Steel Notes Magazine
November 2016
and ash, it’s as though the last six centuries never happened.
Varnasi was a wild time, yet uneventful in many ways I don’t remember the people I met there, and other than a
boat ride on the Ganga amid decaying body parts, dead animals, and human ash, the incessant gongs and bells
and chants, the intense movement in the streets, only two memories come to mind.
One was at
night, when
I was walking through
the city and
wandered
into an
alley in the
darkness.
As I stepped
carefully
through
garbage
and god
knows what
strewn on
the ground,
one of the
shapes I
trod upon,
a sleeping
Brahma
bull, bellowed and leapt to it’s feet, at the same time a giant rat, larger than a cat, ran right past me.
I had no watch when I traveled in India and have no idea of how I managed to catch trains and keep a reasonable
schedule, other than the fact that Indian trains are usually quite late, as is everything. My train leaving Varanasi
for Madras left early in the morning. I had to get up about five and get going. By then I was so used to the sounds
and timing of the temple bells I was able to use them as my clock. But despite that, I awoke late, gulped down
some tea, and ran into the street to find a rickshaw.
I found one in a side street and bargained for a two-rupee ride. Halfway there the driver started complaining and
demanding more money. Outraged I yelled at him and told him if he didn’t shut up I would call over a policeman
to beat him. I tell this with a mixture of pride and shame. I had been in India long enough to behave like an Indian. On the other hand, as little money as I had, another twenty cents for riding his bicycle rickshaw through the
tumult all the way to the station would have made the driver very happy. He didn’t get it.
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