Varanasi, Agra, Delhi

29/11/78 I indicated in the last installment that I’d relate some of the stories of a Nepalese doctor with whom I traveled from Tansen Mission Hospital into India. It seems that here is a bright yellow flowering plant which survives in very poor soil and arid conditions unsuitable for normal crops, called Khesari Dahl. The very poor people resort to growing and eating this during lean times. Its nutritional value is such that if eaten solely for a period of 6 months, an incurable disease can result, with the lower limbs becoming totally paralyzed. Subsequently the crop has been declared illegal by the authorities, but there are millions of hungry yet sadly, ignorant people.

Conditions in some Indian hospitals are so bad, he continues, that it is not so unusual to find wall to wall beds and animals wandering around. In one maternity theatre, the nurses have to take care that the newborn baby is placed out of reach of the hungry dogs. Even in the mission hospital, it was sad to see that the boy girl ratio was roughly 2:1 – in a Hindu society the boys’ lives are more important. One girl told me that the quota for women in heaven is full, and that she looks forward to one day being reincarnated as a man. Incidentally a fellow traveler relates how once he was hospitalized in Indonesia with severe dysentery and the system was so corrupt that he was force to bribe the nurse before she consented to sterilize the IV drip. Ah, what we so take for granted in the west!

However, one aspect about the local health system that impressed me: a relative of the patient moves into the ward, often sleeping in the same bed and takes responsibility for many of the more mundane nursing tasks – washing, toileting, feeding, comforting, changing dressings, etc. In the west we seem to be trying to achieve some of this in children wards, but we prefer to surrender such responsibilities to professionals.

No such thing as an ambulance in Tansen. I watched new admissions being carried in on a sturdy friend’s back. The address on the patient’s admission card indicates the number of day’s walk from the village to the hospital eg 2-1/2. While I was there, there were some unusual emergency admissions. Two men took three days to reach the hospital suffering from tiger wounds (one died). The majority of patients have TB, leprosy or other skin disorders, or fearful infections. One man, bitten by a snake (perhaps harmless) kept a tourniquet applied for 8 days. He unfortunately lost his arm. Religious taboos and customs with women and childbirth cause headaches for the staff. For example they refuse to wash for 12 days, or to eat any food prepared by another. Some children, particularly girls, never get collected by their parents. One man insisted on taking home his 2 month premature son. Good things to relate? Perhaps not. But it is good to learn.

I experience a cruel lesson about belonging to the rich while traveling though a developing country. It seems that there is an acute diesel and kerosene shortage in northern India (why? – anyone’s guess. But can be sure that someone somewhere is profiting). The tourist bus in which I am traveling is exempt from restrictions (although it only contained six privileged customers), and it pulls up at a service station and guzzles hundreds of litres of precious fuel. I watch a large silent group of poor farmers, each with a 5 litre empty can on the back of his parked bicycle, sullen and squatting around a table at which presides the service station owner – fat, hair slicked, scowling, important – a grotesque caricature of the exploiting capitalist, painfully slow in dealing with the hundreds of written applications (properly authorized by the village headman) and occasionally condescends to allow one lucky farmer to take his ration of the life-giving fuel for his water pump or his cooking, no doubt at an inflated price. While I watch, one man’s application is torn up (after he had paid his money). Perhaps he had previously owed some money? The others laugh derisively. I sadly get back in the bus, the horn blaring by the impatient Sikh driver – reflecting that if unfairly treated in this part of the world, it would be futile to turn to the police. They’d probably beat you up for being impertinent, particularly if you had not bribed them. There are many very, very wealthy people in India. Unfortunately, I find them at many of the tourist sites, and I find it quite difficult to find any respect for them. The despairing face of that particular destitute farmer will always haunt me.

Lured on by the prospect of mail from home waiting for me at New Delhi (it has been seven weeks since my last mail in Calcutta) I pushed on through Gorakhpur, Varanasi (formerly Benares), Agra, then Delhi, by bus and train. Speeding past the never ending fields and farms, unfenced, I’m fascinated by the ingenuous methods of irrigation. Small, inadequate diesel pumps, huge swinging counterbalanced bamboo poles over tube wells; similar complicated structures operated by two men, raising water by chutes from one level to a slightly higher level; two people swinging a flat bowl between them by means of ropes; or simply ‘paddling’ using long flat ‘oars’ splashing from the irrigation ditch. High, haughty, dusty camels with huge feet and knobby knees with drivers of the same hue, strolling with unknown cloth wrapped loads under the shady avenues of magnificent mango trees. A school teacher, with an ominous stick, sits on his chair in the open under a mango tree, and his students squat in the dust about him, learning their Hindi, and their particular version of colonial history.

An oxcart carrying a family and a yellow shroud wrapped about a lifeless shape, strapped between two bamboo poles heralds the approach to Varanasi, perhaps India’s holiest city, where the Ganges loops and where every Hindu dreams of dying, and to be cremated on its river banks. Nearby is ancient Sanath where Buddha preached his first sermon after enlightenment. Two hundred years later, in the third century BC, Emperor Ashoka raised a number of monasteries and stupas, and viharas, now well-preserved ruins in delightful gardens. Imagine sequined and jeweled elephant saddles? Well, here you’ll find a good collection of them, along with palanquins (chairs on top of elephants), arms, furniture, costumes, and ivory coaches in the now drab (there is very little building maintenance) residential palace of the former Maharajah of Benares on the other side of town. There is also a fine university and a modern, most aesthetic temple.

I take a rickshaw through the rain through the narrow crowded streets down to the muddy, famous steps of the Ganges, staring in awe at the record flood level mark of two months earlier, down to the macabre burning ghats, where the holy men do a great business (roaring business?) to assist the deceased Hindu make his Final Journey – from this life, anyway. Silent people; barbers shaving the heads of the deceased’s male relatives; bodies wrapped in colored shrouds (white for men), being first immersed in the river, then lined up for their crematorium turn. The crackling of the huge log fires (the firewood probably from very far away); clouds of ghee smoke; some bored mangy dogs (what do they want?); an occasional curious, deferential, white faced traveler; and the unmistakable, pervading odor of - bar-b-qued meat. I nearly caused a riot when I attempted to take a photograph of the fires. Bodies OK, fires, no! Quite remarkable. What’s left of the corpse is dispatched with prayers into the fast flowing muddy river. Turtles can be seen scavenging. My companion feels ill, so we leave by our waiting rickshaw. I think I ate solely vegetarian food for many weeks.

I found an interesting friend name Vijay. He was a pop singer from Delhi, currently performing at the local 5 star hotel, but like me, stayed at the economical YMCA where, despite some unwelcome bible-bashing by the manager, it was a pleasant place to be – a grand old house with similar aged servants set in a vast compound, and only one bed remaining in the dormitory where I chose to stay for 75 cents. A rainy evening spent listening to (and eventually performing with) my friends at the cabaret and meeting, by extraordinary chance, in true Somerset Maugham fashion, a rather battered, embittered Australian, completing his two year post with the Department of Foreign Affairs, . His responsibility here was to interview all the hopeful immigrants to Oz. After several beers (which my budget could not permit), he wearily claimed he had no room left for compassion in dealing with the devious locals who desperately fabricate stories to circumvent the (currently rigid) immigration laws applicable to all countries. Only certain professions -such as top stenographers, metal trades and paramedical - are currently suitable for any prospective immigrant. We don’t realize how much about our own country’s immigration laws until we get out of it! I met a Canadian who had been waiting in Singapore for over three months – the Australian embassy refused to consider his tourist visa application because initially he unfortunately made a mistake of saying he “may look for work”. An education visa is available only if the intended course is not available locally. A student from an Indian state where liquor is banned unsuccessfully seeks permission to enter Australia to study beer brewing. The problem of illegal immigrants in Australia is currently [1978] quite a headache. People enter on a tourist visa and then disappear. Employers can’t check against social security cards like they do in the US. “The average Indian”, my embittered co-patriot mourns, “cannot understand bribe-less government structure and I have been offered veritable fortunes!”

I thought I was doing pretty well with dealing with the beggars (never giving cash, but sharing food if I had some). But I realized with some consternation that the beggar to whom I gave a handful of unshelled peanuts was a leper with no fingers.

Before leaving Varanasi, I took the dawn boat ride past the many holy ghats to watch the devout blissfully wash in the sacred waters and to great the sun and to be blessed by the holy men, and to walk away with their souls purified. The Hindu religion is so deep that a westerner can only scratch the surface in attempting to comprehend.

So, a train to Agra to join the mandatory pilgrimage to the fabled Taj Mahal. What people have said so often before about this lavish memorial to the wife of a 17th century Mughal emperor (Shah Jahan) is all so true.

Pearly pink at dawn and opalescent by moonlight, Mumtaz Mahal's tomb is so delicately ethereal that it threatens to disappear during Agra's white-heat afternoons”. It really is magnificent , particularly as you first walk in and see it framed by the entrance arch. Also from across the river through the lattice window of the Red Fort where, ironically, Shah Jahan was later imprisoned by his upstart son. Let the splendor of the diamond, pearl and ruby vanish like the magic shimmer of the rainbow. Only let this one teardrop, the Taj Mahal, glisten spotlessly bright on the cheek of time... (Rabindranath Tagore, Poet).

That night in Agra was one to remember with an Indian wedding – Rajasthan-style. Outrageously lavish, a huge procession with a crazy brass band in tatty uniforms, illuminated by 20 bearers each with a device carrying 5 pressure lamps which they carried on their heads, a singer with an old microphone strapped to this throat – somehow complementing the band, the turbaned groom in western suit astride a magnificent white horse caparisoned in spangles, followed up with a glittering gaudy image of Durga with fairy lights flashing, lit by a noisy portable diesel generator pushed by a rickshaw wallah in the darkness behind, and a man with a spare generator followed him. Well-wishers passed money to the band who acknowledged with a bonus brief fiery burst. The reception was in a huge white marquee in the hotel grounds, decorated with strings of coloured lights, and unappealing coloured fountains jumping high. All attention is for the groom, then the bride surreptitiously arrives, eyes downcast and demure, looking stunning in a pale pink, wispy sari, and the best of jewelry – ears, nose, neck, fingers and wrists dripping in gold. The happy couple ascend pretentious gilded thrones and garland each other, perhaps seeing each other for the first time. Applause from the many guests – smartly attired in the best saris and snappy western suits, and betel stained lips. The men sit on one side away from the women, and the photo session of the guests posing with the bride and groom continues for well over an hour, then all sit to eat the feast with their fingers – on this occasion chapattis and vegetable curry. The complicated religious part of the ceremony is yet to take place at an “auspicious time”, according to the family astrologer. In this case it was 2-5am so I didn’t get to see it.

The cost of living in touristy Agra is as painful as my newly developed hemorrhoids. Hopefully the bus seats to Delhi won’t be so hard? Will the cost of living in Delhi be even more expensive? Where will I stay? Who has written?

4/12/78 New Delhi at last. A swag of letters, mainly from family and relatives, but disappointed by many friends letting me down. I devoured every word, fighting homesickness. Delhi is a huge, bustling and relatively expensive city, and cheap accommodation is rather hard to find. Coexisting with so many people, I was starting to suffer from India-phobia. My travel plans were shattered when I learn that Iran has closed its borders as the Shah had been deposed, which means I might have to fly over it. That short flight is more expensive than a Delhi / London flight. But I still want to see Pakistan, Afghanistan, Turkey and Eastern Europe. It’s the wrong time of the year for Kashmir. I was pining for a European style spring weather. Not happy! But I cheered up when re-encountering some old travel companions who were also facing the same decisions. And they were suffering from hemorrhoids, too! In the end, they chose to fly direct to London … in comfortable airline seats. Eventually I decide to defer my decision until I got to Kabul. But first to press on to Pakistan via Kashmir, despite the winter there. It was hot in Delhi. It’s amazing what can cheer me up - on this occasion it was finding soft-serve ice cream. Bliss!

But first, let’s explore a little of Delhi with a bus tour and an incomprehensible guide sprouting Indian English over a crackling PA. Magnificent Mughal forts and tombs and columns built by Muslim sultans. Again, the buildings are superb when initially seen framed by the entry portals. Here was an unrusted iron pillar, standing for 1600 years. The magnificent Delhi Red Fort, being the citadel of the Emperor Shah Jaham when the seventh Delhi was built in 1638. Every night there is a son et lumiere which cleverly brings history alive with 8-track stereo synchronized with evocative lighting (eerie in the evening mist) of the best buildings. We hear and imagine soldiers marching, harem girls dancing, riots by peasants at the fortified gates, regal speeches, festivals with fireworks, the illusion almost becomes real. The British are depicted as the bad guys and you’ve got to stand up for the tricky little tune at its conclusion. The verse of the Persian poet Amir Khusro: If there is Paradise on the face of earth, it is here, it is here, it is here reminds us of its former glory.

My dormitory window overlooks an elaborately decorated narrow winding street, through which will pass that night a procession of Sikhs for some festival of which I am not aware, and for which I was not prepared. And it happens – an amazing non-stop din, with various PA speakers distorted at maximum volume conflicting with each other with inane sounds of Indian songs. There are no “spectators” as such, as they are also part of the procession. There are a few elephants, precision-less bands, banner wavers, busloads, costumed and turbaned Sikh warriors on ponies, brandishing ancient weapons, drummers, sword fighters, shopkeepers throwing sweets and fruit into the amazing thong, causing near riots, throngs of people pushing and shoving in all directions in true Indian style. After several hours of this, my excitement began to rapidly wane - I started to wish they would all go away – I only wanted some sleep. So when an Indian dormitory-mate burst in at 3am leaving the light on, and ignores my protestations, my India-phobia racks up a notch. The next morning all the decorations had disappeared and the streets were comparatively deserted. (There were only about a hundred thousand people …). Life in India continues.