June 5, 2023
I may have been the mover, but was I not also moved? I am completely nuts. I think that a trip of India would depend on wether or not it was successful. In 2016, I learned Yoga in Rishikesh, but I was weak from vomiting and diarrhea. So many troubles, I ran away fast, past Varanasi, which is the spiritual capital of Hinduism. I wanted to be away from India, pooped and broke, and fled. However, I had dreamed of visiting Varanasi—the question which is whole within me, needing no answer to who I am. Do I want to make something of it? I do not know. Fortunately, I was incapable of believing in luck and omens. I live only to preserve myself.
I stood waiting in the slow and snake of the line. After a long wait, I was able to reach at an immigration officer at seven in the evening. His face wore a formal expression, almost stern, which made me straighten up. I placed my passport and visa documents on the counter and waited for the officer to check them. The man held his head a little bit higher. “Do you have the return ticket?” “No, sir, because I am Japanese.” “Where are you going?”“Chennai, Madurai, Kanyakumari, Bengaluru, Varanasi…And Delhi is the end.” “You don’t have a return ticket?” “No, we Japanese were able to get through without it.” He got out of the box. “Come,” he walked stiffly toward an office and I followed him, growing discontent.
In the office a man forced me to buy the ticket. I had no choice. Everyone say anything can happen in India. I was dealing with complexes at all, and with the ticket I never intended to use. I stirred with restlessness and uneasiness there, sitting in the chair outside the office. My brain was frantically searching for the perfect solution, as if a mind map were branching out infinitely. I have known all my life that when something unexpected happened, I failed to understand the core issue. It felt like intimidating creatures walled me off while I fought off them. My cramped stomach played along. The only thing I had to do was take my anxiety medication to shove thick mist out of mind, and I did. And, as always, the pressure in me subsided slowly.
I took a deep breath. The entirety of my situation was gradually falling into place, as if frantic waves were passing by. In case of accident, I had thought about buying a ticket to Nepal that was adjacent to India, for no more than seventy dollars. The cost is reasonable as long as I can get into India. And it was. I was aware that a woman in traditional clothes slowly came closer to me and said softly, “May I help you? I can give you a hand,” she sat in the chair next to me, so I explained to her my situation. She nodded gravely, and then she wavered, staring around—it was probably due to her character or tendency. When she noticed there was no one around her, she faced me and put her hands on her knees. “The return ticket is the mandate.” I was sure that what she said was different from what she thought. Well, there is some of that, more formal than I have any right to know.
When I walked to the baggage claim, I felt I was being inspected behind me. By the carousel my backpack was just dumped alone on the floor, and there were no strollers. I was tired of being discontent, and what came out was guilt for having got nothing—now that I think of it, I had spent seventy dollars, even though I was not going to Nepal. “Wait!” A man turned out before me. “Is this your bag?” “Sure.” “Show me the tag.” I hand it to him. “Okay,” he disappeared.
I tottered out of Chennai airport and into the hot gray evening. I never spend a penny on anything worthless, nor do I waste my time on the stupid-ass. I could not bring new eyes to new lenses—new world—only a kind of disgusted feeling. I went up the stairs at metro station in distress. It was only when I was standing on the platform that it occurred to me I could not remember how to get the ticket. If the station had been divided into two direction, I might have gone the wrong way. It was dark when I arrived at Anna Nagar. Cars and rickshaws cruised about, so much so that for a while I hardly crossed the road. It reminded me of the feeling I had in Dehli in 2016. I dodged the crowded road, and into the shady narrow street. The buildings and houses cast long shadows, eclipsing the neon lights from main road. Some men on bicycles passed by, and many motor scooters parked along the street. In front of a small shop, a group of boys huddled, staring at a pile of fried doughs on the counter, which brought back memories from 2016. They were tasty, but I should never eat them again, because greasy and oily foods gave me stomach trouble.
In the dark I could see the sign of my hotel. A stranger—middle aged man—pointed at the entrance, so I went in. The office was there. The older man was encircled the scatter papers, checking some kind of list. He had noticed me but ignored me. His hair is a grizzle gray, his eyes sly and sleepy. He looked like a typical lazy man in his sixties. After a while, he thrust the register in front of me, and spoke in the unfriendly tone when he does not much like what he has to do. I no longer wanted to belong there, but my heavy backpacks put too much strain on me, so I wrote down mindlessly.
My room was too hot, so I opened the back door that led to the veranda and saw a mountain of garbage pilled up across the neighboring property. The ceiling had a large fan, but it was weak, and mosquitoes buzzed in the air. My bed was damp, the pillow lumpy, but I had to tolerate it because it was a cheap single room.
It was steamy tropical night. Millath road was utter chaos—the endless honking of bikes and rickshaws. In my flurry of nostalgic atmosphere, I saw gulab jamuns, small, sweet balls, which I often ate during my yoga classes. A man in white ethnic wear slid the door of the cabinet open, took out two brown balls and handed to me. “You like it.” “I loved it.” I could taste how good I felt. I bought a coke can, punched it open and drank it thirstily. While I strolled down the road, they honked their horns; the stores and neon signs were a kind of modesty. It seemed to me that Chennai felt a bit more organized than Paharganj in Delhi, where I had to weave through crowds, being careful not to get hit by vehicles. I stopped and ate a hamburger, knowing that Indian ones had thick patties. The stainless steel round table rattled and wobbled as I sat down. I noticed a middle-aged man in a white shirt, who looked like a businessman, sitting across from me. He casually reached for my coke and was about to drink it. I angrily snatched it back. Then he stood up without saying a word and went somewhere.
At night my room was so hot, that I could not sleep. I left my room doors open to let in breeze, but a living creature to come in. A gray cat snaked in and tried to rummage in my backpacks. My skin was itchy, probably because of bed bugs in the damp sheet; mosquito hummed near my ears. I got up and detached the yoga mat from my backpack and laid it on the bed, but it was a hard thing to go to sleep. I knew well that if you can not tolerate these, traveling in India would be impossible, where the summer heat is so intense. When the dawn came I slipped out of bed and went outside. The bathroom was filthy, but it was okay as long as there was water.
I found myself strolling along Millath road. The sun was well up by now. Everything I saw in a new city seemed fresh. I had dosa for breakfast at local restaurant and learned how to eat it with my hands by watching others. After drinking yogurt as a substitute for milk, I was in a good mood. I was the one who needed to go about this odyssey with gusto of the ignorant. Otherwise I would have a breakdown. I wished it could be an excited pilgrimage to Varanasi. For success, I had to address the complications one by one. The first: Get enough local currency in case of something unusual come up. In the winter of 2016 in India, all the ATMs were closed. We usually use ATMs to withdraw money. India lays this illusion bare: out-of-order machines, skimming, or no cash in ATM. The law: Make sure to withdraw money from an ATM adjacent to a bank during business hours. I could finally breathe a sigh of relief when I saw my money come out. The second: Have a sim card. It is crucial to my survival; the internet is the only friend I can rely on. The mobile store was very clean and looked like one in a developed country, and the staff wore red uniform T-shirts. When a young man smiled a greeting, I inquired about purchasing a sim card and handed him my phone. He began to manipulate it, but its configuration was so complicated—I reluctantly disclosed a lot of my personal details—it took him less than a hour to complete. Normally, you just insert it. That’s all.
The sun was very hot. I walked toward Marina Beach with no expectations. I had to fight the sand to get out, and found it to be a mundane beach. Families with children were simply playing together. I just wanted to walk. I loved to walk and run, which could not be helped, and I loved summer. The more I move, the more I lose my weight, which allows me to refuel my body with water and food. I felt gratified in nourishing not my body but my heart, with wistful hunger for glory. As a result, it lowers the threshold of happiness and quality of life. And it was India, and out of suffering comes ease.
Of course it was a good dinner, too much of it, and street food was not something I usually have. I love the feeling of being able to eat without guilt, but at night I had been lying with stomach cramps and had been itchy all over my skin. The room was burning hot. I closed my eyes, but of course I had not fallen asleep, and the time was long. It felt like torture—heat, itch, and indigestion. My trip was completely spoiled. I hate this hotel. I should move another place, but I felt too bad to get up. When I am at my weakest, I never rely on anyone. Some people saw me as hopeless, humiliated, and then abandoned me, while others exploited my weakness to bring me down. I know these with my whole body, so completely that I fight against myself. But I lost, beseeched sleep and trick it into coming. Thus I had time to fade away into the abyss for a long while.
I did not think I could get up the next day. Morning light came through the opening door. Once I went to sleep, sleep gave a relief from the agony of the crucifixion. I think I noticed that the gray cat was by the door, sometimes trying to get in and sometimes snaking in. By thinking of nothing, I let go of the loneliness, misery, and void within me. I slept until late in the afternoon.
This night, I had to get up and out; I have only had water all day. I rolled over slowly and supporting myself on one hand I looked at the seated cat on the floor and ran him off. I staggered to the bathroom and took a shower. When I walked back to my room, an amiable young man started talking to me. He was nice, but I am not, so I gave short answers, hinting that I wanted to be left alone. On the other hand, I thought he would find it much easier to live in India than I would. He is healthy while I am sicker than I was. I know that I have senseless qualms since I have been alone.
I am a weak man. My bloated stomach had spoiled my appetite. I had come to Millath road dripping with sweat. I underestimated the heat of an Indian summer. I have not had diarrhea so far, but I had better to eat something light. At the bakery I bought four or five cakes or donuts, including some for breakfast tomorrow. I sat down on the bench in the back of the shop and took a bite of one. I could feel kids’ eyes on me, going from my cake to the crumbs on the floor.
On the third night at the hotel, I am at my limit. There was no way I could not sleep in such a place. I decided it was time to get out there first thing tomorrow morning. The new hotel owner welcomed me, even though it was before check-in time, and I politely thanked the boy who showed me to my room. My bed was soft and the ceiling fan strong. I sprawled on the bed, enjoying coolness. I remembered the incompetent older man in my previous hotel. Nonprofessional. Regardless of the country, the people you meet could change something about you. I found there was a pharmacy near to the hotel. Buying local medicine is a placebo that makes me hope that I might feel better.
Traveling to India is less an adventure and more a challenge. A man have to challenge. I walked along the river toward Egmore Station to buy the ticket to Madurai, and the sun shone hotly down on me in the afternoon. If only I could make a reservation online. Even after waiting in line for an hour, the best I could get was a third-class ticket. Of course no AC. I guessed that the bums without ticket slept on the floor.
The intense heat outside and abdominal bloating kept me in bed most of the time. I had been surviving on water and cakes for the past few days, going on long walks and sweating. For the first time, I experienced a sensation as though my organs and cells were slowly ceasing. I remembered how the end of a human comes at a certain time. In Varanasi, humans are burned to ashes. In the past I could bench press 90kg, but I am quite gaunt now. I tried doing push-ups, and collapsed after eight.
I was sick, but I had to eat properly. I went to Wild Garden Cafe by Uber bike, and ate a big pizza over beer. On my last day in Chennai, I walked straight up Millath road and toward Ratna Cafe, an established cafe. I ordered what they called Meals and a banana leaf was set on the table. For a moment I wondered what was to come. But then side dishes were placed one by one—a yellow one, a purplish-red one, and a green one, and then, yogurt in a tin cup. A large plate of rice and a round cracker called papad were set before me, onto which a waiter poured a sauce. As I was eating, the waiters took turns pouring various sauces at intervals. The last one was milk coffee. I felt content having South Indian food at the local restaurant. It was slow going, but maybe things were moving in the right direction.
By nine-thirty I reached Egmore Station. The departure is ten-thirty. I looked at the board, but the train was not displayed. Even after thirty minutes, it still was not. Delay? I show my ticket to the staff member. “This is Egmore, not Central,” he pointed at “Central” of my ticket under which there was the blue line. Heck, I made a mistake. I had casually dismissed her warning when I bought the ticket that the departure station is Central Station. Having felt not only relief from having the ticket in hand, but also anxiety about third-class ticket, I let her important words slip away. It dawned on me that when I am consumed by my own emotions, I find it hard to listen attentively to others. “Hurry. You can still make it,” he said. I heard a man whistle and looked at a man, who was waving his hand at the taxi stand. “Central?” “Yes.” “Come. Let’s go.” I ran after him and jumped into the taxi. “The departure is ten-thirty.” “Central is very near. Ten minutes.” “Can I make it?” “It’s a quarter past ten. You’ve no need to worry.” He steered the car onto the road and we drove without talking. The road was far from crowded. He maintained speed through darkness. I tried to relax, but the caution about avoiding street taxis lingered in my thought; time was pressing so hard that I was just feeling sense of urgency. Then I caught sight of something bright to my left, and realized I was looking at a train with so many cars. I felt so relieved that he neither took a detour nor rip me off. He said, “Watch the board over there.” I looked in the direction he pointed and thanked him.
With my backpacks, I watched the board and trotted to the platform, but there were none. It was just that a very long train was standing still. I walked quickly along the train for some time, wandering, and finally found my car. The inside was not as dirty as I had thought. It had brown berths, each berth without privacy curtains or beddings. The mat was hard, but it was okay, for I had long since gotten used to it. It was midnight, but I could not sleep—the adults lingered in conversation while children ran around on the train. After a long while, voices disappeared and a hush fell on the car. The train made a soft rhythmic rattling noise. I had been asleep and was awaken.
In the darkened silence I could hear a young woman’s voice—flat rhythm on mora, and strong emphasis on the separately pronounced individual words—the elegance of English was lost there. She was talking about Japan, reducing it to mere talking points. Boring. No humor. Feeling a little annoyed, I slowly lifted my head off the berth and could see a young woman sitting between the Indian men—an old man with a white beard in white traditional clothes, and a portly middle-aged man. She was the center of attention, with other men constantly talking to her. However, I sensed the men might have been interested in her for reasons beyond the surface. Indians know that Japanese women are less assertive compared to Western women. Anyway it was none of my business. I concluded that she must be enjoying the cultural differences she never can experience in Japan.
I was astonished that something ordinary happened in India—the train arrived on time. It was now seven-thirty. The street was deserted and quiet, and the shops in the shade were closed. There was something peaceful about it—cars and rickshaws were rolling along. I ate a muffin under the roof of the bus stop, then stood up and stretched my body. As I walked toward my hotel, the hot morning sun beat down on me. I came across an open bakery where a boy was preparing an opening. Inside, I spotted various kinds of shakes lined up in a cold cabinet. I had been longing for something cold and bought coconuts milkshake, which cooled me down. Although the bloating in my stomach remained, my appetite was coming back.
I had a reservation, but I might not check in until noon. Since that was impossible I sat in a chair in the lobby and scrolled through my phone; bloggers mentioned Sree Sabarees as a favorite spot. It was clustered with local men. Once you are in, you will not be able to get out. I wondered if it makes sense to eat breakfast in such a crowded space. However, the turnover was so fast, I found myself sharing a table with strange men; I pointed to the idlys, those white balls they were mostly eating. I could not tell if it was good or not. As a casual eatery beloved by the locals, the chaotic but orderly energy somehow made it taste better.
On my way back to the hotel, I emerged at Meenakshi Amman Temple—stunning architecture, intricately adorned with countless colorful sculptures, a triumph over the city. So impressive was it, that its appearance alone was enough to satisfy me. And the growing morning heat made my visit seem redundant, so I returned to the hotel. My room was a cool, clean, comfortable room, the part of the wall painted to imitate marble. As I took a shower, I felt a pleasant tiredness, causing me to go to my bed and fall onto it.
Awakening in the afternoon I looked at the clock on my phone—2p.m. I lay in bed for a while, pondering a plan to get to Kanyakumari, which must be somewhat cooler. I should have time to rest there—if I lose any more weight, my journey will come to an end—and I have now decided that I will go to Kanyakumari tomorrow. Despite the summer heat, staying idle is a waste of time. I got out of bed, began to prepare for a excursion, and then I visited Meenakshi Amman Temple again. At the entrance, I was required to leave my shoes, bag, and smartphone, all of which were important to me. I could not help but worry about them being stolen. There was no reason to push myself, as I do not understand those who wished to worship God, something, anything. I have never had anyone on my side in my life, so I do believe in my own effort.
In the evening I had studied the routes—Madurai to Kanyakumari—that I wished to take. There was little very information available, perhaps due to the aftermath of COVID-19. I checked out my hotel early in the morning, assuming that once I got to Madurai Central Bus Stand, things would work out. I did not want to use a rickshaw or a taxi on the street—they might take a detour or overcharge me. The law: Use Uber or prepaid taxis with designated numbers. To my frustration, every time I requested an Uber, my rides were canceled. The sun was hot. I walked back and forth along the streets, time passing by. The more I was pressed for time, the more my anxiety mounted. It went on and on and besides, I was afraid of this emotion now that I was alone. The harder I tried to suppress my anxiety, the more it amplified, leading me to act in weird ways. It is an aspect of myself that I never want anyone to notice, which is why I am always purposely aloof.
In my mind, flawless plans seemed to form naturally. “I check out of the hotel at 7:30, I will ride a richshaw by 8:00 to go to Madurai Central Bus Stand; get there within 20 minutes; that should give me plenty of time to find a bus to Kanyakumari; I arrive there by 3:00. Then…” Now it was breaking. I tried to recreate the patterns of the previous one, even though my brain was aware it need not be more specific. I kind of felt lost, and something inside me hurt. I started to doubt if there was the bus to Kanyakumari. What if I can not find it at the bus stand? I tried to put aside psychological threat that made outlines vague, and the uncertainty about a bus to Kanyakumari. A fog crept over the mind—tension and anger, weariness and tiredness—all merging into one broke everything. And afterward, I caught a rickshaw, told my destination, and negotiated the fare, pretending to be arrogant so as not to be underestimated—if you took somewhere else, I would hit you. While riding in the rickshaw, I kept my eyes fixed on Google Maps of my phone. I could not bring myself to trust anything, as though to felt compelled to protect myself, and I ended up ensnaring myself into a spiral loop.
The bus stand was calm and peaceful, no chaos. I was busy and unutterably tired, obsessed with the thought that I must take the bus to Kanyakumari. As the air grew hotter and hotter, so too did the pressure to figure things out. The bus stand felt really expansive, maybe because of the sparse crowd; my backpacks felt unusually heavy today, as if trying to prevent me from going forward.
I asked a staff member where the bus to Kanyakumari was. He said No.3. I went to No.3. And I asked another. He said No.8, so I went to No.8. I asked again. “Cross the parking. Ask there.” I obeyed what he said. There, I asked.“Not here, over there.” I walked wearily back across the parking again and sank on the bench. I knew they are not able to say: “I don’t know.”
I was stunned and felt helpless; besides, the heavy backpacks discouraged the move. I was incompetent to think flexibly. Surely a Western woman would handle this situation efficiently and decisively. I was staring blankly at the passing buses—I realized that I could not even afford to take my anxiety medication. I bought a coke, took one of the pills with it, and then drank long and thirstily. The medicine does me some good. I seemed to be feeling better and I must have been able to give them the impression at least that I wanted to go to Kanyakumari. But so what? No one seemed to be in a hurry; women were sitting leisurely on the benches. After a lonely while, I asked the woman next to me, who was with her kid, about the bus. She rose awkwardly and walked to the staff member. He was standing straight, looking neat and sharp, so I got up to my feet and approached him. “Go to Nagercoil. Change the bus,” he said flatly. Nag..coil? It sounded a little familiar, but I was not sure. “This bus,” he turned his face toward the bus near us. Not knowing its spell, I could not look it up on my phone. I said to the bus driver, “Kanyakumari!” “No, Nagercoil. If you go there, ride on.” I pondered for a second and climbed up the bus.
I slept in the seat, lulled by the pleasant breeze from outside, and I had forgotten that panic had seized me in the morning. I had already severed all ties with my friends and acquaintances, only to preserve myself. I was not conscious of the pain in my head. As I was told, I alighted at Nagercoil and boarded a bus to Kanyakumari. Along the way, Marunthuvazh Malai, a rocky mountain, came into view. I have been captivated by this giant hill standing tall.
The bus stop was near to the hotel. I found a middle-aged woman behind the reception desk. “I booked online. My name is K.” She stared at the register, and said sternly. “Go another hotel. Because no room left.” “Why? I made a reservation.” “They extend, extend, extend!” she said. “There are a lot of hotel. No problem.” I have never experienced this way before. Is she stupid? “They feel comfortable, so they want to stay long,” she bragged. I was about to flare. Just then, a Western couple came downstairs with their luggage. “I’m busy. Go out!” She turned to the couple, and grinned like a idiot. “Did you enjoy your stay?” she asked them. I was outraged, but backed away. “Of course.” They seemed satisfied with her. I was certain that talking to this bull bitch was futile. It is what it is. I had learned that anger brings nothing good, only to exhaust myself. “Good review—,” she waved to them. Bullshit. I detested the way she descended to flattery to exploit. I might have made a complain. That would be only normal, expect that India is an impossible place. I said, “Please tell me the nearest good hotel. The cheeper, the better.” “That hotel is good,” she said, pointing to a obscure pale blue building on a small hill. “Go up this way.” “Thank you.” “Welcome.” I got out, frustrated and angry.
The sun arose hotly. My whole body felt heavier as I went up the hill. I found a hotel sign near to the building, opened the door, and went in. The dust rose into the air; the afternoon light came through the big windows. In contrast, the long, gloomy corridor with the doors along both walls was very dark. Not a soul was there, nor was there any reception. Only two worn-out chairs at the entrance. Suddenly a door near me banged open, and a man bolted out of it. He wore black pants and a kind of white shirt. “Excuse me. Is this a hotel?” I asked him. He tilted his head slightly, then walked past me toward the big windows and looked out. As I approached him, he turned back. “Can I stay here?” I asked. “No, it’s full,” he answered. I guessed what he said likely meant: “I’m busy. Go away,” “The hotel is closed,” or “This is not hotel.” I should have told him what I was going to tell him clearly and explicitly as possible. In India “Tomorrow” never really means “Tomorrow.” In Hindi the word “kal” means both tomorrow and yesterday. Anyway, I surmised that he showed the sign of disagreement.
I strolled down the hill and stopped by the other hotel. One of the staff was standing at the reception desk. I had noticed him when I negotiated the price—he was a furtive man, as if he did not know his own mind. He was flipping idly through the register, and staring around. Indeed he leveled his nose at me and said. “Let me check the room.” He slipped through the curtain and into the back room. After a while, he came back and explained to me that they were going to make the bed, then vanished. I sat relaxed on a stool just in case something happened. When I looked up, he did his work at the reception. Then he called me and said, “I’m sorry, but there are no rooms available.” I stood up. “But, you said… Please check the rooms again.” “Yes, sir.” I saw him ascend the spiral staircase in a hurry, and then he came down straight away and said, “I’m sorry, sir. We are fully booked.” I gave him a smirk, as I knew it would happen. “Can I sit here for a moment while I search for a hotel?” I asked. He nodded, so I opened booking.com on my phone.
The hotel was a pleasant surprise; my room and the bed were spacious. Early in the evening I stepped outside and found it cool, so I put on my hoodie. It was a deep twilight when I walked down the main road. The stalls sold fish, and at that time there were people strolling toward the sea. A few rickshaws ran about, building breezes that carried the scent of grilled fish. As I slowly approached the shadowy temple, the chilly wind was inshore. Over the sea there was blackness deeper than the sky. My eyes were drawn to the statue atop a small island, while I overlooked the people standing along the dock. I turned at the temple and walked back toward the hotel. It was odd that, even though I had made it to the southernmost point of India, how a man believes he could foster a deeper sense of his being. Who I am to know what the world is? Man being alone acts stoically, developing myself. I believe the real basic power comes from aloneness. It forms both the strength and the weakness, but which might put a mist of despair on him. There must be a whole world I miss. I want my mind to be free and I want to achieve something extraordinary, but I know I can not have both.
On the fair summer morning, I wandered around my hotel. Although it was eight in the morning, several middle-aged men huddled together in front of the tiny shop, where there were numerous bunches of bananas hanging from the ceiling. I could see the owner coating bananas in flour and frying them. The deep-fried banana, Pazham Pori, was something I had never seen before. My stomach was in good condition. It looked so enticing, that I bought one—it was sweet and delicious.
Kanyakumari is pilgrimage center in India. What has my belief to do with it? Pilgrimage is what you want it to mean. Now I was walking to Thiruvalluvar Statue. The wind blew back and forth across the sea. Whitecaps were as white as clouds that settled low on the horizon. The clouds hung in high puffs above the statue, so that it was more majestic. Dozens of boats were lying at anchor in the bay. The beach was flecked with families, the parents and children playing together—it could be a heartwarming sight.
As I dawdled around the historical landmarks, my stomach suddenly cramped up. The next thing I knew, I was in a hell of a hurry to get to my hotel. I opened the door in my room and rushed into the bathroom. Shivering, I crawled into bed and doubled over in pain. I tried to sleep, but had to get up every hour to go to the toilet. So frequently, that I found myself washing my bottom with water as Indians do. Not knowing how quickly time flowed by, I awakened at six in the next morning and lay in bed for quite a long time. It was a crazy, reckless thing to eat the fried banana. I knew well that I should not eat oily foods in India. All the energy seemed to drain from my body, leaving me miserable in the stomach. I seemed to feel a deep hunger, not only for nourishment but also a kind of love, so I sought consolation in something else. I went out of the hotel, staggered to that tiny shop and bought a fried banana.
Then I came back to the hotel, and ate it. I sat in the bed, working on my computer. To keep my journey going, I have to research everything from transportation to accommodations. I like it that I can simultaneously concentrate on what I have to do now, as though I can live in the present. I was desperate to make up for lost time, not just from yesterday but from long ago due to my laziness. However, I had not known what I should do. Consequently, I had been working out and running so hard until I strained my body too much. It was a ritual in which I found strange contentment. I needed pain to let go of the past, the ramifications of which I have been considering. I would not have thought much of the pain from diarrhea, since there had been greater hardships. Now I felt a sharp stomach pain again, so lay down, allowing me to have time to cease to exist for a while. Then I will live for the future.
It has been three days since I got diarrhea, and I was pretty tired of it. My alarm went off at five in the morning. I got out of bed, and reluctantly got dressed, like a child who does not want to go to school. It was probably the same as what a large number of people think: “I might as well go since I’m here.” There was languor in me now. From a backpack I took the roll of toilet paper. I tore it into pieces, folded the sheets, and thrust them into the back pocket of my jeans just in case. I opened the door in my room; a breeze covered my face. I walked down the main road, along with the small crowd, as if I were an office worker going to work. There were already many people at the dock. The statue was golden by the small lights on the floor, and picked up darker tone of the sea as whitecaps rose and disappeared. The sun was beginning to break through the horizon and rapidly tint cotton clouds. It might have been worth coming—the sun of time and the sea of tide could soothe me.
Right after sunrise I went back to the hotel and lay down in the bed, exhausted. I ate only bananas (not the fried ones) while I was sick. However, despite my upset stomach, my appetite had quietly returned, and the period of suffering seemed to make me sane. I wanted to eat something good, but I supposed Indian food did not agree with me. I found myself missing Japanese food and daydreaming about indulging in it at Bangalore. It would be best to take care of my stomach first before reaching Varanasi.
I slept an hour but awakened. It seemed that some warm light came through the gap in the curtain. I can not travel forward unless my diarrhea stops, and of course, I will never eat street food. Either way, I had to build up my strength. There were a few restaurants along the main road, but not a customer in sight. I went to the hotel restaurant where a young, well-dressed black woman was working. I was the only customer this morning. I ordered sandwich and hot coffee, and awaited it eagerly. The coffee came in a small cup. The Sandwich was terrible—literally just bread and apple jam. But now I was starving. I like to starve because I can find joy in small things.
I bought bananas, donuts and cakes on my way back to the hotel. At noon I went to Kanyakumari Railway Station, but I could not get a ticket to Bangalore, and in addition, my credit cards were declined online. After some effort, I was able to find a travel agency. I walked through the entrance and saw a young woman standing there with a scarf on her head. There was something refined about her. I told her that I wanted a sleeper bus ticket to Bangalore. She turned and beckoned to her husband. Once she spoke to her husband softly, there seemed to be no longer need for conversation. For a long time, the man stood in front of the computer, his wife tenderly by his side. It was supposed that this man was running his own business. He stiffened with deep-set eyes, while she looked at him with adoration. There was no movement, the faces did not change. Everything there was in their world. At times she trotted behind him to keep up. Their demeanor made me comfortable, unlike what I would expect from Indians.
The bordering point was Hotel Seeba Palace. In the lobby of the hotel, three young men were sat joking around, and a kind of smirk appeared over their face. “Do you go to Bangalore?” I asked. “Yes, wait here.” Their eyes were dark, as though they were up to something. Since I had some time before departure, I went out and bought some red bananas I had never seen. When I came back to the lobby, a young man said, “The bus don’t come here.” The three men opened the door one after another and walked toward the main road. The departure time (4:30PM) already passed, but that is not uncommon abroad. I wavered in my judgement about trusting them, but there was no one else in the lobby except me. In no time I checked my ticket, which said “Hotel Seeba Palace.” Perplexed, I vacillated between staying here and following them. In India, there are implicit messages that you can not interpret. I opened the door and followed them with my eyes—they were already pretty far gone—and stared at anything. There were no signs of the bus coming; I walked quickly to the main road and caught up with them.
They wandered back and forth along the road. “Excuse me,” I called out to them. “Where does the bus come?” A man half-shook his head. I did not know what he suggested. Then he said, “The large buses run on this road. Like this,” he turned his head toward the road, and a large one passed by us. “But, my ticket said Hotel Seeba Palace.” “Show me.” I took the paper from my pocket, unfolded it, and straighten the wrinkles. He hold it to peer into and spoke to the other two, who tipped their head. “Hotel Seeba Palace,” he said clearly. “Where did you get it?” “From the travel agency,” I said. ” Show me your ticket.” “We don’t have.”
I stood back against the concrete wall of the house, watching large buses go by. Eventually I dropped my backpacks on the weeds. I had learned about how Indians are more flexible and can work things out simultaneously, and that things do not happen as he tells it will. It would be wiser to wait with no expectation, let go of expecting anything. In the dusk I saw the three young guys hanging around. It was somewhat better than I was alone. I was trying not to think about the bus. Turning, I saw, just by the three guys, several people emerging from nowhere.
It was not until after an hour that the bus stopped beside us. As I boarded it, I was astonished that the berths were completely flat. A clean red blanket on each berth; yellow privacy curtains hung down; the walls golden were with sculptures. Incredible! As soon as I lay down, all the tensions of the past days fell away. Sleep came heavily, and released me just as freely in the evening. I must have slept for a long time, sensing someone walking past my berth from time to time. When I awakened then, the dawn had came. I felt a chill, not from the air conditioner, but from deep inside me. Dread crept into my mind, and out of dread came restlessness. I remembered I did not have any diarrhea yesterday. I wondered why? Now I can not ask the bus driver to stop. If it did, I might be left behind in the middle of nowhere. I opened Google maps on my phone. It would probably take at least two hours to get to Bangalore. Nonstop? I desperately wanted to go to the restroom. Panicked, I took plastic bags out of my bag, and square-folded toilet paper from the back pocket of my jeans. I lay curled up on my berth, and all I could do was pray that the bus would stop for a break. A dreadful, harrowing time seemed to stand still.
When the bus stopped, I felt a great sense of relief. I darted out and trotted to the brush in the park where there was no one, then immediately pulled down my pants and underwear, squatting; I let out a tiny sigh like secret in the pain. On the other hand, ahead of me, I saw a young woman with her child coming toward me. Wait! Don’t come any closer. You could tell what I am doing, couldn’t you? She ignored me and placed her child on the swing beside me, smiling as she pushed it.
Bangalore was a break to improve my gut health before heading to Varanasi. I was delighted to eat Japanese food. Actually it was very good, even though I felt a little guilty for indulging myself. Bangalore was no India. I do not appreciate the idleness of the city life. Once that time was over, I flew to Varanasi by plane; I have had enough of sleeper train and sleeper bus.
Both the taxi driver and I knew that the alley was too narrow to drive through. “Get off here, walk to the hotel,” said the taxi driver. It was hot and humid, for the morning wind had not blow. I recalled the medina of Marrakech, surrounded by high walls. Once you wander into, your GPS does not work well, and suddenly a boy appears. He guides you to a hotel or guest house called “riad” for a tip.
Thanks to Google Maps working sporadically, I was able to move forward. The residences were tightly packed, their shutters down, and a few people wandered about. The tall buildings cast shadows, blocking out the sun in some areas. Suddenly, a scooter was charging toward me, honking its horn. As I walked through these lanes, I had the illusion of the walls closing in on me, along with a kind of suffocation—I was scared I might lose my way as if in a maze. A few merchants opened their shops, selling grocery, and not far away a stray black cow roamed near my guesthouse, where a middle-aged man was standing. He was dressed simply but composed and self-assured. He held out his hand as we exchanged greetings, and the heat of the early sun burned us. I then realized he was the owner, who guided me to the guest house. In the room behind the reception, a young man was sprawled on the floor with a fan. No wonder no one can work in this heat. After I registered, a servant-like young boy carried my backpacks and climbed up the quite steep stairs, dripping with sweat. In my room, he wiped it off with the hem of his T-shirts.
The ceiling fan was powerful, and there was a big machine beside the bed, blasting out cool air. I lay on the bed, turning toward the big machine. I love summer, so I was looking forward to the intensity of the summer, especially Varanasi. But It was unbearably hot, like being in a sauna. In 2016, despite coming to Varanasi, I was bedridden due to sickness and could not even go outside. It ended up being just a stopover on my way to Kolkata, so I had been dreaming of the Hindu world. I leaped out of bed, because I could not afford to get sick.
The moment I stepped out of the guest house, I saw another cow quietly urinating or defecating. The main road was just a one-minute walk away. Layers upon layers of shops were bustling with casually strolling people. I was a little taken aback, moreover, Dashashwamedh Ghat was just nearby. I stood for a while and blundered around. “Japanese! What are you doing, moving back and forth, back and forth?” a voice yelled in Japanese. I saw a group of young men laughing beside the lassi shop. Dismissing them, I walked off toward the Ganges River.
The sun flared down on people of all ages, from kids to elderly men, in the river, surrounded by numerous boats—a scene that I had exactly imagined. Having seen it many times on TV and on the internet, so I could only see it as a tourist spot. I realized, furthermore, that it felt effortless to get there, as if I had reached the summit in just a minute. There seemed something for nothing, like wealth without effort. I sat on the flight of stone steps leading to the river, gazing at them. Had I been in my twenties, I would have leaped in without thinking. But now I became uncertain as to whether to believe in the river’s holiness or its pollution.
I got to my feet and made my way through the crowd. “You wanna ride a boat,” someone spoke to me. “I’ve already got on.” This is how I usually decline. I walked along the riverside toward the deserted area. Then I turned back and saw people bathing. On the flight, the people were sitting or standing. What is it that people are expecting from the river? Could the river bring tranquility to the heart in such a crowded place? I was supposed to be deeply moved, however, and one look seemed to be enough. I can never forget the first time I walked down to the Ganges River in Rishikesh. It was early in the winter morning, the air crisp and rich. I listened to the river flowing into the forest, a little secret melody surrounded by solitariness. At the same time I looked at a skinny, withered old man, almost naked, sitting cross-legged on the boulder, “his back to the world.”
I continued to walk on the deserted road to the north, lined with ancient buildings that looked like haunted objects. I walked up and down ageless stone steps, a few strange men passed by. The other ghats were completely deserted, as if time had stopped, and some homeless men slept on the ghats. I was lost in a reverie. The buildings, in their state of disrepair, had ruined their own story. Dashashwamedh Ghat is the present and the other ones the past. The meaning of the past can be altered, but if neglected, it is going to break not only the past but also the present. I have to left them behind because I live for the future.
My throat was dry and I was hungry. I had read some Japanese blogs about restaurants in advance. I blundered into the narrow streets, bustling with people, stringed with small shops selling accessories, handicrafts and silks—sari, scarf and shawl. I was not interested in them at all, and then climbed up the concrete slope leading up to Megu Cafe. From the top someone said to me, “Megu Cafe closed.” I wandered about, not believing him. Another man stopped beside me, “Megu Cafe is closed.”
Well, I was awful hungry and as though wanted to fill the void in myself. However, I knew that the more I starved myself, the more pleasure would await me. Without drinking water, I hurriedly retraced the streets, making my way through the crowd until I came to the main road. When I went past the lassi shop, a young man, whom I ignored before, grabbed me by the arm. “Hey, brother, what are you doing?” I shook him off violently and toward my guest house, where wifi was good. Then I heard his voice from behind, “You’re stupid, I know yakuza,” this son of a bitch said loudly in Japanese.
I googled Japanese restaurants in the front of my guest house. Then I began to walk down the narrow lane between the buildings that were sheltered from the sun. This area was a stark contrast to the shopping streets I just came from. At places water leaked from the buildings, Indian music playing in the background. Along the lane, there were a few restaurants, but no one eating. Then I noticed that another Japanese restaurant appeared to be closed for the time being, so I decided to visit a few popular cafes. I followed the same lane straight ahead and realized that it ran parallel to the Ganges River. I was thrilled to be making progress in the maze, for there was another world inside these lanes—I wondered how on earth they manage to live in such narrow lanes. From their expressions, they looked like they had just been through a dungeon.
Ahead of me I saw a Japanese couple dressed in clean clothes, whom I thought were just typical tourists—they must come to visit the sights, eat delicious food, and have sex at a hotel. I overtook them with confidence, for I am a backpacker who can see things from various perspectives. When I finally reached Mona Lisa Café, I could see through the windows Westerners having their meals. I have already walked for more than three hours, which is proof of my exertion. I entered—perhaps I had no choice. It was cool inside. I ordered a mango shake first, then spent a long time deciding from the menu. I was aware enough to know I should be absolutely ashamed, but I like it this way. If I were with a woman, I would pretend to make a quick decision so as not to be seen as indecisive. As I waited for my order, I noticed that the couple I had seen earlier were eating and talking. I am incapable of both at the same time. If I try, she finishes her meal while I still have a lot left on my plate. Now I sat alone, relaxed, looking forward to the carbonara I had ordered, embracing exhaustion and hunger. Actually, it was funny. The melted cheese and a brown sauce were clung to the macaroni. Although I was not sure if it tasted good, I felt content because I was pretty hungry.
At night the main road was overcrowded, its traffic congested. I never imagined Varanasi would be so popular with tourists. I just wanted to go to Blue Lassi Shop, famous for over ninety varieties of lassi. After watching the Ganga Aarti, I bought a large bottle of cold water and returned to my guest house.
I drank plenty of cold water, because without a refrigerator it quickly becomes lukewarm in my room. Even after taking a shower, it felt as if the temperature kept rising. I knew a young Japanese woman staying in the air-conditioned room next door. I can not deny that I was envious of her, but I was going to the Middle East, where the temperature is much higher—if I could not endure this heat, I would feel depressed about my own incompetence. I have come to take a foolish pride; I must be much tougher than I am. Naturally I had not been asleep. The awful hot night continued, and all I could do was wait for dawn. The gentle words echoed through my mind: “K, enjoy your travel. Take it easy.” Do I deserve to enjoy my life? I know that if I enjoy myself I feel guilty, as though I were being lazy. Actually, I was lazy when I was young. Then time passed relentlessly, and I gained nothing. I sat up in bed, reached a bottle on the floor and drank water. I must strive for excellence; getting one thing at a time, slowly, before moving on to the next. Success is a state of mind—glory and then love. Once there, I could afford to be kind, not only to myself, but to others.
When the dawn came I slipped out of bed and went outside. It would be too hot to do anything after noon. I was hungry, so I went to Lakshmi Chai Wala. It was a quiet, peaceful place where locals hang out on the long couches. While waiting, one of the staff poured from the pot and handed a cup to each person. The coals in the stone jars glowed, bread toasted over the fire. I ate two slices of toast slathered in white butter, with the smell of coal in the air. I felt good. I like this atmosphere. However, it seemed to delude foreigners who believe what they see on YouTube or blogs. You will not know unless you go there.
The slice of toast was too small and not enough at all. I felt like going to Brown Bread Bakery across from Mona Lisa Café. Once I stepped in, there were no customers. It was now eight in the morning. I asked a man at the counter, “Excuse me, are you open?” “Yes, come in,” he moved back of the counter. I looked around, and a few tables and chairs upside down. When I hovered around, the same man showed up in front of the counter and spoke to me, “It’s not open yet. Go to Mona Lisa Café.” I no longer ask why, nor do I grumble, because this is India.
I had become a regular at the Mona Lisa Café, as a place to go when the other restaurants had closed. In the morning, two vulgar young white women were lounging on the sofas, while two young Japanese men were having a conversation that lacked depth. Rest of the day was less eventful. It was so hot during the day, that I moved into my guest house as little more than shelter from the heat. I had been walking under the fierce sun, which no doubt jaundiced my view of Varanasi. Still, feeling forty degrees was a tremendous experience. I thought it would be better to leave with part of the memory and come back someday in winter.
I sauntered into the opening of the narrow lane at night. I stopped at the Korean restaurant that was always closed—but this time it was open. A gaunt man and I were the only customers at the time. It seemed like there was only one man working. He was Indian, either the owner or an employee, and he welcomed me. I ordered a bibimbap bowl and heard him chopping vegetables and frying them in the pan for half an hour. It looked good, but it tasted awful because of the soy sauce. It was so disgusting and the bloating in my stomach still lingered. Nevertheless I bought an ice cream to cool down on the way back.
I was now awake by the alarm which I had set for 4:30 AM. I did not sleep well due to the hot nights. It was hard to get out of bed, to just see the sunrise over the Ganges. Although Dashashwamedh Ghat is less than a five-minute walk from my guest house, I am not the kind of person who simply follows the crowd. I had already seen the sunrise in Kanyakumari. The sun is the sun. It is all the same. Do I have to go? Whether the sunrise is beautiful or not, I have no one to share my feelings with.
I saw people gathering on the ghat, waiting to worship the sun, and many who had taken a bath in the Ganges. People were already everywhere on the ghats, wearing somewhat possessed looks in their eyes—the way the future could be shaped. I wondered why they held such beliefs and were so devoted to god. Whatever they might think or believe, they looked as if to surrender to the incredible. Most tourists would take a boat to watch the sunrise. I foresaw how excited they would be. If you are taking photos of beautiful view as so many do, your life will be over in an instant, not changing the course of the river. However, as the sun rose, I realized I might have underestimated or misjudged them.
Even before six in the morning, vendors were selling groceries, fruits, and clothes at market in the park, where a dozen or so people slept on the concrete floor, stray dogs roaming. Women wearing colorful traditional dresses moved through the streets, as though they had walked everyday. Behind the stalls, whatever you call them, was the place where half-naked men sat taking a shower with a hose or stand brushing their teeth. And a young man in a orange T-shirt swept the garbage. It occurred to me that, regardless of the caste system, a person’s life is somewhat predetermined from birth. I have seen people were rarely capable of living for an ideal. Most people, about ninety per cent of the world, live as worker, and only ten per cent the business owners. The children of workers are raised to be worker. The children of business owners are educated to become business owners. They live in separate worlds, and the latter rules over the former. As for me, I was probably raised up to be a worker—not blue-collar, but white-dollar. However, I have no intention of ending my life as a worker or a business owner.
I had breakfast at Mona Lisa Café and then proceeded to Manikarnika Ghat, the cremation grounds. What is it like to witness a human burn? The river was calm and quiet, the cloud had crossed the sky, and even from afar I saw small fires rising unevenly. The air was filled with smoke. I walked past the casual eateries with everyone talking in close vicinity to the ghat. Dead bodies wrapped in clothes carried to the burning ghat. In the intense heat and smoke of the fire, I descended the stone steps leading to the Ganges, seeing the families around the bodies. First I wondered if I belonged here, stood uncertainly. I was a complete stranger; there was a sorrow that only the family can truly understand. Then I approached a little closer. I saw a body covered with firewood being burned by the river, the family moving mechanically. I stood for a moment, then turned and ascended the steps.
It was a reminder of the finality of death. Hindus believe in the cycle of death and rebirth called Samsara, around and around again. If so, he is no longer him. And now there is to be another being to begin. I recalled the images of my life. I do not care how I die or how I am cremated, but I never want my ashes to be mixed with others. If I were to be reborn, I would like to be reborn as the same person with the same parents. The concept of an afterlife varies depending on religion and philosophy. The only certainty is that after death, you no longer live in this world. Each of us is caught up in the chain of a human concept. Laziness, lies, and deception bring you to ash.