Holiday in Holi Hell

I was an off-the-beaten-track, solo traveling force to be reckoned with. No one was about to tell me that Shiva’s city could kick my ass.

A kinder, gentler Holi, Andaman Islands (2007)

Whether the journey is inner or outer, it is essential to avoid arrogance and smugness along the way. Lest I ever forget, and perhaps as an aid to other traveler-seekers, I share with you this original, unpolished essay, which eventually appeared in my first book, The Adventures of Bindi Girl (2012).

It was written March 2003 and celebrates a 20th anniversary. I'd change a few things even now - even more humility! May it offer perspective with a dose of good humor.

The Andamans, 2007.

HOLIDAY IN HOLI HELL

I sit, sweltering, dirty and nauseous, at the banks of the world’s holiest river – the sacred Ganges – with her dead cow corpses and human cadavers floating downstream, as pollution pours in from the guts of the city of Varanasi – and I realize that in some perverse way, I am enjoying the view.

Upon first arriving, I was enchanted by Varanasi, one of the world’s oldest living cities, with the great river goddess, Ganga Maa, meandering at her steps. I was immediately smitten with the richness of romantic, “typical India” in all her glory.

I was thrilled to be tap-dancing gaily through the narrow paths of the Old City, ambling over fresh, steaming cow patties and competing for right-of-way with the largest milking cows I’d ever seen. I delighted in downing tiny cups of syrupy sweet chai at every corner, thrust in the midst of ear-splitting Hindi music blaring over every shopkeeper’s loudspeaker:

Namah Shiva! Namah Shiva! Hari Hari Hari! Namah Shiva!

I was digging it.

After months of being on the road, I praised myself as a strong, street-smart, savvy backpacker chick. “Look ma! See how effortlessly I let the hecklers’ and rip-off artists’ taunting roll off my back? See how I find that quaint little room with river view for $1.50 a night in that sweet, secret little guest house?” I was an off-the-beaten-track, solo traveling force to be reckoned with – and no one was about to tell me that Shiva’s city could kick my ass.

I had been warned about Varanasi from my fellow travelers – those who had gone before. Varanasi - also known Kashi or Benares – is the city of death, as the River Ganges is considered the most auspicious place for a Hindu’s cremated remains to be offered. Varanasi is revered as the home of Shiva, the most intense, revered, and feared god in the Hindu pantheon. Shiva is both the destroyer and nurturer, and he hits hard both ways. Shiva is about power, and pity the westerner who fails to show him the proper respect.

Shiva mural on the ghats, 2023.

“Oh, phooey,” I declared. “I’m ready for it. I’m a tough girl now – been almost five months on the road. Give it to me, India. Show me your stuff, Shiva.”

Two days into my stay, I began deteriorating. Forget sightseeing. Forget yoga. Forget anything requiring more effort than buying a few fruits and vegetables, staying reasonably clean, and staying conscious in a sauna of polluted air, laden with the smells of feces, temple incense, and smoldering flesh. The burning ghats cooked bodies 24/7 on either side of my guest house, ensuring the skull exploded before offering the remains to the river goddess, guaranteeing the soul’s safe passage to Nirvana.

As I struggled to find respite in my tiny, seemingly secluded guest house, I realized that one is never really alone in India, where personal space doesn’t exist. A strange, crooked little Indian man would show up at my door several times a day… “Hello friend,” he’d croak raspingly, baring his crumbling, betel nut red-stained teeth. His horrifying smile matched the slightly crazed look in his beady eyes. “Massage today?” “You want massage?” “Nahi! NO!” I’d fire back in pathetic Hindi, to no avail. Perhaps I didn’t sound threatening enough, as I could barely eke out the words, saving my energy to take one more breath.

Thinking I’d find solace at the feet of the goddess herself, I planted myself at the banks of the River, but quickly realized that my efforts at finding peace among the pilgrims were futile. The seemingly “devout” Hindu men took great pleasure in flashing me, a western woman inadvertently witnessing their daily bathing rites. Ever so skillfully, the lungi sarong-like wrap would be opened and shut, opened and shut, with a sly peek up in my direction, just to make sure that I saw the real wares these men were offering to the river. Overcome by nausea, I made an attempt at invisibility and removed myself from my unsuccessful resting place. I was hardly in the mood to cater to their delusions that a white girl was going to appreciate the site of their family jewels.

Burying my face in my hands, wondering if there was ever peace to be found on this damn river, I turned to look at a group of Brahman holy men perform their puja rituals at sunset. Billowing clouds of pungent incense filled the air as the priests circled their cobra-headed candelabras, chanting Sanskrit prayers with trance-like overtones. “I feel like I’ve been drugged,” I muttered to no one in particular. My head was swirling. My heart was pounding. I had been bitten by the cobra and was surely going mad.

Thoughts of Shiva, watching over his holy home, entered my dementia. Suddenly, shrieks of laughter emanating from a gaggle of young boys, giggling in Hindi, jarred me from my paralysis. “You play Holi?” they asked. Shaking my head fervently, with a look in my eye that said if you shoot me with that paint-water pistol I’ll kill you, I backed away. The city was heating up as Holi, the most boisterous festival in all of Northern India, kicked off with a bang for three days of sheer upheaval: Bonfires at midnight followed by days of drinking whiskey and shooting colored paint water on each other. All guidebooks advise tourists, especially women, who tend to get groped, to stay indoors.

Varanasi on Holi eve, 2023.

The whole stewpot was just too much for me. I dragged myself back to my room for a fitful night battling incessant mosquitoes and frenetic fever dreams. Next morning, drenched in sweat, with the sun searing through the hole-in-the-wall makeshift window, I rolled over, and groaned. Despite the intolerable heat, I donned a full salwaar kameez outfit with long tunic, pants and shawl – completely covering my arms and legs because this is north India we’re talking here – not the beach – and I can't expose my skin no matter whether I can breathe or not. Pulling a scarf over my head to hide from lurking, always-watchful eyes, I staggered next door to the room of a young British traveler I had recently befriended.

Niki’s glazed-over eyes looked out at me from a wan, greenish-tinted face that had seen cheerier days, and I knew we shared the same state. If we had had turkey thermometers stuck in our brains, they would have popped out with a big bang. “DONE! Time to pull this one out of the oven!”

Commiserating, the two of us made a beeline for the ticket seller’s office, dodging rowdy paint splatterers and hecklers, stepping in pools and puddles of piss and god-only-knows-what, and proceeded to book a train outta hell for that very night. I had planned on staying three weeks.

I, the solo backpacker extraordinaire, was not immune to the transformative power of Shiva and his sacred stomping grounds. Just like every parent who realizes their child has acquired a bad attitude and needs a good dose of right-sizing, Mother India had Shiva whip me back into shape and remind me who’s really the boss.