1089 Nights

A new energy fills the bus; everyone readies their belongings and springs to their feet. Before the door opens we are thrust forward and become like different shapes of clay pressed into one. A man yells reproaches. Crowd control has never caught on in India. I see the headline in the cheap Indian dailies--yet another bus accident, except this bus doesn’t drive off the road. We reach our destination and, with doors still closed, the front page photo reveals an abstract sculpture of entangled faces and arms. Sandwiched between a woman and my bag, the head of the little man in the white dhoti is bent at a right angle to mine. Quintessentially unflappably Indian, he smiles and laughs a silly laugh, saying something in Hindi. The single most confounding thing about people in India is how they always manage without complaint, and often good humor. Against all odds, there is even joy. Since we’re all going to be crushed to death anyway, I feel nothing but affection for the man in the white dhoti now. Fourteen hours of standing on a bus to Varanasi has finally ended. The waiting bicycle rickshaw drivers spot Jim and me, their eyes following us closely. Since so many people in India make their living on the streets, tourists are most vulnerable, especially those with blonde hair who blend in like a light bulb. To add to the mayhem, the rickshaw drivers climb up into the open windows to negotiate a ride. The irony of the Indian daily article widens: The life is drained out of all of us. We are long-gone with eyes closed, but the rickshaw drivers continue to negotiate a ride to a hotel. With a surge, we are birthed from our metal womb and plopped en masse out the door, fresh offerings at the altar of the rickshaw drivers. Travelers don’t consider themselves tourists. Some of us have been traveling for months or years on a very different budget than a vacationer. But the distinction is hairsplitting in India, moot. The limp wet money we carry in our money bag under our shirts is still, comparatively speaking, a veritable fortune to them. Before we can catch our breath, five rickshaw drivers have stuck to us like pasty rice, yelling and shoving. I have no strength to haggle. Jim raises his hand like an auctioneer. “How much to the Yogi Lodge?” Most rickshaw drivers in towns, we’ve learned, know most places. “Yogi Lodge no good,” one yells. We know this pitch: he knows a better place and the better place is his cousin’s hotel. He could be right. Yogi Lodge provides “very basic accommodation,” our guidebook says. But the Yogi has waxed legendary since the Sixties. Even if for a night, we have to try it. The Yogi Lodge is where we go. “So how much?” Jim asks again. And the bidding begins. “Twenty rupees,” one says. “Eighteen rupees. OK, fifteen only, good price!” A wiry little man with no shirt cuts through the others, as cool as a prophet parting the sea. The haggling and shoving stops, and the group falls silent. He is more dark skinned than the others, gray haired with an ultra-short cut, older than all his competitors by decades and shorter by a foot. But just as fit. I prefer the older drivers actually; I suspect they’re more trustworthy. “Twelve rupees, madam,” he says calmly, with a dark red smile, his front teeth missing. He’s a clever one, seeking out the madam. “Ten rupees then?” I say. The words seem to crush him. Most rickshaw drivers were thespians in another life. “No, no, madam,” he says with a troubled brow, his head boggling madly. “It is verdy far for ten rupees only--maybe four or more kilo-meters.” Of course, he is full of beetlenut and his ghoulishly red lips and gums prove it. And what a mess he is, like a little kid, red beetlenut juice all over his white dhoti. We agree on eleven rupees and wave goodbye to the competitors who turn with the weight of the world on them. Our driver’s age and small lean body belie his strength. I doubt there’s an ounce of fat on his frame. I’m thinking he’s around my father’s age, in his late sixties. He groans and labors as he pedals, all for our benefit. He cuts off a pushcart selling chana-dal that apparently meanders too slowly. Cling-cling!! This guy is ruthless. He nearly hits a cow that throws up its head with big brown eyes flashing, bolting as quickly as his boney frame can carry him. The cows in India are unusually congenial and polite. “Excuse me, could we go more slowly?” I yell forward. “Slow is good!”