill the whole bed with our two pair of asses). But clearly one of the Indian who has paid for the upper class refuses he seats anywhere close to him. It is surrealistic to see so brightly the social (wealth?) hierarchy. The train embodies the social inequalities. These two worlds cannot mix, not to talk about the lower classes (that are on the edge of being endurable from Perrine’s memories). It is so clear and assumed that it is revolting. How can this only be ? And so much based on the appearance! Anarupa tells us later this simple explanation “people think the British are gone, but they are not, they were replaced by Indians themselves”. When we jump off and on again to  get to our wagon, the air drafts strike us. It is cold, the windows don’t close so well as to keep the cold air to come in. People sleep under their tiny blanket, snoring as loud as they usually do. We are back to the India we know. We start thinking of all these Westerners who come and travel through India only in the upper class, following well-traced routes away from the poverty, seeing only the architectural and natural wonders of India and hardly ever the misery and dirtiness. Our American embodies this people who come to India but will never see it. It is like coming to Paris and only walk through fashion designers boutiques where French employees wear a beret and hold a baguette. You see the stereotype that you want to see, the one that fits the books. India is not a fairytale land, with traditional clothing and maharajas descendants. It is poor, dirty, difficult and that’s where the beauty also comes through, in how people still share their happiness of being, in how great a mastered gesture can be, in the eyes of the pilgrims who reached its destination, in the candle that flows down, in the peaceful grazing cow... India is incredible, but not by the book of wonder. It is a wonder in itself, and you have to walk down the streets to see it, not driven by a chauffeur.       

Our journey through the social inequalities has only started in the train. It starts with trips in the metro, a metro that is much more high tech than the Parisian or Finnish ones. All is spot clean, we go through body checking every time we step in, the rules are extremely strict (no spitting, no drinking, no smoking, no photos, no eating, no men in the women’s wagon…). It is like being in the Sim’s city, in the middle of the Indian capital. On the second day, we meet Anurupa (an Indian puppeteer and an incredible woman), in a district of Delhi called Khan Market. This area is a pure copy of the Occidental model, taken even higher up in the level of bling-bling. Mac Donalds stands next to Hilfinger, there are countless expensive shops where books are exactly the price of the European market if not above. All around are brand new cars parked by parking men. We end up going for a drink in the fanciest bar we’ve ever been, full of successful Indian men and Occidentals. It sweats money and pretention from floor to ceiling, designed especially for their customers. Crazy. Really we feel we are back in Europe and cannot figure out that this can stand next to the poverty of the chowks.   

We discuss further with Anurupa on this. She belongs from birth to the upper class, yet she actively works to empower the lower classes and the women and lead puppetry projects with disadvantaged children. She tells us that many of her friends who went to university, earn now a lot of money and represent what the rest of the Indians wish to be, are heavily depressive. Many got married in the last years so to fill the void they have, and end up now getting divorced. Many also take loans to live above their pays, to showcase their success and respond to the image people expect. They live in the reality like the actors in the Bollywood movies. Sadly we know that most of the beggers we have met in the streets wish to reach the same social class, that the goal of most people is individual success. How to make them understand that the advantages of some means the disadvantaged of the others ? As Anurupa formulates it Indians have taken the bad sides of the Western model (social inequalities) and maintained the bad sides of the traditional societies (cast system). They are loosing the solidarity that used to exist inside each class. The individual success is the goal, and they don’t see this comes along with depressive pills.

SHOPPING FOR NON-SPECIALISTS

Before leaving, one thing is left to do : shopping. Bundi is the ideal place for it, following our rule of never going in shops were people are calling us before we step in. In Bundi, we hardly ever hear a shopkeeper inviting us to “just look”. We can even look at the stalls freely, without being almost forced to buy. We have this plan to bring back from India some presents for friends and family, of course, but also to get some items we would sell later in Finland in order to start our company going. Our dream: to buy a van this year and travel back from Finland to France while touring our show. But the van costs money and to get this money somehow, we first need to buy some stuffs… Neither Cécile nor Perrine has any idea about commerce. And we end up completely blocked choosing anything. We are both non-shopping freaks, and can’t help each other. We look, doubt, don’t buy. We do finally purchase one pack of herbs and get completely cheated on the price. Shopping is not meant for us. We almost give up when, suddenly appears a few scarves that are perfect. We discuss the price enough to be happy with it and the merchant also. Challenge completed, hello little van!! After this, shopping has gone increasingly better.  India is empowering us. We are more peaceful and rested, take life philosophically and are able to buy something in less than 2 days! Little daily wins.

MEAT! (the following content might not be suitable for vegeterians)

But, because nothing can be perfect, there is this little detail that has been growing little by little and is taking a good share of our thoughts. We need meat desperately (and present all of our excuses to the vegetarians who will read these lines). We didn’t realize as we planned our trip that we only stopped in religious places, and according to the Hindu rules, meat products are banned from holy surroundings. We started to feel already in 0rchha that meat would help us ground ourselves down. To be fair, we start to unground seriously, partly because of our diet and partly because of India and Indians themselves. We are not high yet, but not quite down-to-earth either. We thought leaving Orchha that Bundi would be okay (the guidebooks don’t mention any holiness there). But no, we get our first hint of it being a hard-to-get-meat area as we don’t see any egg sellers in the streets. Egg sellers are the key sign to know you are in a vegetarian or non-vegeterian place. But we don’t loose all hopes as we see on the advertisements for tourist restaurant the mention “non-veg”. However, the idea of going up to one of these fancy roof-top restaurants is not an ideal picture for us. So we postpone day after day the crucial moment of climbing up the stairs to get our plate of grounding. On the last evening, we decide ourselves and go up to one. But as we see the settings (fake and pretentious), read the menu (full of “macaroni and cheese”, “pizzas”, “chinese noodles”…) and see the prices (the  price of a night in the hotel), we cannot stand it and go out once, twice, three times. We are about to loose hope, but one idea stayed: at Lunch, we had passed by two non-veg street restaurant. We are taken between our need of meat and the fright of it being not so safe on the hygienic side… But then, thinking that so far, we only have been eating in these street restaurants where many Indians go everyday and that nothing stomach wise has happened to us (besides eating to much), we give it a go… but don’t dare to take the meat ! We eat two eggs, still very happily.

GROWNED UP WOMEN IN THE LOVELY BUNDI

We had noticed in Orchha that our abilities to say no or to refuse offers we feel are not right have gone increasingly. But we were thinking then that it is mainly because Orchha is a smaller city and because people started to know us.

As the journey goes on, we see that it is our attitude that has transformed. We trust our own intuition and experiences and the immediate consequence of this inner confidence is showing itself in any occasion. Even if we are lost and need to look up at the map or to ask our way, we are not being tricked any longer. The vegetable and fruit sellers tend to give us immediately the right price (with a few ruppies extra, but it is only fair) and not the crazy 3 times the value of anything. And in case we find a tourist trap, we have no trouble saying it out loud and go away, before we feel obliged to anything. It happens many times in Bundi that we leave a restaurant after seeing the menu. This would have never been possible 2 weeks earlier. We would have sat down and eaten with a bad feeling, certain that digesting would consequently be more difficult (eating with regret in a place is the most easy way to stomach blocks). The more we trust ourselves, the more people respect us. The rickshaws are not harassing any more and those who own a shop hardly ask more than once.

And because we have learned how to say no, we are also able to say yes, to stop for a moment and to really meet individuals without having to fear being trapped. If ever we trust the wrong person, it is just fine since we can always refuse when it goes wrong. So we can enjoy peaceful and happy moments, being there, simply being.

Bundi is a lovely city, to be recommended to anyone who travels out of the main tourist tracks. Probably our favourite city. People are extremely genuine here. Children constantly ask questions, just  because they want to know the answer and are happy to use the few English sentences they have learned. We hear about 30 times a day “Hello, what is your name ?” and are happy to respond “Cécile”, “Perrine”, “And you?”. The adults teach their children at a very young age to say the magic “Hello” and to shake hands. But this has no extra meanings than to greet adults coming from far far away.

The streets of Bundi are wonderful to wander in. The walls are painted in a soft blue, spreading a sense of welcoming rest. In the main streets we find numerous craftmen ateliers, all organized according to their art. The fabric merchants in one place, the mattress makers in another, the smiths, the jewellers, the mechanics, the pharmacists, the knives sharpeners, the shoemakers, the dry fruits sellers, the millers, each in a different district. They all fit in their very tiny space, the width of a garage door for most of them, and display tools that are meant for human hands. Machines are absent. Life seems to be so simple and enjoyable here. People take the time to live and excel in their craftsmanship. Children laugh and run around. Women watch over them while getting some water or bringing in the animals. Men work without hassle or seat somewhere, sipping a tchai. Bundi has something of Orchha but in a city scale. A pleasure.

But what strikes us most is the overall happiness that surrounds the place. And this happiness is simply shared with us through smiles, greetings, exchanges. They radiate happiness and give it away as if it was the most natural thing to do. Maybe Europeans should all take a trip to Bundi. Being part of humanity can be fantastic.

DEMONSTRATIVE DEMONSTRATIONS

Our adventures in Gwalior don’t stop here. Tired from the tension and the roundtrips we had in the afternoon, we go back very early in the train station. As usual, we spend some time in the ladies waiting room, our feminine breathe in India, even though this time the lady in charge is really unfriendly, first because she doesn’t believe Perrine is a girl, then because we  have a low class ticket and this waiting room is meant for upper class ladies. Our white skins have made the trick for a while, but not so long… So we get out of there and wait on the platform. We seat on our bags and little by little we are surrounded by a bunch of young guys – probably students – who surprisingly have no bags or very small. We wonder why they are here, but well, there is no rule for having bags if travelling. But things get more bizarre as time goes. More and more of these men go on the tracks then off the tracks, their crowd grows bigger and bigger. As the train is expected and we hear the sound of the whistle, they all jump on the track and shout, while running all around. Realizing it is not the right train, they laugh and come back on the platform, exactly as they were few minutes before. We wonder more and more, what the hell is  this. Finally the train comes and the same choreography is performed. The rush is unbelievable. All these guys jump in the train and jam it full packed. We don’t know what is going on, if we could even get in and nobody is able or willing to give us a clue about the whole thing. After 15 minutes of this carnival, watching from back, we address some of these young people and they tell that if we have a ticket we should get in or sleep in the station. We get in, fighting for the entrance, not very proud and asking ourselves if it is a good idea at all. But we realize then that the train is actually almost empty, and very dirty. Two men with shooting gun are holding the guys out. Not a safe environment, and we are restlessly going to our seats to sleep. People are extremely calm around us, not bothered anyhow by the whole story. The train leaves under the shouts of the boys left out. Many security men go round the wagons, arms on the shoulder… We think however that things are over and we manage to start sleeping until we reach the next station. As the train stops, the shouts start and we hear violent banging against the doors, the  windows, the walls. Waouw. And this goes on again and again all night, whether we are in station or just in the middle of nowhere. It is a very difficult situation to handle when we have no idea about anything and the language prevents us to get any info. We sleep lightly that night and reaching Kota is a relief. When we ask later in Bundi if anything was told in the newspaper about demonstration or strikes, people cannot answer. Nothing was told about it. We search on internet but nothing there either. It is in Delhi that we finally find out that these types of events are regular and that probably those boys were paid to act this way by a political party. The elections are coming up  here and the right wing is pushing. Money is a way to get things done. This is a part of democracy, built on fear.

GWALIOR, MIXED INFORMATIONS

We arrive in the early afternoon in Gwalior, willing to find the bazaar, where the fabric merchant heaven is supposed to be located. The first encounter we have the city is a board behind the information desk saying “The easiest way to communicate is Hindi, the official language of the country”. We are a bit surprise, knowing that English is also officially recognized. But well. Few minutes later another board tells “India is a big country from Kashmir to Kerala”. Weirder. This hasn’t gone better, as we meet in a park a man who tells us indirectly that foreigners are not always liked here and that some people don’t like them. This comes quite accurate in the bazaar. A man grabs Cécile quite violently willing to touch her skin. Another man has to intervene to get him away. It leaves us with a strange feeling about the city, but we cannot say much since our transit is only a few hours long.

We learn also a new rule here: to never trust blindly the information given by the “Guide du routard”, the French equivalent of the Lonely Planet. There is rumour going on, from trustful sources, that the guidebooks are not checked every year anymore by those who write them. They call some locals instead of verifying the information on the ground. And these locals, pissed off by this attitude, give regularly wrong datas. Many times we have noticed that distances were inaccurate, so are prices… This time, we know that the bazaar is located next to a mosque, told by the book to be called “Jama Masjid”. This mosque does exist in India, but in New Delhi. So we end up going round and round, driven by rickshaws who take us to one mosque, but not the right one. The syndrome Zurich (from our first post) is going on. After 3 hours of useless walks and drives, we manage to reach our destination. It is worth all the trouble. The market is so beautiful, lively, human. Many small stalls full of vegetables, spices, fabrics, fruits... Incredible India. 

GWALIOR, MIXED INFORMATIONS

We arrive in the early afternoon in Gwalior, willing to find the bazaar, where the fabric merchant heaven is supposed to be located. The first encounter we have the city is a board behind the information desk saying “The easiest way to communicate is Hindi, the official language of the country”. We are a bit surprise, knowing that English is also officially recognized. But well. Few minutes later another board tells “India is a big country from Kashmir to Kerala”. Weirder. This hasn’t gone better, as we meet in a park a man who tells us indirectly that foreigners are not always liked here and that some people don’t like them. This comes quite accurate in the bazaar. A man grabs Cécile quite violently willing to touch her skin. Another man has to intervene to get him away. It leaves us with a strange feeling about the city, but we cannot say much since our transit is only a few hours long.

We learn also a new rule here: to never trust blindly the information given by the “Guide du routard”, the French equivalent of the Lonely Planet. There is rumour going on, from trustful sources, that the guidebooks are not checked every year anymore by those who write them. They call some locals instead of verifying the information on the ground. And these locals, pissed off by this attitude, give regularly wrong datas. Many times we have noticed that distances were inaccurate, so are prices… This time, we know that the bazaar is located next to a mosque, told by the book to be called “Jama Masjid”. This mosque does exist in India, but in New Delhi. So we end up going round and round, driven by rickshaws who take us to one mosque, but not the right one. The syndrome Zurich (from our first post) is going on. After 3 hours of useless walks and drives, we manage to reach our destination. It is worth all the trouble. The market is so beautiful, lively, human. Many small stalls full of vegetables, spices, fabrics, fruits... Incredible India. 

CHEESECAKE AND TRANSCENDENTAL SPIRITUALITY

So far, we haven’t entered any temple. We see them everyday, hear the prayers and mantras that rhythm the days from sunrise to sunset, watch people getting in and out, peep through the half open doors. It really fascinates us, but it is awkward to step in a holy place without belonging or understanding the tradition and religion, the rituals, the meaning of gestures and of the words pronounced. In France, it is part of our culture not to come to a religious ceremony just to watch without being part of the community. We would never imagine to go and eat the holy bread if we are not Christian who has gone through Communion. But here, it is a part of every day life they invite anyone to share with a great tolerance and ease. One girl in Orchha who gave us a sign to come asked us why we don’t go to pray Durga, as we answered that we don’t know how to pray her, she was very surprised that is was possible someone doesn’t know. She simply explained “Durga is the mother, just ask her something, success or marriage…”. She had a great smile saying this evidence.

Our first entrance in a temple is on the evening ceremony in Orchha Ram Rajah Temple. The building looks like a cheesecake, painted with bad taste in orange and yellow and kitschier than usual. There are two lines, gents and ladies, but nobody follows it. The only aim seems to be to get as fast as possible in front of the “priest” and give one’s offerings. We get stuck there, pushed from back and sides. But there is no sign of surprise coming from anyone at the view of two tall (so highly visible) white women in the queue. It is a mess, but extremely lively. Children run or play, mothers call them back once in while but not worrying at all, people laugh, talk their everyday (or that’s what it looked like)… As we pass in front of the priest, we feel very uncomfortable and embarrassed. What are we doing here ? What should we do ? We have no offerings, we don’t know the gestures, the meanings… We hope nothing would be given to us. We rapidly go by, the priest is not surprised, and gain the square in the middle of the temple. From there we can observe quietly.

Sitting on the stairs, on the edge of the square, there is very little difference between a temple and a town square. Life goes its way. Two children come to play around us and talk a little. People are sitting or wandering around. And there is no timetable for the rituals. Men and women come in and out between 7 and 8. Some stay less than 2 minutes, some stay longer chanting or praying. All around the square, in some open corridors, many small altars are to be seen and people go to them in an order that seems to us random. On the square also, two main altars – much bigger – attracts the believers. They always leave an object, some flowers or food (little milk cake purchased on the market outside), light incense, and go round the altar. What is so surprising is how daily the quality of the movements is. It looks as if it is not neither holy nor spiritual. There is no pretention, not more than when they prepare tchai or wash clothes in Varanasi. Maybe there is even less a feeling of presence in the temple than out. The ritual is clearly a part of everyday life, without all the ceremonial we have in Christian churches. Here it is as if the religion was more outside the temple (and the temple rituals is only part of the daily actions) when it is concentrated in the holy places in our culture. From our observation seats, it felt like there is no meaning in the rituals performed. They are simply performed. Is it because we are outsiders (which might be the case), or is it always so that in the mass of believers – all religions mixed – only few people really live their spirituality. This is an open question. But we tend to idealize India on this side, this is how so many foreigners come to places like Rishikesh.

Then, the day after, we meet one of these men who really live their belief and make it part of their being in the world. It is even more beautiful as it happens by accident. We are walking around the palaces gardens and bump into a white temple. The chants and the sound of the bell first bring us. The view of women walking around this temple make us sit and watch. We contemplate the place, so white and simple compared to the numerous cheese cakes we have seen so far. The colourful sarees match perfectly. There is here a deep sense of spirituality, alive and not locked in a pattern. People come freely here to pray Durga, leave offerings all day long. We are invited to come and pray Durga, the women give us a type of Indian sweet to eat after the prayer. We are very clumsy but the feeling of being misplaced is not getting us like the last time. It is very intimate, there is nothing much around but nature (and two palaces). It is a humble place. And we are welcome to share their rituals. The son of the temple’s guardian welcomes us to eat in his little hut, made of branches and a plastic cover. First time we share a meal with Indians. The communication is a bit difficult, and the man starts to talk only Hindi after a while, and we just nod, smiling. But we understand that this man continuously repeats that is life is based on his relationship to God. Money doesn’t mater, living does. He is a farmer, and his “hobby is God”. The food fills us as it is made from full corn and cooked simply without overdoing it with spices or amount of ingredients. Something is radiating from him. We leave the place with some more questions and the sense this is one of the most important meeting we make on this journey. 

TOURIST ACTIVITIES

We have spent already 3 days in Orchha, enjoying peaceful and slow living, and we decide now to do the tourist bit. We go on the early morning, before heat and tourists buses come up , and buy our tickets to the 7 monuments of Orchha. We visit the palace very slowly, letting the view and the atmosphere affect us, observing details, taking pictures of light games and little surprises that pass by if we just visit quickly. We don’t manage to see the 7 monuments by the end of the day but only 4 thoroughly, plus some wandering abouts in abandoned and smaller places that are not on the map. The palace is a wonder, built by the Moghols and thus the result of Indian and Muslim architectural styles. It is one of these dreamt places of the Orient, a 1001 nights castle. There are endless rooms, staircases, corridors, hidden spaces. A children heaven to run and imagine fairytales under the eyes of monkeys and vultures. The whole palace used to be covered with green and blue paints and mosaics. It is hard to imagine as most of it is gone, but some hints remains to our wonder.  And the view over Orchha from all angles is magic, enhanced by the chants coming from the surrounding temples.

BOLLYWOOD THE COME BACK

The Uncle Sam's influence

Through Hospitality club, we have discovered that a Finnish woman, Eeva Maya, lives in Orchha for 6 years and in India for more than 17 years. There is no hazard in life, if it is needed to have one more proof of this. As we spend some time with her, drinking tchai or having breakfast, she gives us her insight of life in India for a woman : “never trust an India, they want sex or money. It took me several years to really find good friends”. Time to find the persons you can grow with seems to be the same anywhere in the world. Cécile suddenly understands the sexual aspect of men coming to talk to us. So far she didn’t understand why one of the first questions asked is “Are you married?”. Nice and naïve (Perrine laughs in her inner self). All becomes even clearer as we go for a new try out of Bollywood. We go together with the German volunteer of Eeva and his Indian friend to Jhansi. We don’t know yet that the movie we are going to watch is once again, The Players…

It is so pleasant to go along with an Indian, someone who knows the heres and abouts of things, how to get the rickshaws, where to walk to, how to get the proper information… We let ourselves be guided. It is a true holiday. And we watch the movie again. Contrarily to what we thought, we don’t get bored at all, but the opposite. We are hooked – to our surprise- by an action movie. But it makes us think also quite much about the vision of women – and especially white women. The whole movie long, women are shown as sexual beings – also called bitches – half (or more) naked, shaking their boobs and asses. The Indian leading actresses of course dance like R&B hot stars, but they have a mission in the plot. They do it to save the love of their lives or to help their brother… But all around them, shaking their body parts, are only white female, mostly with blond hair. And they have no reason in the plot to do so. This image of Occidental women is carried by movies and TV all the time. It probably started with Hollywood movies that are popular also here. In traditional Indian movies, it is almost impossible to see a kiss. In Hollywood movies, sex is common. So for Indian mentalities, they equalled sex and Occidental females. They thing – and rightly so – that women are free in the west, compared to the social rules concerning women behaviour here.

Cécile has to face the reality of this straight during the movie. After the intermission, she gets a neighbour. And his is a very sticky neighbour indeed. He starts by leaning heavily on Cécile’s seat, and as he pronounces his introduction sentence, his right hand move accordingly onto Cécile’s knee. After very few sentences he asks to kiss him at thee end of the movie. But stupidly, he gives out also the escape road by asking “Are you married?”. And Cécile answers “Yes, I am”. End ? No ! Since she is European, she is free, so she can have lovers if the husband is not around. Then comes the illumination. From now on, we will find a ring, and wear it so that there is a proof of our loving engagement to our dear husbands, who remained in France because they have to work to build our houses and feed the dog. Since we have had one weird guy, who really thought that if the woman is far from home, there is no reason she remains alone, because “it is not good to be without husband”. But nothing more after. However, it feels very awkward to have a ring around the left hand fourth finger!

THE LITTLE PLEASURES OF LIFE

After travelling quickly from city to city in lands where the sun hardly shows during the day, it is our great pleasure to be able to do our laundry and be sure it will dry and have the lovely smell of the sunlight. People keep on offering us to do it, and smile as we refuse and say that we really want to make it ourselves. On the road here, we don’t have an everyday routine. We don’t cook as we don’t have access to any equipment; we don’t have a working rhythm but wander around; most we miss a feeling of home as we change surroundings so often. To do our laundry equals finding back this simplicity of the everyday. The little man working in the hostel understands it very well and our relationship to him changes with this decision. He starts to open up, and we clearly make him laugh by our behaviours. By the evening the laundry has dried and we are delighted as we put fresh clothes on after taking our second hot shower. A bit of comfort doesn’t harm and sure hot showers and warm houses will be greatly appreciated when we get back to Finland. We can always get used to small hardship like cold shower and cold nights, but there is no need to always fight what feels good.

Mostly, what we had missed was our jeans that we had to take away. They were so incredibly dirty (as the colour of the washing water showed it) that we spent few days in cotton short pants. Putting back the jeans on feels like finding back our own skin and a form of presence. We have a sense of strength, that we had lost with holiday pants. Jeans is the key of our trip. Thank you mister Levis Strauss.  

We also discover an old time pleasure of life in Orchha: the way to communicate without mobile phones. We have met in Varansi two French girls, but didn’t have time to really exchange. We actually had planned our trip in a similar way and followed each other in every city before going as much as possible out of the touristic routes. We knew we would all go to Orchha but on different days. We actually met in the train from Allahabad to Jhansi. Then bumped into each other in Orchha. We wanted to meet them for dinner to really spend some time to  discuss about life and India. We were very curious to meet them and to know what they were doing here, why India, what is their life about… But we had no contact number, no email, none of the normal ways to make an appointment. But we knew which guesthouse they stayed in. so we went to the guesthouse to leave a note. Said like this, it seems like nothing. But really it is a great pleasure to leave this note. You don’t know if the note will be read, if they can come or not, if we will manage to find each other. It is quite exciting but also it means that we take time for the meeting, time to communicate also. And of course, they come. The evening is spent talking and enjoying each other views, exchanging experiences, finding out that we have gone through similar happenings and feelings. A true moment of sharing that we have quite missed here until now. It is warm. With Indians, there is of course (as many previous stories have shown till now) the unavoidable aspect that those who come to us usually want to sell something. But this is only a side of our problem getting to know Indians. Communication is blocked very often by a language barrier. We see that some people would like to talk to us, as they see we want to talk to them, but we don’t manage to understand what is told. It is very simple problem, but it creates a feeling of loneliness and powerlessness after a while. How to discuss without words is not solved easily, and good will is not always enough. So this meeting of Claire and Amélie is a bubble of oxygen. Maybe we will meet again in Bundi. Not sure, but hopefully. We will be looking out for a note they might leave us somewhere. Little pleasures of life.   

A STOMACH ACHE, PLEASE

Fooooooooooooooood

Of course, paradises don’t exist on earth, and we get a good lesson already on the first night. At Lunch, we had found a lovely little street restaurant by the river, where (at least) 5 young boys were cooking. They were so excited to have foreigners eating at their place that they just wanted to talk to us and to care for our food. And it was really good food, a bit spicy but really good. And we decided to go back in the evening. So we are there again, and as we told them at lunch that Dal and Rice is one of our favourite, they have prepared Dal and Rice, just for us. We feel like we owe them something. They bring the food. First they offer as a “present” a spicy crispy bread, so that we can taste it. Of course, we don’t just taste, we eat it. Then come two big plates of dal and two of rice, plus many chapattis. And as we eat, they refill the plates, add newly baked chapattis. The younger tells us he will bring a surprise and comes back with a bottle of water. They are so caring and proud to serve us, that we are fully unable to say not to them bringing the food. Feeling how much they want us to like the food, plus being uneasy with being watched constantly, we eat very fast. They read it as we very much like  the food. So they bring even more. We can even less say no. By the end of 30 minutes, belly overstretched with the amount of food swallowed, we ask for the bill. And the bill is high. They add charged for basically everything: the number of chapattis, the bread present, the bottle of water, the refills… If we  count everything, it overall comes quite close to the amount they ask and it didn’t matter so much. But how stupid we feel, walking home with a stomach ache, for just being too polite. We have faced a cultural difference, enhanced by the fact that we are Perrine and Cécile. In France, if you are invited to eat, and people have cooked on purpose, you accept refills, or taste everything at least, so to thank the host In India, not. If you eat, it means you want to eat. And neither of us knows how to say no, already in Europe. We have to learn that. And this experience, though painful all night, was a good to learn from.

A REST IN PEACE

Cecile and Perrine's dream comes true

After all these big lively cities, overcrowded with people willing to sell something – every possible thing - we truly need some peaceful place to rest and to do our laundry. We reach Orchha. We are saved. We get a feeling of relaxation, without being forced to always be on our guards. The bus trip to Orchha seems to tell us we made the right choice. Even though the bus is on the edge of overbooking, the landscape we cross is wide open. This is the India we were dreaming of as we planned our trip from Finland. Large fields, some saris moving in green land, a few spread houses, some hills. Nothing special really, but a space that can be lived in at human scale. Plus, the bus driver play some Bollywood soundtrack loudly. It feels like a wonderful dreamt road trip. We smile endlessly.

At first Orchha seems however to be one of these very touristic place, brand new, quite clean compared to Indian standards, a few baba shops, a lot of foreign faces (mainly Coreans)… The atmosphere is that of a sea side resort, without a beach but with a beautiful river, the Betwa.

And Baba land is back...

 But after a few hours only, we realize that this is only a very superficial side of Orchha, and that our first opinion was quite wrong. Orchha is a centre where mainly Indian tourists come for pilgrimage or to visit one of India’s important historical place. As we get to our hostel, found by chance and located a bit outside of the centre on the heights, we are overwhelmed by the view. Many historical buildings (temples and palaces) are spread in the area, drawing wonderful silhouettes watching over this very small city. The nature is everywhere to be seen, and only a few minutes walk take us out, whatever direction we take. Our dream has come true, we can abandon ourselves here.

Of course there again, we meet some very strange people, like the “doctor Raj”, but overall we are left in peace and our movements are free around. We even manage to spend some times with locals without there being any back thoughts. We spend lovely walks along the river, which is merely a stream, where few people bath once in a while. We discover a path besides the Natural park, and walk in the midst of monkeys. Cécile is afraid there might be some tigers, luckily we don’t meet any. We can finally enjoy after 10 days being alone. And the sun bathes our faces, that little by little turn brown (Cécile) or red with freckles on the nose (Perrine). We understand how pleasant the life of a lizard can be. And we see the cows, the dogs, the pigs, and some human beings doing the same: do nothing under the sunlight. 

A cow life

Another cow life

BOLLYWOOD AND DRAMA

The players, ready for some action

We have been willing to see a Bollywood for ages, and we feel that this is now the time. We find a little cinema -  as India knows how to make them : gloomy but captivating – where only one movie is shown : the Players, a remake of some Hollymood action movie, starring one of India’s most famous star, Amitabh Bachran. In the cinema, men only. People come in as the movie goes on. And the guys react strongly to the scenes, clapping, whistling, commenting, laughing… We don’t understand any of the dialogues, but really it doesn’t matter to get the storyline. One man is sitting next to Perrine, and thinking she is a man (hopefully because of darkness), starts a conversation. He explains the life of different movie stars, things having no connection with the movie. The rest of the time he answers his cell phone.

The movie is fairly bad, and we get bored little by little, when suddenly the sound goes off. The viewers scream in direction of the boss, then come out furiously. The movie is paused, we are given some food and all tension seems to vanish. All the men gather around us, and check that we understand  what to do to get food, give us sauce, explain us the movie in short. A band of young men that just seemed to be hot-blooded and happen to act like big brothers. Not an unpleasant feeling.

And the movie starts again. Everybody seats… but the boss hasn’t manage to solve the problem and the movie is brought straight to the 2^nd half, giving out some of the events away. The men in the cinema stand up in a second, screaming loud then violently. The whole crowd storms out through the doors, aggressively. It looks like a riot. The new Indian revolution. Impressive. Outside, the voices are strongly fighting. They want a refund. And they get it. If the boss didn’t give it out, the cinema would probably have gone into pieces. The man sitting next to Perrine is taking care of us. He is a young policeman, who doesn’t like to wear the uniform and left his village to come to Allahabad 6 months ago. He really dislikes this city where he has barely any friends. He takes care of our refund and invites us for a coffee. First time ever we are invited by someone without any back thoughts whatsoever. He would like to see us again and we offer to come to the Police cantonment. He is so happy at the idea.

As we come to meet him again, few hours later, we enter a very dark yard, with policemen around. They all want to know who we are but they don’t know who our man is. When finally we manage to find him, he is so proud. Probably having to white women coming to seek for him will give him a status in this cantonment. He is very sweet man, quite feminine and skinny if compared to the virile men that belong to the police forces. We say goodbye and leave towards the huge train station. But half an hour later, our policeman finds us again. He has brought us little presents: 2 bars of Kit-Kat and two Reynolds pens. Our first presents here. Thanks to Paul, we leave Allahabad with another image, that of sweetness of a man and of chocolate. 

MANY MEN'S LAND

As we come closer, we realize that it is not a few silhouettes we would meet, but thousands of people standing on the shore, bathing in the two rivers, or sitting in boats. Dozens of colours, a human sea in the middle of a no man’s land of several hectares.

The first sight, on the Yamuna side

 The ground is bare, only pure soft sand, no green, no grass, only beige. 50 meters away from the shore, tents – organized geometrically – cover the rest of the place. This gathering is the annual Magh Mela, religious happening where almost 1 Million Hindus come to celebrate. Without this information, we would have thought this is a refugee camp. 

Colours and miltary tents

Boat people on overcrowded embarkation, people simply waiting – but not waiting for something in particular – basic accommodation, military tents of the exact same model, few electric devices meant for the most basic needs, tractors taking care of the space… This land is not meant for living, but arranged so that the most basic aspect of living could be offered. 

A bare land worked for this only occasion

We don’t feel like spending time in the middle of this. Once more, we are out of place, hardly understanding anything that happens, not even feeling any sense of spirituality. The festival is only starting and this is the beginning of a wider event. We go quite fast away, but first we walk until the Gange and salute him one last time.

Farewell to the Gange

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRH... BIS

January the 11th 

We wake up with one fix idea : to see the Gange and the Yamuna meeting point, where Gandhis ashes were spread, and to say goodbye to the Gange we have followed since we have started our journey. On the map, it looks very close, maybe 2 – 2.5 km. So we discuss the price with the rickshaws according to this. We find surprisingly fast, and go… but on the way, after a long ride through the wakening up streets, we stop a first time. We think we are at the ghât, and the rickshaw driver, who seems extremely helpful, guides us until the river. Communication is a bit difficult, as he speaks only Hindi and we unfortunately have an dramatically  limited amount of vocabulary. The rickshaw has actually taken us to a boat-taxi stand, where the ride to Sangat is 500 ruppies, tourist price. First disillusion. We go back on the rickshaw, who is much less friendly now, for he missed a backshish and has to drive us to the agreed point, which is still far away. And he drives us through a slum, where we see children playing cricket on a pile of trash. The images of slumdog millionaire are coming straight to our minds. We cannot say there was any pathos coming out from people, they simply live there, life going its way. Is it because Indians accept their condition as a fate, or because they have grown in this condition ? We don’t know, but feel very uncomfortable as we go by, carried by one of them (Rickshaws are among the poorest group in  India). We are absolutely out of place.

Cricket is the national sport, played  by everyone

Next we go  through a cantonment, that contrasts with the slum. There is almost no one around, only few men with shooting gun. We are locked between a wall on the right and the river on the left. Our only fear now is that our man drops us there if we don’t pay more, as he talks to us regularly in Hindi about something we still don’t know about. We are out along the river, no clue how far, how close…

But we reach Sansawati ghât, willing to walk along the fort and the Yamuna river to reach the Sangat. But many men have different ideas for us. For the first time we are surrounded by men that are very manly : tall, aggressive, powerful. It is not easy to turn them down. They affirm that the path we want to take along the river doesn’t exist and that we have to take one of their boat for 500 ruppies! We still believe in the map of the Lonely Planet – though we have a doubt, as the guide book has shown itself too old – and go. We  reach the path, and get into a peaceful landscape, idyllic and quiet. And even though the surroundings should allow us to breathe openly, the fear that something could happen (a man is following us quite a while) takes away all tranquillity. We are restless in the middle of quiet. We were looking forward to a place without crowds, and find ourselves hoping for a crowd, right here, right now. When the first silhouettes appear, bathing in the Yamuna, we feel a deep relief. Funny

GRRRRRRRRRRRRRRRH...

January the 10th

It all starts with a short trip by train, 3 hours of daylight and delight. Finally the space opens, the nature takes the place of the enormous cities. Open spaces, we can finally breathe. Annd it is first day since we left when the sun shines without any fog covering it. How simple and easy life can be.

First sight of green

Because a happy moment never comes alone, our neighbors in the train – a father and his son – helps Cécile who struggles with the unclosable windows of this wagon. They try to help a first time, thinking we are simply unskilled with windows. Then they realize it is not so easy, the whole thing is broken. And for 15 minutes, when we think they are just talking together, they plan the rescue paper system. And out of the blue, they blocked the window with a single folded page of newspaper. And the window remains closed.

Besides them, two elderly women talk eagerly together. It is a relief to hear the sound of female voices and to see two ladies who are strong and present, not under any man around. In a country where we hardly see women and all the more so free women, it takes away a weight. Surrounded by men, we always feel somewhat out of place and partially unsecure. It isn’t a conscious feeling, but the sight of women takes it away. The atmosphere gets warmer, pleasant, trustful.

As we reach Allahabad, we are on little clouds, believing that our troubles are behind us. We feel that we can relax. So we do… but maybe it isn’t the wisest thing to do. As usual, we turn down the rickshaws, but these ones are tough ones and do not give up unless we walk 1 km away from their starting point, constantly saying that we know where we go. It is also the first time that rickshaws are openly aggressive in the way they address us.

A view on Allahabad, one of the countless rickshaws

Unfortunately for us, we have taken the wrong exit at the train station and are walking exactly opposite to our hostel. We mark a pause to check in the map where we are, and after 20 seconds in a corner, we turn round and see a crowd of Indian faces staring at us. Allahabad is not used to having white people in its streets. All these men sincerely want to help us, nothing more, they were curious to know what we are doing, and to make it easier for us to reach our goal. Our feelings get mixed. Overall it is extremely pleasant to feel that there is no back thoughts, that they are just surprised as kids would be. On the other hand, it is very disturbing to be so seen, to be unable to melt in the crowd. We are the centre of the attention, whether we walk, eat, smile, talk… Every gesture we do is under watch, every doubt is seen and immediately ten people gather to interrupt. It is impossible to make a pause. We have to be in motion in order to have some space around us.

So people put us in a cycle rickshaw who drives us through the (huge) city centre, direction our hostel. In the description written in the lonely planet, it is described as a abandoned and gloomy colonial bungalow, but as we reach it, we see a palace, with brand new gates guarded by security men, white walls, gardeners… far from what we are used to. The rickshow is forced to drive us until the stairs of the reception. We feel like diplomats in dirty clothes and backpacks. It is stunningly absurd moment. The receptionist shows us the menu of rooms, from deluxe to royal en suite. It is far out of our budget and we leave, by foot, alone, the castle of Allahabad. We realize then, that the lonely planet we have found in Varanasi dates from the year 2007, and things  have changed since it was published.  

 

Our idealistic approach of the city takes its first hit. But we still like it. We decide to take a break and eat before going to another hostel. We bump into a street restaurant and the owner brings us immediately to the new eating room he had built, something completely fake, with vibrant (pink and green) colors that completely miss the point. It feels very American. Before we can say pretty much anything, the man has chosen our orders. The food is not any special, but he keeps adding elements, and not even the ones we ask for. Perrine desperetaly want an egg, that  miraculously transformed into a paneer (cow cheese in sauce) in the back kitchen. The man is talking to us, too nice and cheesy. We ask for the bill and he brings it with a dirty smile. 310 ruppies, the equivalent of 10 times the amount of money a poor earns per day. We realize the man has served us only the most expensive dishes of his menu, without ever mentioning anything, (that’s why the egg never made it on the table), he brought us “gifts” (2 raitas) that were of course added to the bill. The thing being that prices are never settled in India and often counted according to the face of the client, it is almost almost impossible to discuss afterwards. And for once, feeling safe and willing to trust for a moment the honesty of people, we didn’t ask beforehand the price of things. If we convert it in euro it is nothing, and of course paying a bit more is ok for us. But this time it feels like being stabbed in the back. And digestion is much harder if you feel that the food was a way to use and not to give. Food doesn’t only feed a body; it is partly accepting the outside inside one’s body. Bad feelings towards the hands who cooked is a sure miss for the stomach processes.

Allahabad, a slight aggressiveness in the air

Allahabad doesn’t look so good any more. And it only goes worst and worst from then. We end up after a long search in a hotel next to the train station, exactly where our journey in Allahabad started. This is the gloomiest hotel we ever stepped in. The room has no window and reminds a cell. The wardens sleep full time on the ground, the chairs or on an old couch. The bathroom is a nightmare (we cannot even take a shower. The smell born from there is enough to make us feel dirtier that before we enter). But when there is no alternative to choose from, the mind can adapt to anything. And our prison becomes a cinema and restful space in the middle of this aggressive city. And when the lights are off, dirt is much less visible.

We go out twice, trying to reach a cinema and to buy some fruits, but the violence that swells from the city brings us back into our dear hotel. We watch Slumdog millionaire and see the real India, an India we cannot see. It helps us a lot understanding the surface we catch: all these begging children, the states in the  slums, the traffics, the fake tourist guides… We get a glimpse of what is behind all these things we are facing every single day.    

THE INDIAN BARBER

Perrine has decided her hair is too long and she is tired to look like a hedgehog. We see behind our guesthouse, in the labyrinth of the old city a little hairdresser shop. It is quite a rare thing to find a hairdresser is not only a barber but takes also women in. The owner looks like Gandhi, just smaller version. He is very sympathetic, speaks no English, wears very thick round glasses and agrees for the hair cut. Perrine has a good intuition about him. 40 ruppies, perfect price, let’s do it. But surprise, Gandhi will cut the hair but supervise his apprentice very attentively, smoking a biddy. The apprentice asks what Perrine wants, she says shorter, shows with her finger the average length she would like (10 cm) and the man takes the scissors. The sound of snipping scissors never stops. It is like a dance performed. His gestures were absolutely precise and completed. The scissors go and round rhythmically. The hair gets shorter and shorter accordingly. Then comes the shaving blade. And snips, snips around the ears, at the start of the neck. A bit more and he is going to take care of the beard! He is done, he asks if it’s good, Perrine is a bit in shock and says yes. He adds that he made a female cut and not a man’s cut. It was clearly the first time he cut a woman’s hair, and he probably hasn’t seen much examples of women with short hair. To his defense, Indian women don’t have or exceptionally short hair. It’s ok. Hair grows back and it was cut on full moon (so it grows back faster). Life depends on the way you look at it. Now Perrine has something of a little Indian boy. People call her “sir” or “mister” and hardly talk to Cécile anymore. In India, one never talks to a woman if a man is around. We don’t know if it is a mark of respect, a cultural habit, if women are disregarded in general… But sure it is an unpleasant feeling.

Hello Sir. Boat ?

A BRIGHT DAY

January the 9th

Today morning, for the first since we landed, the sun is almost shining behind a very very tiny curtain of fog. How nice, let’s have a cold shower !

We decide to be “tourists” today and say yes one time to have a trip on a boat over the Gange. Since we left Aridwar, we have set up an action plan which is to never say yes if we are asked, but to ask by ourselves from the silent ones the service we want to get. This applies to rickshaws, restaurants, hostels, water bottles, any business related shop, tchai… Basically this applies to every thing in India. So far it is definitely the best way to do it for us… if we weren’t so difficult. It can take us up to 15 minutes to decide on a rickshaw and we have been walking sometimes a lot because of being unable to say yes or to find somebody silent and sympathetic to ask from. But overall, we still believe in this plan of action. We are girls with plans (also called control freaks).

So, we plan to take a boat and we have noticed on the day before the right area (the Assi ghât, a bit off the tourist track) to ask for a boatman man. But as we walk by many boatmen, we are not quite convinced. Some are too old, and it’s hard to ask an old weak and skinny man to carry us around. Some are too eager to take us, and we obviously don’t like it. Some are scary looking, and we want to be safe. As we cannot choose between old, eager and scary, we decide to take a tchai. But now we need to find the right tchai… And then comes the new angel. He didn’t ask us to come to him, so we come. We ask for two tchais and are overwhelmed with the taste of it, not too sweet, real milk and a lot of ginger. Heaven. For the first time ever, we have a conversation of more than 3 sentences with a tchai man. And he teaches us how to make tchai his way… His mother is here also, preparing fire, a very beautiful old lady. Those people were so true and sincere, only looking forward to exchange with others. We needed it. Thank you master.

Still thinking of getting on a boat to feel the Gange from another perspective, we start our quest again and walk round and round our area for a good 15 minutes. After a long thinking process, we decide for the old man with the red jacket. He is old but strong and he runs so fast if he has to catch a flying object. Being on the Gange is not so special as we could think, even though the colours, the view on the city from there, the feeling of the water are great. But being with this man on his boat is something priceless. We try to talk with him, but words are missing. So we communicate with smiles and looks. A silent exchange. We reach the other shore after 10-15 minutes and land on a desert line. There is almost nobody, the grass hardly grow, only signs of people are to be seen (shadows or objects left behind). This whole shore is part of the Gange during the Monsoon. It is only where the Gange never runs that vegetal life explodes green and vibrant. How come this holy river, symbol of life and death, only leaves grey sand behind itself ? Being alone, feeling the space, finally you can breathe. It’s funny how quickly we can get used to anything. The faculty of adaptation surprises us all the more when we realize what we adapted to. This silence is not a silence, it exists mainly because there was so much noise before. As we get back to our boat a conversation in Hindi happens somehow – thanks to Bollywood movies - with our driver. We learn he has four “very good beta (sons)” and three daughters now married and in saree at home. We leave our man, quite happy with our choice, when he shouts at us and points in direction of his son. The son comes closer, smiles and asks us “do you want marijuana ?”, followed in echo by his two brothers. Very good sons indeed !  

Our man

PREM, WHAT CAN I DO FOR YOU ?

It all starts with Prem in the train from Haridwar to Varanasi. Prem was one of those who – like us - had a waiting list ticket. During the night, he was very caring that we all get a seat. He came with his wife and son (8 months old), and was very proper in every way. He is this nice chap, round faced, a very touching and sympathetic fellow. We thought then that he could be the ideal father. In the morning he was very friendly with us, spoke a bit of French or anything you like. We really believed we met our first Indian potential friend. As he used to be a tourist expert cheaper, guide in Varanasi, he gave us all the tricks we should care for so that our stay in Varanasi is safe and enjoyable. He told us to come to visit him at his house on the day after. And here we are, the day after – a Sunday – at his place which happens to also be his music shop. After offering us a tchai, he takes out a few albums (wedding album, work album…), so that we feel that we are getting to know each other. Then starts a new long monologue. Every time we ask a question, to enjoy the dialogue-form of communication between human beings, he doesn’t answer anything, but follows his line. His line is simple : “What can I do for you ?”, which means, “How could I make some money out of you ?”. Cecile being slightly sick (because of an allergy to kind-of-clean bed sheets), he offers to find an ayurvedic doctor. Unfortunately, Perrine’s mother is an ayurvedic doctor. First miss for Prem. Then he explains that he and wife give courses in tablas, cythare, harmonium, yoga, meditation, Hindi, dance, singing. As we say that one hour is too short for any of these, he answers that everything can happen, time doesn’t matter. Obviously we are not going to take any lessons, so he tries to find what he could do for us… Do we need postcards ? No. Do we need tea or spices ? N. Do we have something extra in our bags that takes to much space or weight, because his wife has a charity and could take care of it… No. Two hours later, we come out, fairly angry at this man for being such a opportunist and at ourselves, because we wanted to believe we met an Indian manta last. We knew there was something fishy about his kindness, but didn’t want to understand it, we rather believed he simply is a nice man.

The thing is, we don’t want to believe that every time people come to talk to us it is to cheat us. But we are white pigeons wearing 2 bagpacks, one on the front, one on the back. Life is not always a nice piece of cake…

VARANASI, NO SHOWER, NO POWER

January the 7^th

India is the place to learn life. Tonight we learn how not be claustrophobic and how to fit two average French girls in a bed meant for an average Indian. We spend first a few hours happily in the ladies waiting room (our oasis for peace in the railway stations). It is the only space in India were there are only women, where one can enjoy the company of ladies. Indian cities are male cities, and it is relief to sit in the middle of sarees. As we go to the train, we realize there is no WL wagon (as marked on our tickets), but that this mysterious WL letters mean Waiting List. Basically, you don’t have a reserved seat, but might have one if some people cancelled theirs. This detail was not mentioned when we bought the ticket. We are given the bed 39, where an old lady was deeeeeeeeeeeply asleep. After an interestingly absurd hour (see video), we end up “sleeping” together in the upper bed.

We met a wonderful family, honest and generous from Calcutta. They give us a new insight of this city, which wasn’t our dream destination before. The son, a teenager, is friend with Perrine on facebook. He advises us to go to see an action movie, now Bollywood hit in India, DON 2. Hopefully we’ll manage to see it.

January the 7th

Before stepping in Varanasi railway station, we built a plan: how to survive a highly touristic town, where cheating is the local sport. As we arrive, we look a bit tired but we are so strong in our mind that nothing could get us out of the way we drew for ourselves. We walk through the army of rickshaws, calling us. A man starts a conversation – a monologue – and even though we repeatedly said no to his offers, followed us through the car park. As a fairwell, he gives wisdom : “No shower, no power”. Mmh… True.

Without a failure we get to the ghâts, reach our hostel and realize that Varanasi is mainly filled with Corean tourists, which is a drama for the restaurant owners. One of them, so happy we came to eat at his place, tells us that he misses dramatically European tourists, because Corean tourists eat crisps, drink chai and share once in a while a plate for five. A funny man.

the candle ceremony 

At sunset, all along the Gange, is held a candle ceremony. Varanasi’s is very famous and of course we go to see it. It is not a ritual that is performed, it is a show that has lost all spiritual aspects it probably used to have. The monks have flawless faces, the rituals are directed towards the audiences only, the music is played on CD, children are selling flowers to be lit on the river. It is well thought business affair where the key commercial argument is that financial participation is good for the karma. On the river, the boats are full of tourists who observe the scene for a high price and take countless pictures they could bring back home, saying that they have experienced hindouism. A sad view, really.

kitsch

Tired and a bit depressed / angry, we go to sleep early with our Corean companions.

January the 8^th

We wake up at 6.00 to see the morning raising in Varanasi, when all Hindus – up to 60000 pilgrims and locals per day - bath and wash their sins away in the holy Gange. It is Sunday, it is cricket day. All along the ghâts, young guys play seriously, without forgetting of course as we pass to ask if we want to go on a boat. The atmosphere is peaceful, joyful and light. The picture we had of Varanasi starts to change and improve little by little as walk South. We are almost alone and left, which is a gift we enjoy.

Few men here and there are washing clothes and bed sheets in the river. They perform a dance, as their gestures are so refined, precise, beautiful, as if it came from another time. The presence to their actions is mixed with an absence to it. Paradoxal and fascinating choreography. We surely have lost this quality of movement in Europe in our everyday tasks. We could watch them endlessly, contemplating a form of perfection.        

A man washing, it's beautiful

We also pass by our first cremation. It is believed by Hindus that the one who dies in Varanasi will be freed from the cycle of reincarnations. Thousands of bodies are brought from all over India, for their last physical journey, to be cremated by the Gange before their ashes are spread. First we see the wood, stored in tremendous quantity, then we see the smoke. A body is brought, wrapped in red cloth, meaning it is a woman. We want to wallk by without stopping, but a man hells us and offers to come closer so we can see everything. We refuse. It seems absurd to us and even disrespectful to take part to rituals we don’t understand nor belong to. The family alone should be there, how could tourists fill their curiosity in such a place. The man, angrily, tells us that we cannot understand either the Indian culture nor the meaning of life if we don’t see it. If we had gone, there is no doubt we would have paid for the “service”, and sure this money would not help the grieving family. Money, money, money…  Wherever, whenever. If it comes out, any reason invoked is good.