everything in its right place
The flight to Varanasi is strange from the jump. I’m in the window seat on the right side of the plane. The middle and aisle seats next to me are empty. The aisle gets filled last-minute by an Indian man who reeks of booze and something I can’t quite place — bad financial decisions, maybe.
He shifts around and fidgets in his seat. He groans a few times. I clock it immediately. It’s gonna be one of those flights.
Before we even take off, he’s got his seatbelt off and asks if he can lie down on my lap. Nothing in those pre-flight safety briefings prepares you for a grown man asking you to cuddle.
I laugh. “Not a chance,” I say.
He shrugs and slowly sinks back into his seat. He fidgets again as we throttle down the runway. I reach over and partly hold him in place. I’ve now become a reluctant babysitter.
At cruising altitude, he strikes up a conversation. Turns out he’s not all that bad — just a bit strange. He’s fascinating in a chaotic way. We talk for a bit. He tells me about the safari he just went on and how he saw 2 tigers. Later, he pulls out a little red packet from the front pocket of his jeans.
I later learn it’s called Gutka. It’s not a drug in the most strict sense, but It’s a mixture of areca nut, tobacco, and flavorings. Supposedly combines nicely with alcohol. Go figure. Yes, you can casually do drugs on planes in India. I take a handful and say fuck it. Why not? You chew it and keep it in your mouth for a bit.
It’s like smoking a cigarette. A small, brief period of elation. I spit it out into my coffee cup after a few minutes. Not bad for a mid-flight snack.
I land in Varanasi and haggle with a local taxi driver for a fair price on my ride to the Airbnb.
Rodney is the second person I truly have a conversation with in Varanasi. The first is my Airbnb host, who greets me at the door and makes me sign a guest log with a feather pen. No, really — a fucking feather pen. Like one of those things the Founding Fathers used to sign the Constitution.
Varanasi is something else. Old-school India. Gritty. Dark. Loud. Spiritual in a way that punches you in the gut before it makes love to you. The streets are too narrow for even one car to pass through. Children throw stones at passing rickshaw drivers. Cows wander. Ashes and incense swirl in the air like spirits that never left.
I see my first body on the way in. Varanasi is where many Hindus choose to take their final breath. Old folks spend their final weeks in halfway homes. Bodies line the banks of the river, waiting to be prepared for cremation on the ghat steps.
Rodney’s an American expat. About 65 years old. A face bearing stubble and kind eyes. He used to run a market research firm in California. Made good money. Cashed out.
Rodney is missing a leg. He proudly tells me that it’s because of a vein issue he had since birth. He had his leg removed voluntarily. According to him, the moment he woke up from surgery, everything shifted in his life for the better. “I started seeing things differently,” he told me. “No more bullshit”.
He’s in India to meditate. It’s his sixth time here. He tells me a swan’s been following him through life. A literal swan. A trumpeter swan. It shows up in dreams, on lake shores, even landed on his sailboat once. So now he’s in India, chasing whatever it means.
I’ve still got my bag slung over my shoulder when he asks if I’m up for an adventure.
I am.
I join him for a walk through the tangle of Varanasi’s backstreets. We do some light grocery shopping and end up at a Hindu temple. We’re just in time for the evening prayer. It’s quieter here. Softer. Like someone hit the mute button on the chaos outside.
In the center of the temple sits a large, smooth boulder called the Lingam — a ceremonial stone said to represent Shiva. It’s also commonly referred to as a “penis stone”. I wish I was kidding.
Rodney shows me how to meditate. How to shut off the noise and let the thoughts flow. “Follow your monkey brain,” he tells me. “Let the thoughts come, then follow each one like a thread.”
So I do.
I see colors. Blue. Then purple. Nothing else. I don’t know what it means. I later learn that in the context of meditation, seeing blue and purple colors, can be interpreted as a connection to higher chakras, intuition, and spiritual awareness.
A half-naked priest walks over to us and drapes a garland of marigolds around our necks. He follow that up by smearing a thick clay paste on our foreheads. He blesses us and moves on.
We leave in silence. Rodney and I stop for a cup of chai at a local joint. We sit at a table with 3 locals and talk amongst ourselves.
That night, I sleep peacefully.
The flight to Varanasi is strange from the jump. I’m in the window seat on the right side of the plane. The middle and aisle seats next to me are empty. The aisle gets filled last-minute by an Indian man who reeks of booze and something I can’t quite place — bad financial decisions, maybe.
He shifts around and fidgets in his seat. He groans a few times. I clock it immediately. It’s gonna be one of those flights.
Before we even take off, he’s got his seatbelt off and asks if he can lie down on my lap. Nothing in those pre-flight safety briefings prepares you for a grown man asking you to cuddle.
I laugh. “Not a chance,” I say.
He shrugs and slowly sinks back into his seat. He fidgets again as we throttle down the runway. I reach over and partly hold him in place. I’ve now become a reluctant babysitter.
At cruising altitude, he strikes up a conversation. Turns out he’s not all that bad — just a bit strange. He’s fascinating in a chaotic way. We talk for a bit. He tells me about the safari he just went on and how he saw 2 tigers. Later, he pulls out a little red packet from the front pocket of his jeans.
I later learn it’s called Gutka. It’s not a drug in the most strict sense, but It’s a mixture of areca nut, tobacco, and flavorings. Supposedly combines nicely with alcohol. Go figure. Yes, you can casually do drugs on planes in India. I take a handful and say fuck it. Why not? You chew it and keep it in your mouth for a bit.
It’s like smoking a cigarette. A small, brief period of elation. I spit it out into my coffee cup after a few minutes. Not bad for a mid-flight snack.
I land in Varanasi and haggle with a local taxi driver for a fair price on my ride to the Airbnb.
Rodney is the second person I truly have a conversation with in Varanasi. The first is my Airbnb host, who greets me at the door and makes me sign a guest log with a feather pen. No, really — a fucking feather pen. Like one of those things the Founding Fathers used to sign the Constitution.
Varanasi is something else. Old-school India. Gritty. Dark. Loud. Spiritual in a way that punches you in the gut before it makes love to you. The streets are too narrow for even one car to pass through. Children throw stones at passing rickshaw drivers. Cows wander. Ashes and incense swirl in the air like spirits that never left.
I see my first body on the way in. Varanasi is where many Hindus choose to take their final breath. Old folks spend their final weeks in halfway homes. Bodies line the banks of the river, waiting to be prepared for cremation on the ghat steps.
Rodney’s an American expat. About 65 years old. A face bearing stubble and kind eyes. He used to run a market research firm in California. Made good money. Cashed out.
Rodney is missing a leg. He proudly tells me that it’s because of a vein issue he had since birth. He had his leg removed voluntarily. According to him, the moment he woke up from surgery, everything shifted in his life for the better. “I started seeing things differently,” he told me. “No more bullshit”.
He’s in India to meditate. It’s his sixth time here. He tells me a swan’s been following him through life. A literal swan. A trumpeter swan. It shows up in dreams, on lake shores, even landed on his sailboat once. So now he’s in India, chasing whatever it means.
I’ve still got my bag slung over my shoulder when he asks if I’m up for an adventure.
I am.
I join him for a walk through the tangle of Varanasi’s backstreets. We do some light grocery shopping and end up at a Hindu temple. We’re just in time for the evening prayer. It’s quieter here. Softer. Like someone hit the mute button on the chaos outside.
In the center of the temple sits a large, smooth boulder called the Lingam — a ceremonial stone said to represent Shiva. It’s also commonly referred to as a “penis stone”. I wish I was kidding.
Rodney shows me how to meditate. How to shut off the noise and let the thoughts flow. “Follow your monkey brain,” he tells me. “Let the thoughts come, then follow each one like a thread.”
So I do.
I see colors. Blue. Then purple. Nothing else. I don’t know what it means. I later learn that in the context of meditation, seeing blue and purple colors, can be interpreted as a connection to higher chakras, intuition, and spiritual awareness.
A half-naked priest walks over to us and drapes a garland of marigolds around our necks. He follow that up by smearing a thick clay paste on our foreheads. He blesses us and moves on.
We leave in silence. Rodney and I stop for a cup of chai at a local joint. We sit at a table with 3 locals and talk amongst ourselves.
That night, I sleep peacefully.
