Walkabout



Although the Nadesar Palace in Varanasi wasn't my favorite hotel of the trip, I can't say I've ever stayed any place nicer.  Look what we found in each of our rooms.  I think there were only ten altogether.

There seemed to be a floral arrangment around every corner.

Originally built by the East India Company but acquired by the local maharaja in the 19th century, the rooms are named for famous guests.  Chris and Dan stayed in the Queen Elizabeth suite.  Chris posted this photo on Facebook almost immediately.

In case there were any doubts about the provenance of the room, this page from the hotel guestbook hung on the wall.

With another free morning on our hands, Matthew and I left this opulence behind for a walk to the train station that took us through some back streets.  A boy comforted a donkey.

A man milked his water buffalo.

People open shops like they do in New York, by lifting the metal grate.

Others sell fresh vegetables from push carts.

There aren't any stoplights in Varanasi, so directing traffic is a Sisyphean task.

Matthew plugged his ears when dodging tuk tuks.

The train station definitely had an Indian feel.

The timetables alternated between Sanskrit and English.

I don't think I've ever seen longer passenger trains which, like the rest of India, were jammed with friendly people.  

 

A fruit vendor carried a scale on his back.

Another chopped onions for his soup right on the curb directly across from the busy station.

Dung patties, which are used for fuel, dried on the side of a building a short distance away.

Look at the fanciful decoration on this pedicab.

Not to be outdone by this Hindu wedding carriage parked on the side of the road.

Speaking of carriages, look who we found back at the hotel in the Royal Buggy.

They never left the grounds.  They didn't have to.



Holy Water at Dawn

I enjoyed the Ganges experience at dawn much more than I had the night before:  peaceful vs. gaudy.  These women had begun to bathe even before the sun rose.  Keep in mind the water is filthy, even by Indian standards, although our guide claimed that no one ever had gotten sick from a ritual cleansing.

Buddhist monks waited in line to board one of the larger rowboats.

They eventually glided past us, the morning mist making them seem almost ethereal.

Some of the boats are colorfully painted.

Our morning rower didn't have to deal with as much traffic, but he covered a greater distance without complaint. 

Some men joined the pigeons congregating on the ghats to do their morning wash.  

Another man prayed.

Half our group stayed back at the hotel to sleep-in.

Look at what they missed.

 

I won't deny that the funeral pyres held a morbid fascination for me or that seeing the flames the night before had stoked my curiosity.  The piles of wood stacked on the ghats fuel the cremation of bodies, rich and poor.  After our boat ride ended Andrew, Dan and I stood close enough to one to feel the heat and glimpse a pauper's charred feet.  The man tending tending the pyre hit us up for a donation in addition to the fee he charged us for the experience which suddenly seemed like an unforgivable violation of someone's privacy.  It's not something I'd ever want to do again.

Scales like these make sure you purchase enough wood to do the job.

Seagulls looking for handouts surround the boats.

Some ghats are privately owned.  This family of well-fed pilgrims looked better off than most.

A young man, no doubt the family prince, bathed alone, above the women.  He ignored my request to pose for the camera.

Nevertheless, beauty of all kinds engulfed us.

Somebody had arranged the oil lamps on this ghat into a familiar shape.

Man and beast warmed themselves in the early morning sun.

We returned to the hotel for breakfast and then headed to Sarnath, a major pilgrimage site for Buddhists.  En route, we passed this man bathing in the street, a common sight in India.

JP took us into the Mulagandhakuti vihara, a monastery restored in 1930.  Wall murals depict the life of Buddha.  He insisted on explaining every scene, oblivious to the fact that none of us were listening.

After a visit to the Sarnath Museum, I asked to see the Varanasi train station.  Instead, the guide took us shopping for silks.  I managed to resist the lure of the loom, no doubt because my video camera wasn't working. 

The proprietors were so eager to get rid of me and Chris, the non-shoppers, that they sent us back to the hotel in a private car.  But the others bought enough bedspreads, table runners and wall hangings to get an invitation to dinner at the owner's home.  Too bad they didn't accept.  It would have been interesting to see how a successful merchant lived.