“It’s quite a challenge,” reflected Marilyn, “being married and having these adventures. Therapeutically, I can’t say it’s the healthiest. But if it works, why not?”
I neglected to tell Marilyn that my spouse and I had had some problems working out our open arrangement. I didn’t want to elaborate on them. Being a mature woman, half-married, half-single, the word “challenge” did not come close to describing the charged situation.
“When I get married, I expect my husband to be faithful to our sacred bond, to regard me as special,” proclaimed Sarah. Marilyn and I exchanged sympathetic glances. How gratifying that she understood my pilgrimage, different indeed from David-Neel’s, though both of us sought adventure. Mine had a spiritual component too, or was I merely finding excuses to justify my sexual exploits?
“You were kind of a library slut,” interjected Chloe, her voice flat as though reading a corporate report. “Personally, libraries always make me nervous.” She shuddered, then crunched the remnants of a crisp bread, papadam.
“Please tell all about India,” cried Marilyn. “I want to go there for the music and dance.” She made mudras (Indian gestures) with her hands. “And the men speak such a sexy, sing-song English.” The pusses, as though to second her support, looked expectantly in my direction. The darlings emanated a serenity that gave me the confidence to persevere with my confessions.
“Leading a double life is dishonest. A librarian, with all you’ve read! Don’t descend to the level of those trashy women’s novels.” Any moment, I expected Sarah to wag her finger at me and utter the words ‘shame on you.’
“Do tell us some stuff about libraries in India,” said Marilyn. “Libraries are temples that keep past wisdom alive.”
“Well, I do have a story that fits. On a research grant, I met the head of the Delhi Public library.”
“Go ahead. Nobody else brought anything to read.” Marilyn gave me an encouraging nod. Letting the creamy taste of a firni pudding caress my tongue, I jumped at the chance to share the story of my encounter with Mother Ganges.
SEVEN: BENARES
“You were Indian in another life... from your walk on your toes I can tell... perhaps a temple dancer at Madurai,” asserted Dr. Krishna Raj, director of the Delhi Public Library. The fair-skinned man nervously patted his potbelly and beamed a smile at me while refusing to talk about the library he headed. He was so animated that his hands flew around knocking off his glasses. Eyebrows twitching, he hammered home his points with a professorial thoroughness. As he nervously stood up and sat down, I noted that he looked about six feet tall.
A raconteur on every subject except libraries, he enthusiastically discoursed on Indian food, culture, religion and music. As the wall clock ticked, I tapped my notebook impatiently. Oblivious, he continued his monologue, making it impossible for me to get a word in concerning the particulars of his library operation. Writing an article on Indian libraries provided a convenient excuse for the university grant that paid much of my way to the land of quixotic gods and goddesses.
Since childhood, I had dreamed of visiting India, the opposite of prim Philadelphia. Trapped in a university on a daily basis, I knew a lot about the day-to-day mechanics of American libraries but nothing about Indian practices. Chafing to visit the Red Fort and buy beaded slippers at the bazaar—or perhaps have an erotic adventure—I tried to prevent this windbag from wandering off the topic. No use! He blabbed on and on.
Raj took me by the arm and looked into my eyes: “Professor Barbara, why are we wasting precious time? You must accompany me to Benares! A Kumbh Mela, one of India’s holiest festivals, is happening right now. Multitudes are gathered at Hardwar, but Benares, my village, is better. Every four years Kumbhs are held. This year is an especially holy twelfth-year celebration. From all over India millions and millions of pilgrims, many walking from distant provinces, come to bathe in Mother Ganges during the full moon. We shall board a bus packed with pilgrims singing the glories of the divine. Forget libraries. Discover pious Hindus at their devotions.”
“My stomach’s none too well,” I protested. “Anyway in a couple of days I have to leave. I still have quite a bit of research to do. My funds are really short.” Yet I longed to accept his offer, to plunge into the India of song and story.
“Poppycock! Krishna Raj will not listen to excuses. They are irrelevant.” Dramatically, Raj threw down a paperweight. He put his huge hands over his ears, appropriate for a child’s face.
“Our family have been merchants in Benares since the god Krishna turned blue. My relatives own sari factories that export the world over. Therefore, we have many fine houses. You will be an honored guest in our family home near India’s most prestigious Hindu University. Research you shall do galore. Foreigner students study Sanskrit, philosophy, the Vedas, yoga, Ayurvedic medicine, everything.” Proudly, Raj removed his diploma encased in red silk written in gold leaf from a cabinet. Thrusting the vellum document toward me, he placed it in my lap.
“What will your wife and children think?” I sputtered. “Showing up with a foreign woman. Won’t they be shocked?” Large colored photos of his wife and several children of various ages on Raj’s desk made me uncomfortable to travel with a married, possibly religious, Indian man.
Firmly, Raj waved away my objections. Grabbing my notebook, he jammed it into his pocket. “No need of notes now! Wait until after the festival has given you a strange and beautiful world to write about.”
Next morning I found myself on a scorching hot bus packed with pilgrims, many standing or kneeling in the aisles. With glowing faces and meager, pipestem bodies, they were willing to travel to infinity and beyond for a bath in the Ganges that would purify their karma. Other ancient buses, which resembled ambulating bathtubs, headed in the same direction and nearly knocked ours off what passed for roads. The steering wheel came loose, and every so often the driver viciously jammed it back into place. Babies cried and vomited, chickens cackled, and old people wailed high-pitched prayers to speed their auspicious reincarnation. Discomfort did not dampen the general euphoric mood that lasted throughout the dusty ride. Occasionally the bus halted in order for the pilgrims to pile out and do their bathroom business in the fields.
“Raj, I’m sick. I need to go but...” Staring at the floor, I gasped, “What should I do?” Bent over, perched on the edge of the seat, if Raj had not held onto me, I would have slid onto the grimy floor.
“Swallow one of these Ayurvedic stomach tablets I always carry with me. Dissolve it under your tongue. You’ll feel chipper straightaway,” he chirped. Within half an hour I did. Raj had the driver stop the bus especially for me, took me to a spot behind a bush and discreetly waited while the field became my toilet. Later, when the bus door jammed shut and I wanted to squeeze through a window, Raj sustained me through an attack of claustrophobia.
My first sight of Benares taught me about crowd power. In the States, people massed on occasions but never flowed together, blended into one as though whipped into an omelet. Raj and I had to lunge forward to make headway through groups of pilgrims camped on sidewalks, in doorways and all over the many ghats (stone stairs leading down to the river). Eyes aglow, hands joined in supplication to their gods, they were feverish to be purified by the Ganges and released from the endless cycle of birth and death. Mumbled prayers made the air hum. Had time spun backwards thousands of years?
“Be careful! Hang on to Raj. In 1955, my uncle took me to a Kumbh and we watched more than one hundred pilgrims crushed after a young boy panicked. Walk carefully, eyes straight ahead. It’s too crowded for rickshaws or bicycles to edge through. I hope your shoes are comfortable for walking.”
As we inched along, women selling saris accosted me. Exhausted, I stood mute and still while they draped me in layers of silk. Their intrusion exasperated Raj. Muttering they were “freeloaders” who stole from his family business, he shooed them away.
After trudging for what seemed miles, winding through innumerable narro
w, garbage-laden alleys, we passed tall houses that perched over the lanes as though they might topple down on my head. I vainly tried to protect myself from crowds of pilgrims walking resolutely to the Ganges.
Finally, in late afternoon, we reached Raj’s ancestral home near the university. This three-story building, obviously once grand, had been neglected for years. It was missing window slats and had a door falling off its hinges. The rooms were nearly bare except for wall hangings of temples filled with pilgrims presenting religious offerings. Several brightly colored carpets were frayed from being trod upon for years. My room on the second floor, furnished simply with a chipped wardrobe and chairs, had a bed so high I had to hoist myself up on it. Meanwhile being at the mercy of a strange man, although a fellow scholar made me uneasy. To quiz Raj further, I maneuvered my way down narrow, sloping stairs.
“Your wife and children—are they here already?” I inquired hopefully. Raj typically wiggled his head in a way that might mean either yes or no.
“My wife refuses to visit Benares because the people are superstitious. She finds our house to be uncomfortable. The beauty parlors in Delhi are her religion. Never mind that Benares is a center of great learning and civilization for over two thousand years!” He flipped his hand in a dismissive gesture.
Raj clicked his tongue and looked wounded. Suddenly, without his glasses, he seemed more attractive. Changed into a transparent long white cotton shirt over trousers, this casual outfit slenderized him. My eyes kept straying to a large bulge in his pants, protruding from the see-through cotton material.
“There is a lovely garden out back, if you wish to read under the trees.” Pointing towards the kitchen he said, “Servants below are fixing our dinner. We can have an Indian feast whenever you like. Would you like a snack?” Feeling at home in Benares, the curmudgeonly librarian had been replaced by a virile man whose booming laugh enlivened musty, mausoleum-like rooms. I dreaded going up to mine, wondering if I’d be able to sleep in the lumpy bed that took up most of the room.
“Listen to Raj about one thing! Do not go out in the street alone. Take Raj with you wherever you go. Charlatans, hippies, thugs, and pimps invade Benares for Kumbh. Renegades from remote areas snatch away foreign women. They are never seen again. Believe me, villains hide in crowds waiting to bite like rabid dogs.” Wearing a huge ring with the image of the god Krishna, Raj wagged his long finger at me to emphasize his point.
“Here, take this whistle to blow if we get separated.” Raj slipped the silver whistle into my mouth. I coughed and pulled it out.
“I’ll be careful.” But I looked outside longingly. “Tomorrow I want a Cook’s tour, very complete.” I was so excited my tiredness disappeared. Because Raj had brought me to Benares, I expected he would guide me through the maze. What if I became separated from him, lost in the crowd never to be found again?
“We will begin at Hanuman ghat near the bridge close to my university,” he said. “Remember, the best way to get oriented in Benares is to memorize the position of each ghat as a guidepost. First you need to recover from that long bus trip. India, especially Benares, is nothing like the States. I have been to New York and San Francisco for library conventions. Maybe our paths have crossed unbeknownst.”
Raj looked in a large mirror to check his appearance. Then he slid beside me onto the single couch in his living room. Since the cushions were worn out, we sunk into the middle together. Pouncing on my lips, he inserted his tongue deep into my mouth while grabbing hold of one of my breasts.
“Really!” I cried, pushing him away. On my librarian high horse, I flounced upstairs. That he acted so quickly and inappropriately irritated me. Had Raj brought me to Benares for some Ganges-style hanky panky? If so, I was in no rush to comply. I was going to bed alone. Exhausted, I fell asleep immediately in the enormous bed. Next thing I knew, Raj pounded on the door.
“Eight o’clock, lazybones! Get on board. The Raj Tour Bus leaves in fifteen minutes. Come down for breakfast, or I’ll come in and pull you from bed myself.” I took heart that his tone was bouncy with no hint of anger about the previous night’s misunderstanding.
“Okay, ten minutes, wait for me. Don’t come in.” I put on my clothes, flew down the stairs, drank steaming black tea and ate buns the maid had set on the table. Feeling rested, my expectations soared.
Thus began three days of intense sightseeing with an extremely horny librarian whose hands roved over me if given the slightest opportunity. I hardly noticed his attentions, since Benares had become my eternally seductive lover. Lured by the sacred Ganges, my feet of their own accord headed in its direction. I wanted desperately to bathe in the river along with hordes of pilgrims purifying their karma. The mere suggestion nearly gave Raj a coronary. When we walked along, he held onto me like a leashed dog, afraid I’d make a mad dash for the water.
“The water is full of dead bodies floating along, some half-burnt, livestock too, and raw sewage. Disgusting! Raj would not forgive himself if you got hepatitis or cholera from the millions of beggars who bathe in the Ganges each year. Tanneries from the nearby Kanpur leather industry dump chemicals too. Cows, goats, dogs, pigs are here digging through the garbage. Dung is underfoot. Don’t put one pinky toe in that water, promise Raj!”
“Sure, the Ganges is dirty,” I replied tartly, resentful of Raj’s bossy tone. “Benares may be a housewife’s nightmare, but I find it exhilarating, especially having all sorts of animals milling around. They ought to roam in New York. It would be bad for traffic but very lively.”
“Crazy woman. Maybe Raj will take you to a head shrinker. Remember, Raj is responsible for your safety in India. We are in the same profession. American Library Association would hunt me down like a criminal if you got hurt. Maybe I’d lose my job. My poor little children!” Raj shivered and looked at me pitifully. After my outburst he held me tighter. If I had allowed it, he would have gone to the potty with me.
Raj pointed out geriatric homes full of soon-to-be corpses awaiting fiery transport to their next life. On the Asi ghat we met a smiling yogi who claimed to be 350 years old. Raj remained skeptical, but followers of the naked sadhu, with dusty braided hair down to their waists, would have gladly drowned themselves in the Ganges at his mere suggestion. They laid flowers, food, grain, garlands of marigolds and pink lotus flowers at his dirty feet.
“Pay no attention to that charlatan.” Raj dragged me away from the entertaining holy man, who looked no more than fifty.
“Why dismiss him? Ask him some questions, at least.”
“Questions, my foot,” snapped Raj. “For Kumbh, frauds come out of forests, down from mountains to beg from crowds... bloody good pickings from foreigners like yourself, who are ready to believe anything. Come, it’s time to learn about the real Hindu religion.”
Raj took me on a detailed tour of Benares’ wealth of temples. The Durga temple, popularly known as the monkey temple, he saved for my last day. Raj guided me among the mischievous, scampering monkeys, potentates of this venerable sanctuary. A reddish-coated fellow with enormous yellow teeth made a flying leap, then snatched a notebook from my hand. Tossing it to a confederate, both ran outside to rip out and chew the pages or peer at them as though reading.
“You are lucky those monkeys don’t scratch your face, vicious creatures!” snapped Raj. “It is not surprising since this temple is dedicated to Shiva’s consort Parvati in her most terrible form. At festivals here they cut goats’ throats with huge old-fashioned scimitars. A few religious extremists give all Hindus a bad name. Come, we must visit one more temple today, the Bharat Mata.”
Raj took me along an old narrow street. “Non-Hindus are not allowed inside so they let you view it from an adjoining building over there. For centuries my family has prayed here. Today, I must perform a puja (religious ceremony) for my dead father. I’ll be back in a jiffy.” He deposited me on an extended platform in a tall building from which I could see inside the temple. I watched him showing off on my account, taking ins
tructions from a saffron-robed priest who lit candles and chanted blessings to the dead. Overcome by a sudden impulse, the Ganges current began to flow in my veins, while a powerful force pulled me toward the water.
I ran down the stone steps to throw myself fully clothed into the stagnant water among other pilgrims. Nearby, priests wrapped the ashes of cremated bodies in cloth to be deposited in the river. Next to them oblivious Hindus took ritual baths or washed their children. On the ghat older boys in school uniforms played cricket while cows crossed in the midst of their game. A wedding party finished their feast drinking wine from china cups. Wrestlers showed off and women folded washed clothes dried in the sun.
Sinking into the grey water, I felt as comfortable as in my own bathtub. Nor did the religious excesses frighten me. A certainty that I had been here in another life made everything seem familiar, including the Ganges rank smell. Instead of drinking Ganges water with the pilgrims, I splashed like a sprite, danced around waving my arms, swayed back and forth to sitar music that echoed in my head. When a boat of pilgrims floated by, chanting, “Victory to Mother Ganges,” I joined in at the top of my lungs. Behaving as though drunk, my inhibitions were left on the ghat along with my shoes. Such intoxication went beyond alcohol. I felt my soul leap from my body.
When two boys jumped into the water and nearly tripped me, I snapped back to reality. Had I been in the water one minute or one hour? Time had spun into an ancient dimension, whirling me away from customary markers. By now, Raj, convinced the worst had happened, would be scouring Benares looking for me.
Soaking wet, dazed, I walked out of the water onto the closest ghat. Eventually, I plunged my soaking wet feet into my shoes. At least in the boiling heat I was in no danger of catching cold. Walking up and down the bank, with no Raj in sight, an irresistible desire to pee overwhelmed me. Rather than go outdoors, I slipped into a shed that once might have been a wayfarer’s hostel, with holes in its roof and no windows. As I squatted releasing a stream, I heard someone enter the half-open door.
Confessions of a Librarian Page 6
