With the sun still below the horizon and thick cloud cover obscuring any hint of its coming, we walked down the stone steps of the Gangha Ghat in Varanasi. Bundled bodies laid sleeping on stairs, in alleyways, in the recesses of stores — everywhere but the busiest thoroughfares. The child hawkers from the night before remembered us and tried using this information as part of their sales pitch. A man approached me in dark colored loose fitting clothes, faded and stained from overuse. Saying ‘namaste,’ he shook my hand and twisted my palm upward. He intended to do a palm reading but seemed somewhat surprised to see the flesh-toned leather of my gloves. He still held onto my hand with a firm enough grip that it made me uncomfortable and it seemed he still intended to try to tell me that I had no lifeline or identifiable features, but I twisted out of his grip and met the group.
As I walked over the ghat’s large stones more palm-readers descended. I shook the next one’s hand and twisted away again. The next one that came up had the same fake welcoming smile and outstretched hand, but I knew his intentions and held up my hand for him to see. His expression changed as he eyed the leather and dropped both his hand and smile and turned away. We carefully step past a festering eddy of ceremonial waste ebbing in the river and onto our white wooden boat. Two men pull at bamboo oars mounted in wood and rope oar locks which creak with each stroke. They row with a synchronized monotony.
We glide past the Gangha ghat where we’d seen fire and smoke and flowers the night before. The next Ghat was slightly darker and less busy last night, but it is now illuminated by the muted grey glow of a cloud-veiled sunrise. I’d been walking with Adam the night before and noticed a dog sleeping on a table. It was curled up in a perfect circle on a bed of white cloths, its short grey and white fur faded and dirty from a rough life on the street. On its neck was a sore nearly half a foot in diameter, pink and red with raw flesh and boils. It wasn’t moving.
The sunrise never happens. It simply gets lighter, but everything still has an air of drab, flat, gray. The boat ride was interesting, but in the way that the act of doing it is more interesting than the actual thing. Conversations in the future will go as follows: “Did you go out on the Ganges at sunrise?” -yes- And in that one word, a sort of mutual understanding will be met, and while the questioner’s excitement might be genuine as they remember the brightly colored saris in the golden light of dawn, mine will be fake, a ruse aimed at quelling further discussion.
We get back to our harbor near the Gangha and get off the boat. Climbing up the stairs, we pass some men with great beards, three colored powders on their foreheads and huge heavy shawls of golden yellow fabric wrapped around their frail bodies. The first nods toward me with a serene smile. “Picture?” he asks. I decline. As soon as I reach the top of the ghat I regret not taking it. I imagine his rich lines and textures standing centered in my photo, a look of serenity and pride in his face and in the blurred background the sacred ghats of the Ganges. I’d saved 25 cents by saying no.
Up at street level, the begging starts. We are used to children and the shadows of emaciated beggars on the ground, statically holding out their hand, but the mothers with babies are the toughest to deal with emotionally. They beg with a voice that sounds like crying which is far more abrasive to the heart strings than the chubby cheeked baby she keeps showing me. She whimpers and pleads for the five block walk back to the bus despite my various attempts to be rid of her. Her face with the word please on her lips and furled brow stick with me as I get on the bus, drained.
There is no real reason for me to feel guilty. Of course I acknowledge, am aware, and very appreciative of the fact that I was born into very lucky circumstances and that I could have just as easily been the baby in her arms with no real hope of a substantial future. It is empathy for suffering which causes my pangs of guilt. That empathy does not, however, have patience for exploitation. This sort of exhibitionist sideshow that is begging in India seems like a cruel contest, wherein there are no winners and to outdo the others is to be in a more miserable condition. What this woman is doing is no different. It may seem cold, but I don’t care that she is holding a baby, I don’t care that she is begging; I don’t think either justify this exploitation of her conditions or of my condition. It is her voice. She emulated true suffering, and maybe experiences it at times, but what she is doing is an act, a very convincing act. Like reading a book, I knew it was a fiction, but felt guilty and saddened nonetheless. I know it is practiced, and practiced well, because when she pleaded with me I heard a person crying.
Back at the hotel I mindlessly pack my suitcase for our transfer to Bodghaya. I am happy to be driving away from the city on the bumpy road toward the birthplace of Buddhism. As we get farther, the weather clears and the scenery gets richer. Green fields start popping up where dry grass once was. Cows calmly chew cuds of grass instead of garbage. There are hints of far-off cliffs and mountains. On houses, the bright fabrics of everyday life glow as they dry in the afternoon sun. Children work and play with their families in yards and fields. We have cleared some of the din and depression of the cities, and with that, the strain of the morning seems to have faded like the distant memory of a dream. This is the India I’ve been waiting for.
