We were sitting in a too-small, overwhelmingly decorated room. Giant Hindu idols adorned the walls, covered in small colorful lights and plastic flowers and sparkles and bright red and orange cloth. The room was too small for the number of people inside; it was hot and cramped, I was sweating, and the fan was going at an unacceptably slow speed. Before us sat arguably the best Indian classical violinist in the world. Banaras is known as the city of music, and this man was poised to be the head of its prestigious Banaras Hindu University’s music department.
I knew I’d never been enthusiastic about Indian classical music. But Krishna had told us that, when played well, you don’t have to try to like it. You don’t have to be used to it. You just know it’s good. So I went to Balaji’s concert with new hope, that maybe this music would be good.
Balaji pulled his bow across the strings, sliding his fingers up and down his instrument. It whined. I cringed. I tried to be open-minded. I tried hard. Genevieve hates it when we’re negative. I hate it too. But this music was just too much.
As I sat, listening to the painful noises of his instrument, I tried to distract myself by thinking about how I would tell Genevieve that I couldn’t deal with any more of these classical music concerts, without getting her angry.
“Genevieve,” I’d say. “Indian Classical music just… isn’t my thing.”
“Come on,” she’d say. “Just try listening to something else. Some sitar music, maybe?”
No, that wouldn’t do. I couldn’t have her dragging me to another concert, violin or sitar or harmonium, or whatever else she could find. I would need to be more firm.
“Genevieve,” I could say. “This is painful to listen to. It sounds like he’s trapped cicadas and donkeys and cats in the body of his violin, and they’re all trying to get out. I want to take his violin away from him, and say, ‘That is not how you use this instrument!’ I can’t do it anymore. No more Indian classical music!”
By this point, I was so caught up in how I’d escape further Indian-classical-music-situations that I didn’t realize that my hand had been subconsciously tapping my knee, beating out the lively rhythm with more and more vigor; my head was moving side to side. It seemed that against my will, my body was – was this even possible? – enjoying the music. I felt like one of the old men sitting around me, shaking their heads, raising their arms in appreciation, shouting, when truly impressed, “Kya baat hai!” What a thing!
The music, I realized, was good. It had taken on a rhythm I hadn’t noticed before. It was loud and passionate, full of rich culture and joy, and reminded me of wedding klezmer or Irish fiddle music.
Banaras is not like New York, or Paris, or London, or any city I’ve ever visited. “City” itself is a misnomer for Varanasi. It’s hard to think of it as a dormant place, just a setting or my current location, because it seems to be much more of a living entity. Of all the characters in my life right now, Banaras is the lead role. Banaras is mischievous, intelligent, all-powerful, fickle, cruel, and loving. Banaras looks deep within you, and manifests your greatest fears and wishes. It (he? she?) figures out what you feel, and then purposely puts you in a situation to completely change your point of view.
First paan, now classical music. What new loves will Banaras bring? Someone make sure I don’t start swimming in the Ganga.
Wednesday, December 30
The scene
There’s a scene in Pirates of the Caribbean. It’s the one in the beginning, when Will Turner sees Elizabeth coming down the majestic spiral staircase of the governor’s mansion. She is dressed in a beautiful new green gown. From the tight laces of her corset to the perfect symmetry of her high cheekbones and pouted lips, everything about her is grace and beauty. But what really makes the scene is Will. His face when he sees her seems completely wiped blank, as if she’s stripped him of all his worries, thoughts of his responsibilities. You can see it in his eyes: all that matters, in that moment, is Elizabeth.
My high school mascot was the pirate, so naturally I loved that movie. I was obsessed with it for a while, and watched it more times than it’s healthy to watch a movie. But then, as such loves go, I knew it so well I became sick of it. I haven’t seen it in years, and only began to think of it again when I got to India.
Imagine that scene happening to you hundreds of times a day. Because for a foreigner girl, that’s how it is in India. When I walk down to the fruit seller to buy pomegranates for breakfast, there he inevitably is: the Indian Will Turner, on his bike, whose head seems to do a full 180° turn to keep watching me (I keep forgetting to ask Virendra-ji how to say “to crash,” as in “If you keep looking at me, you’re going to crash”).
Paan sellers see me passing in a rickshaw and stop rolling their leaves of tobacco to stare. Boys engaged in animated conversation stop, open-mouthed, when they see me. Some hit their friends to make them turn around and see the angrezi.
My home stay sister and I were riding home from the market one day, and she was shocked by all the boys staring. “They act as if they never saw a foreigner before!” she said, scandalized.
One guy made a loud feline noise as we passed him. Another barked. “This city’s like a zoo!” I joked to Priyanka. “There are cats, and dogs…”
“And especially boys,” she said.
In the past three months, I’ve gotten used to my surroundings. I don’t gape at the women carrying large sacks of rice on their heads, or the men selling squares of dried mango on the corner. But I’m slowly coming to terms with the truth: they’ll never get used to me.
Saturday, December 26
Weavers
I'm sorry, I know I've been doing a terrible job of writing - but I uploaded even more pictures from our very hands-on walking tour of the part of Varanasi where the muslim weavers work their magic.
Tuesday, December 22
Monday, December 7
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