After spending a month sitting around my grandparents’ house thinking and trying to get through the Brothers Karamazov, I decided to pack up my bag and go for a bit of exploring. I announced one night that I would be heading to Benares (or Varanasi) and Kathmandu for a couple weeks, to come back in time for my cousin’s wedding reception. Immediately, I was inundated: “where are you going?” “how are you going?” “where will you stay?” “you’ll go alone?” A woman traveling alone is a big risk here, as in most places in the world. In a country that is incredibly male-dominated, a woman’s sense of adventure and independence is still not something that is generally valued or cultivated. As I explained to curious family members, I didn’t come to India to sit on my ass. (Well, not those words exactly.)

I took the overnight train from Kolkata to Benares. I love long train rides in India. The railways are really well-maintained and cars are roomy. There’s a sense of order to the conversation between friendly travelers and the like-clockwork movement of cha wallahs through the compartments. In my experience, smiles get you more on trains than they do anywhere else. My cellphone lost service and I repeatedly had to borrow the ticket inspector’s, to reach my uncle’s friend who was to meet me at the station. Once I arrived, several of the train’s staff waited with me on the platform, to make sure that I wasn’t hassled by any of the hundreds of taxi and rickshaw drivers lying in wait. Benares is a city famous for its temples. Spread across the banks of the Ganges River (what “spiritual tourists” - um, white people - have adopted, calling Ma Ganga in way that reminds me of hypnosis patients), it’s one of the oldest continuously-inhabited cities in India, and one of the holiest places for Hindus. As an Indian Hindu, I was allowed to enter many temples that are off-limits to foreigners, even foreign Hindus (although “conversion” in Hinduism is probably someone’s idea of a tourist scam). The first night I went to the Kashi Vishwanath Mandir, which is a temple dedicated to Shiva. It’s a place that’s really important for Hindu pilgrims, and is crowded at all times of the day. As soon as my rickshaw stopped near the gates, I was led by “punditjis” to their shop, where I was to deposit my shoes, cellphone, camera and asked to buy offerings to make once inside. Religion is a big money-maker in India. I was rushed around so much that it took me some time to finally get my bearings. I finally remember sitting in one inner sanctum, where a priest was doing an unasked-for family puja (asking for blessings for my family) and then demanded I pay 500 rupees. After sitting still for some time, I refused, telling him that my family didn’t need a 500-rupee puja, and that I had never wanted it to be performed. We’ve managed thus far.

The worst thing about Benares is the tourism. People are constantly coming up to you to ask you buy saris, look at their friend’s music shop, try on these “organic” cotton pants (yes, even here they’ve picked up the white liberal guilt lexicon). As an Indian, I was afforded more leeway in refusals, and men weren’t nearly as persistent if I didn’t respond the first time. I definitely got to know a few people fairly well. There was Sunil, one of the young kids (23 or 24) who model themselves as “tour guides,” which he divulged really means they take unwitting tourists to pre-determined shops and take a heavy commission once a sale is made. He told me a lot about the lifestyle. He can make about 15,000 rupees a month (which is as much as one of my cousins makes as a paralegal) - but the season really only lasts half the year. I met a Bengali oldie who took me on walks and taught me how to pray U.P.-style and took me to his house to have lunch with his wife and kids.

(surrogacy has a pretty price - two benarasi silk scarves, thank you very much)

(what looks like National Enquirer-esque ghosts are actually elephants. During this time of the year, the other side of the river hosts the Ram Leela drama festival. The only people here are thousands of nearby villagers. Imagine watching painted elephants walk so close by you you can smell their breath, and then imagine an ice-cold thick creamy malai lassi in your hand. It’s ok if you can’t.)

Many moons ago, I made a Googledocs spreadsheet. In it was my long-awaited INDIA PLAN. It included stays on farms, a month on the beach and wishful thinking. But not Rajasthan. I mean, after Katy Perry got married there, the prices just skyrocketed. But more manageable when your aunt, uncle and cousin invite you to go with them. They made an itinerary, hired a car/driver, bought plane tickets…all I had to do was pack. Of course, this isn’t really my traveling style - Mish and I were finally able to get some couchsurfing in - but I know how to roll with the punches.

Turns out we were doing the “Desert Circuit,” one of a series of popular tourist routes the Rajasthan government has cleverly designed to complement the massive highways and numerous roadside hotels. We started in Jodhpur.

(night market - where the next morning I had the best lassi I’ve ever had in my life. It was so creamy it’s probably still coating the lining of my small intestine.)

Jodhpur, where we also went on a much-debated (like, tears-and-harsh-intonations-debated) “village safari” to a Bishnoi village. The Bishnoi were the founders of the Chipko movement, when women would create human chains around trees to prevent them from being bulldozed. Coming from Cal, it sounds vaguely like the Oaks dispute. But that was in the 1970’s, was the start of eco-feminism, and hey, led by poor villagers. As in, who knew poor people cared about the environment? (here’s some space for you to process the sarcasm, mom.) As far as I know, they also didn’t have dreadlocks. Tragically, they’re now known as really great artisans (and specifically for blockprints, terra cotta pottery and jute weaving), and “safari” is really code for shopping spree.

I love Kolkata. It’s the Indian city with the most character…and the fewest tourists. One of the best things 35-years-and-running Communist leadership has done for the state is create a central enemy for all Bengalis to have a typically melodramatic relationship with. When they’re not talking about the lack of government follow-through, they’re taking to the streets to chant slogans/tar-and-feather opponents. (Maybe two extremes of the political apathy/activity spectrum.) The thing about Bengalis is no matter what they’re feeling about the government and people in power, they all share this fierce pride that creates sometimes delusional ideas about the “unappreciated” importance Bengali culture has played in Indian history. Ok that’s not the point of this. I love the crowds, the footpath pakora-wallahs, the constant threat of a metro breakdown/politically-charged mob murder. THE POINT IS when you get a chance to get out of the city, take it. Rural Bengal is amazing, and I never knew. It’s green, the air is clean, the people smile more. There are really old, really beautiful, really wasp-infested temples:

(carving in the side of the Bandel Kali temple)

(where Misha and I spent three homeless hours trying to sleep in the shade, aurally assaulted by that stupid song from the equally-stupid movie Dabangg)

My cousin and I had both contacted this farm near the Bangladeshi border last year. I was interested in their seed bank and heirloom rice varieties (try saying that in Bengali - I can’t) and learned that they have some festival on Halloween weekend. It wasn’t really what I expected - village games like pinata-style “break the water jug” and tightrope walking - but fun nonetheless. I rather like sitting in the dark eating dhal bhath with dirty hands off a banana leaf on the ground. I got to see Baul singers for the first time, East Bengal traveling musicians who live in troupes and have really bad breath. They were totally and completely stoned when they took to the stage:

It was my first time taking a local train, sleeping in a tent with 50 strange women, my first moori-chollar breakfast - but not the first time taking a shit in a composting toilet.

Fall brings the festival season in Bengal, starting with a celebration of Durga, the mother goddess. This is the equivalent of Christmas in some super-devout Midwestern city - crossed with the movie Babes in Toyland - with nativity scenes replaced by 15-foot statues of the most famous scene featuring Durga, where she slays the demon Mahishasura and is flanked (in order) by Ganesh (son #1), Lokkhi/Lakshmi (incarnation #1), Saraswati (incarnation #2) and Karthik (son #2). Mahishasura is sometimes shown centaur-like, with the body of a human and the head of a water buffalo, the relic of a previous curse. However, he is ALWAYS chiseled-abbed and -faced. For a guy that threatened to overturn the order of the universe, he sure managed to make time for the gym.

For months, neighborhoods have been collecting donations and commissioning artists from around the country. This sometimes means high schoolers on vacation who are suckered into painting alpanas like this one at my cousin’s apartment complex:

Sculptors get paid a pittance but if the neighborhood association wins one of the coveted citywide competitions (most accurate, most traditional, most “whimsical,” etc.) then they get fame and renown. Typical. There’s a neighborhood in North Kol where all the murtis are made, Kumartuli, and one morning I took the metro to the dusty riverbanks to see what I could find. I was too late and most of the statues had already been carted off:

But near the riverbank, on the other side of the railway tracks (yes, literally) I found a quartet of drunken, red-lipped, brawling sculptors who stared at me while I watched them work.

It’s pretty unfortunate to think of how much craftsmanship goes into these statues and how little they get compensated for it. Or how little time the middle-class people who worship their art would ever spend in their company.

The creativity of artists - and those who come up with the ideas - is amazing. There are rotating larger-than-life statues of the buffalo’s head mid-spear:

stitched village idyll:

recycled relics:

What makes these 10 days ridiculous is that everyone in the city is on holiday (well, besides street sweepers, bus drivers, you know the lot) and the streets are literally flooded with bodies. It can take you an hour to walk the length of one block. My cousin and I became fully nocturnal and would leave the house at 1400 h. to only be marginally crushed by hordes. Villagers come and camp out in the city and everyone EVERYONE is shopping all the time (see, exactly like Christmas). Of course, this also means I have an excuse to get my generally homebound grandparents out of the house and in search of chaat. Success.

“[The food sovereignty regime] sees farming as a way of life that is initially tied to familial and community relationships, religious beliefs and traditions, and a deep seated respect for the environment.”

Thanks to the Kathmandu Post for a really timely editorial on the importance of understanding the difference between food security and food sovereignty. 

In a part of the world where most of the population is still involved in agricultural production, it’s important to realize that this way of life is not going to disappear overnight, nor should it. Governments need to realize that you can’t shift the locus of an entire country from agriculture to industrialization, even if it means short-term poverty reduction. With the dawn of the second Green Revolution (thanks again, Mr. Gates), it’s nice to know that there are even more indigenous voices speaking up about the harsh effects of unilateral decision-making and the broad impact of multinational corporations.