Varanasi Day 2

note to self.
no sirodharas with milk.
ever ever again.
ive scrubbed and rinsed and scrubbed and rinsed some more.
and the smell of expired milk still wafts from my scalp.
charming. im telling you.

days later in darjeeling and im fighting for hot water in 15 degree celsius temps just to scrub my hair just one more time.
yet no matter what i (though admittedly in a frantic rush as hot water seems, as always, a challenge and it's f-in cold) manage -
theres still the bloody smell!
though michiko does assure me its not nearly as bad as it was the first day -
i swear its lodged itself into my follicles!
i'll smell like sour milk for months!!!
-----


right then.
lets carry on.

boat ride for the morning.
easy enough to arrange. just walk by some boats and like everywhere else - people will pounce.
negotiate the charge and off you go.
ever so slowly past ghat after ghat after ghat.
and for those who like me hadn't the faintest idea as to what the hell that was -
they're steps.
thats all.

people swimming. kids playing. old men lathering up layers of off-white foam. women scrubbing pants and men beating sheets (i'm still not entirely clear as to how this works as a cleaning method but its done, just grab a decent sized log and have at it) and some other old men in orange with these shiny cups pouring out water and praying or chanting or something in between.

its interesting for the first half hour. but you can only check out so many half naked people and their bathing habits. felt a bit indecent really.
so turned my attention the other way to stare at those endless mists.
i think i prefer them anyway.
ive yet to master the art of meditation but that image would help.
clear the mind?
a filtering fog will do nicely.

its startling really.
so much activity to one half.
varanasi simply spewing out people and morning rituals, be they mundane or of the gods (i suppose taking a bath is open to interpretation) onto one bank of the ganga and to the other - a lone fisherman in his boat floating through the whites and greys of winter.

yes. i did prefer it.
along with an easy sky.
the sun had yet to rear its sweltering head and i enjoyed a sweat-free hour simply lying on my back as we mozied along.
only the clicking of michiko's camera ever breaking through.

which leads to me a note.
something that ought to be noted.
india overwhelms the senses.
all of them. in every way possible.
full out - assault-.
walk down any street and the disturbing blend of cow shit and spices that i will never be able to get the hang of but that live rather comfortably in the street foods that i will also never be able to remember the names of (except for samosas - 10 rupees!). exhaust fumes and smoke fire. old sweat and new sweat. there's piss on the corner and lemons on the stands. my nose is hard at work and with black snot thrown in for kicks.
and the noise! ten different kinds of horns! drivers cursing! women arguing! cows mooing! dogs barking! bicycle rickshaws jingling! children laughing! chai sellers hollering chai! chai! chai! long horn! musical horn! growling horn! horn! horn! horn!
all layered on top of one another. an explosion of sound.
forget volume levels at concerts.
come to india.
really blow out your ear drums.
and to see - ive mentioned the sparkle. the color.
orange. pink. blue. yellow.
and thats only the men!
its everywhere. rich or poor.
and pay attention to those roads. know what you're stepping on. and pay attention the traffic - know where you're stepping because there is a rickshaw, motorcycle, tuk-tuk, jeep, scooter or cow ready to run you down.
and the houses. all as colorful as the clothes.
albeit - too often under smears of dirt, soot, and grime.
and the tastes! i wouldnt even know what im talking about!
my culinary critique consists of me like vs me not like.
but shit people! i try a new thing every single time and there are still dishes on menus i have yet to get to!
and even touch.
my too firm bed and the aging, tearing velour of tuk-tuk seats. silk rugs and dusty dusty floors. sticky table tops and that fresh mosquito bite. cool marble and my beloved burning plastic mini-cups of chai.
how the liquid has yet to melt said plastic directly to my fingertips still boggles the mind.
yes.
its that thin and that hot.

in summary.
its all SO DAMNED MUCH.
though i certainly have my moments when im ready to hop skip and jump my way into some black hole.
its not precisely too much.
one quickly (and i mean quickly) has to adjust/make peace/find solace in something
if you are like me and find crowds, noise, and endless interaction exhausting.
an escape route must be held at the ready
or you will go mad.
i suppose venting here is my chosen release.

and so.
this morning on the ganga.
i relished a little detachment from the madness.
a spectactor only. tucked off to the side. safe.
away.
with nothing but mists and clouds above and solid wood beneath to occupy my mind.

it was unexpected.
and lovely.

---

after breakfast i finally took some time to explore Harmony Bookstore.
and walked out with more books than my already unhappy back would have liked considering my travel pack (and despite my ever present promise to self that i will actually buy no more books until i read all that i have already)
whatever.
i loved that place. compact and nearly bursting with the wonders of world in excessive written form.
i was giddy and enjoying a particularly lovely cup of chai when i made a comment to the owner -

"You're tempting me with all these books!"
"That was my intention."

the wretch.

---------

michiko and i had a 1 pm appointment for massages and my trial of "sirodharas".
it supposedly leads to clarity of mind - among other things.
ayurveda medicine.
simply lying on your back for some period of time while some liquid (take your pick of oil, milk, butter milk, or water) simply pours over your forehead and down your scalp in a fine pendulum swinging stream.
it was cooling and a bit odd and i was generally more distracted by the fact that i couldn't see anything under the little moist pads of cloth they had placed over my eyes and i was paranoid about my belongings.
i was lying naked except for a loin cloth and oiled up on a slab of wood.
voices all around me and people moving in and out of the room while some tape of man chanting "om" over and over and over again on too high of a volume chased away any possible hint of relaxation.
i wanted the oil off and my money belt back on.
and instead i was being stained by milk.

the actual choice of liquid apparently depends upon the season.
i actually went against the norm in choosing milk because its a cold liquid (as opposed to the heated oil) and not the appropriate season.
yet when i was informed of this (the previous day) and thereby encouraged to make a now educated choice according to ayurvedic principles i was standing around with sweat pouring down my back and dripping off my upper lip in the supposed winter of varanasi. i swear it was hitting 90s. or it sure as hell felt like it.
"this is cold?" i asked.
"hm, yes madam, it's winter season now you know, very cold."
right then.
"let's do milk."

what the hell was i thinking?
now. ive tried some funky stuff in my hair.
its a dry kinky curly mess. it needs a little motivation.
mayonaise. avocado goo. yogurt. honey. olive oil.
milk didn't seem like that much of a stretch.
but so help me god.
never ever again.

i just want that to be clear.

----------------

another yoga session. as enjoyable as the first and i was sorry i didn't have more time to spend at the ashram.

Michiko and i met up at Open Hand Cafe.
a remarkable little spot. with the most beautiful (and clean) bathroom i have yet to see in india.
they even had wifi. and coffee that required actual grinds (none of the nescafe powder mess i've seen elsewhere).
of course.
they catered to tourists. even sold an assortment of pillows, scarves, blankets, trinkets, etc at fixed prices (what the hell? fixed prices?)
but i was yet again retreating.
this time to known comforts.
and loving every delicious latte filled second of it.