AFTER A DAY OF VISITING Agra, tombs, forts, and craftsmen, I found myself sitting across the river of the Taj Mahal, watching the sun set on this world wonder. Unfortunately, because of the pollution, the sunset was not as majestic as it could have been. I washed black out of my hair that night.
The perfect plan was to have today go as it had, wake up early the next day for the Taj Mahal, and then be on a train by lunch. Today had gone as planned, but my train ticket was not until midnight the next day, which meant I would have a whole day to kill in a city I had not taken so much to liking. The people seemed snottier and less friendly, be it at the hotel, street stands, or museum. Agra fort was nice and I cannot deny that beauty, along with the other Islamic architecture. I was especially looking forward to seeing the Taj Mahal up close the next day. I didn’t plan on getting up early for the sunrise as I had an entire day to kill. So, I planned to sleep in and check out this merveille du monde all afternoon, then pick up my train ticket, have a walk and try not to spend too much money. Finally, I’d catch my train I hoped to sleep most of to wake up further east. Further away from tourists and the frustrating Indians that encircled them.
16
I wanted to hear Claudia’s voice, but I had nothing to say. I was still having those moments of feeling scared and lonely during my trip. But the feelings also felt good, like curing an illness - painful but necessary. I wanted to cry.
I had been fortunate though. My first day, I met Roux - the French yoga lady. The next day, I meet Solé and later Sandra. And as I was finishing my day today, I met another French woman - Valentine, who would take the same train as me out east. Four women, three days, all of which were beautiful, intelligent, and charming. All of which seemed to share interests with me that Claudia did not. All of which I believed had an attraction towards me, at least it was more fun to think so. And I wanted to call Claudia. Do I love this woman or not? Two more months to find out and find out everything else I’m supposed to find out.
I figured if I learned nothing out here about myself; it was fun to watch these Indian people. The past two days I had watched Indian men holding hands, grabbing asses, sitting in each other's lap, and hugging each other in a way that seemed much more than platonic. They never touched women and women never flirted or seemed alive here. I guess this would be ideal in the west where women were constantly complaining about being seen as sex objects and being continually hit on by men around them.
I then had a few imaginary arguments in my head about this. With the current political drama around Muslims in France and women wearing hijabs at the beach, maybe it wasn’t such a good time to bring this home.
That and people would complain, the French in particular, about anything and everything. An impossible people to please.
I WOKE UP THE NEXT day feeling rested and much calmer. I had a cup of my newly beloved tea, packed my bag, and then killed a few hours around town waiting for my driver to get to the hotel. I came out wearing my Indian shirt and got a ‘Fantastic!’ review. I said ‘Thanks.’ I doubt that’s what he was looking for.
The Taj was as wonderful as a world wonder should be. Though I found more awe in it the evening before from across the river than up close. Even the greatest wonders are more fascinating from a distance. The right distance. Not too far, not too close. But I guess you have to put yourself too far and too close before you can know the right distance. Am I talking about people or architecture now? I wonder how the Taj represented the favorite wife for whom he built it. And then how did the other wives feel? How could a woman follow that up? ‘I hear you say you love me, Shah, but where’s my Taj?’ I wonder if he regretted building it after that. Probably just said fuck it, built his cask next to hers and laid down next to his dead favorite wife. ‘None of these birds were like you, Mahal.’ I also wondered if he would have seen the wonder in his dead favorite wife if she hadn’t died so young. Perhaps he didn’t get close enough to her.
I spent more time walking around the garden than I did around the Taj itself. I was also quite the sight for some tourists. They asked me to take pictures with them. I should have charged them. Some of them were the over-friendly, grab-assing men. Another was a man with his son. Where are the Indian women? They’re there, but they’re not.
I followed up my trip to the Taj with a dinner which was half sauces, some rice, flavored bread, a few veggies, and a glass of yogurt. All of it was spicy beyond pleasurable and I imagined the yogurt was to keep it all from coming back up.
I couldn’t head back to the hotel since I had checked out in the morning, but I still had another five hours to wait for my overnight train. It had been another long day. I was about ready to assassinate the next person who stared at me or tried to sell me something.
The way the commerce worked here was very communal. Charming but mostly annoying.
You stepped out of the train station to be greeted by drivers. Who took you to a hotel who had people that tried to guide you to stores or restaurants. At the store, you had a greeter that took you to a seller who took you to somebody else, who just showed you to another seller, until you were finally done. Then a transition guy took you to the cashier where you had another street guy trying to lead you to another store, restaurant, or hotel. They shared all of this end money through commissions. I respected they shared everything. I couldn’t say I was a fan though of being constantly followed, lead, or conned.
And after you have talked to twelve people to buy one thing, you tried to come up with creative answers to the same questions.
‘Where are you from?’
‘What are you looking for?’
‘What’s your name?’
‘How do you like India?’
‘Do you have a girlfriend?’
Nice questions all leading to one thing. I thought about making a sign that answered all these questions with a subheading that said I had no money.
THE TRAIN WOULD TAKE seven hours to get to my next destination, all of which I shouldn’t sleep. Twice I had been warned not to eat or drink anything on the trains here for fear of getting roofied and being robbed.
The thought of sleeping still felt nice though and if it hadn’t been for the noise, I would have dozed off right in the station. This fucking country, it had the ability to give you spirit and just as quickly take it. I’m now left here in my fatigue, frustration, and vulnerability thinking about Claudia. Thinking I should look for an internet cafe to see if perhaps she had sent me an email.
Solitude.
THE TRAINS WERE RELIABLE and on time, but they purposely oversold tickets. They had certain cars where they had no limit on tickets. They sold these cheap tickets and allowed you to get on or hang on at your own risk. Most bought their tickets and then went to one of the bed cars that had a fixed number of tickets and stole somebody’s bed. I couldn’t blame them when the cheap cars literally had people sitting on each other, hanging out the window, or riding on top of the car itself. I asked the guy in my bed to get out, and he did so without too much fuss.
Despite the warnings, I would sleep. I had a lock with me and attached my bag to a post on my bed. I was on a top bunk, so somebody would have to be obvious to snatch it. Plus, I kept it under my legs.
I couldn’t sleep though. Something had upset my stomach since my first day in Agra. Diarrhea mostly, with gas. It wasn’t the most horrible room-clearing gas, but it was uncomfortable in feeling and the diarrhea was consistent, cleansing. I suppose my digestive system came to India as well to sweep out his demons.
After two hours, the cleansing process went into overdrive and it tried coming up the other way. I jumped out of bed and onto the guy I kicked out of my bed, now sleeping on the floor below me. He said nothing. He just looked up at me and then laid his head back down.
I did my best to step and weave my way through the rest of the sleeping crowd to get to the toilet.
Locked.
No time, there were no closed doors on the train and I just stuck my head out i
nto the cool passing night air and let it go. The wind threw the vomit up onto the side of my face. I reached up to wipe it off and almost fell out of the train with my one shaky arm holding me up. I fell to the side of the train door and then just held myself there for the next half hour that felt like several hours.
The guy in the bathroom finally got out. Which was good, because now the diarrhea was back and I didn’t feel like sticking my ass out the door, but I would have done it if he hadn’t left.
The bathroom was a hole in the floor. No seat or water, just a closet with a hole in the floor. Looking down, you could see the tracks passing quickly below you. The train seemed to go faster when you had such a narrow and direct overhead view.
I squatted and held myself up against the wall behind me that was wet.
It all came out in a horrible and disgusting way but felt like an orgasm in the release. Covered in sweat, I wondered how close diarrhea and ejaculation really were, and I didn’t mean in physical proximity to each other.
I went back and forth from the train door to the bathroom for the remaining four-and-a-half hours of the trip. I was going from the sweatbox that was the bathroom to the open door of cool night air and it felt like jumping into a pool from a hot tub. The pleasure attached to the pain.
The guy on the floor slept on my bed with my bag as his pillow.
17
I got to Khajuraho in the morning still sick, but with nothing left to force out. It was a small town and much quieter than the India I had experienced so far. I found a hotel and convinced the guy to let me check in early and just stay for the day. I had bought another overnight train ticket when we arrived at the station so I just wanted a place to take a shower, brush my teeth, and leave my backpack for a few hours.
I had also met another Spanish woman while at the station and had a friendly conversation; I thought my luck with Spanish women was no accident. I seemed just as drawn to them as they did to me. The language, the look, the personality. Then the Spanish girl’s boyfriend showed up just as I was about to ask her to tour the sex temples with me.
I went to a small stand to see what type of medicine they kept there. This wasn’t a pharmacy or drug store, but just a guy in a box selling everything from batteries to pills to toilet paper. I bought a little of each and exchanged more money. He had an impressive exchange rate, so I converted most of my money there with him. The pills I bought had nothing to do with my stomach but were just painkillers. I had always been a fan of painkillers and after my flight here I figured it would be nice to just kill myself for a few hours rather than live through another rough and long aerial expedition.
I talked to him for a bit about sports and my stomach. He didn’t have much for me but recommended I go to the temple in town.
I was skeptical, but he said it worked for him and I agreed to do it. I couldn’t just walk in and asked to be cured though. I had to offer fruit in exchange. He suggested a melon that grew there. It started to feel like more trouble than it was worth, but I listened as he explained the process.
I went to the temple with my fruit. It was a small chapel-sized temple with just a few small pews on either side, some candles, flowers, and an old man sitting at the end. I came in and he looked at me. I assumed he didn’t speak English, and he didn’t. I rubbed my stomach and gave an unpleasant face. He pointed to the fruit; I tried to offer it to him and he shook his head. Then I remembered what the guy at the pharmacy had told me, so I broke the melon in half and handed over half to the Hindu medicine man. We each took a bite, and then he sat the fruit on the altar with the other offerings.
He picked up a flower and some other small grains and leaves I didn’t recognize. He wrapped the surrounding flower and tied it all off with a blade of grass and handed it to me.
I thanked him and left staring at this dark pink flower wrapped up in my hand. I went back down the street to the hotel to take it with some water. When I walked in the guy saw the flower and asked me if I had an upset stomach.
‘Yeah,’ I said. ‘Does this stuff work?’
‘Did you bring an offering?’
I told him I did.
He said it was the best thing he’s ever had for his stomach.
He gave me some water and laughed as I ate it.
Valentine, the French girl I had met in Agra, walked down from her room at this point. I hadn’t seen her on the train or after, and it was nice seeing a familiar face. I knew nothing about her and wouldn’t call her a friend, but just the fact that it was a face I had seen before was comforting in familiarity.
So I asked her if she’d like to visit the sex temples with me.
She agreed, and we headed off.
It was nice having a companion; she had also come alone. She was a journalist in Paris and wrote a very revealing book about Sarkozy which had apparently gotten her into a lot of trouble. Not so much legal or financial, but her paper had put her on a hiatus and after which she had found out that someone had tapped her phone, so she had to get out and away for a while. It surprised me since Sarkozy wasn’t president anymore, but apparently, he still had future intentions to run.
She was a good walker and seemed about my pace when visiting. It can be difficult sometimes to find a good partner to visit museums and sites with because of different interests and different levels of time people like to stare at something. Ours seemed about the same and the sites were fairly bare with people.
There were a few tourists, but often we would be the only ones there. There was no sexual chemistry happening between us, but it did feel very much like having a girlfriend spending the day together like that.
The temples themselves were everything I had hoped. Scenes of porn chiseled all around the outside, offerings for fertility, impotence, and pleasant sex. How do we not have this in the west? In a world of constant stimulation, why don’t we take the time to worship what is so beautiful and is responsible for so much creation? I wasn’t sure that Valentine saw it the same way. She found it intriguing, much like a person studies something that has nothing to do with themselves. I would see that a lot in people in my travels. People open to seeing new things but not connecting to them. Just another day at the zoo. Just another photo to show to your friends with an interesting fact attached.
I didn’t hold it against her, and we had one thing in common on our walk that day. We came across a small collection of houses. There were no tourists around and the women were smiling, the first time I had seen that since my stay in India. The children were playing and coloring on the ground. Valentine tried talking to some locals, but none of them spoke English or French.
I knelt down and started coloring the ground with the chalk just as the children. The mothers smiled, Valentine smiled, the children laughed, and I laughed. I felt happy for a moment.
The sun was setting and so we hurried to see the last temple on our plan before heading back to the main village. The setting sun painted everything around us orange. The temple was orange; the desert was orange. I was orange and my shoes outside at the bottom of the temple steps were orange. I was still feeling the high from my coloring session and floated on a cloud for the rest of the orange evening, from temple to hotel and eventually the train station.
Before leaving, I thanked the medicine man.
18
The days were blending, and it was getting harder to remember which day of the week it was. I wasn’t sure if it was a Wednesday.
I slept on the train this time and slept well. My headache from the first days was next to nothing, and I woke up with an appetite. I grabbed some cakes from a vendor and waited to see if I could spot Valentine stepping off the train. We took the same train again but again didn’t make the effort to be in the same car. She seemed uptight about seating arrangements and there were no open seats next to her assigned seating. I didn’t bother. I wished her a nice trip and told her I’d see her in Varanasi and went to go find my bed.
I was back in high spirits and reflected on my trip.
India was such an interesting country and fun if you had the energy for it. I guess you could say the same about any country though. Despite the trials with an upset stomach, I felt lucky things had been going my way. I hadn’t made any exact plans before arriving. I knew I would land in Delhi and that I had my only scheduled stop two weeks later. Everything else was up in the air. I made half-assed plans to see the Taj, the sex temples, and Varanasi in between, but no reservations or real planning went into it. I was on time for my timeless timetable.
19
Varanasi. When I think of India, I think of Varanasi. The city that Shiva gave birth to. A holy city, and therefore a city without alcohol. Shit.
After the usual routine of hotel check in, I looked out my window and saw people singing and carrying a dead body over their heads through the street. I went downstairs and followed them. I followed them all the way to the burning ghat and watched as they prepared her body and the pile of wood she was to be burned on. The prayers and the small tears. I watched as the son opened her mouth and stuck his torch in it. I watched.
After a moment, a little boy came running past me and bumped into me. I asked him to explain everything to me. He took me by the hand and said follow me.
He told me that everybody came here to burn their loved ones, that there are only seven things that don’t get burned. Animals are gifts from God. Priests pray every day and are therefore holy. Pregnant women carry flowers. Children are still innocent. There are also lepers and a few other exceptions. The reason that these select few are not burned is because they need not be purified.
We walked up some stone stairs. Some old women were holding out their hands asking for money. I waved them off. The little boy stopped and looked at me.
Sin and Zen, #1 Page 7
