"guru" is the official buzzword of india, at least from the mouths of wai guo rens (foreigners). if you don't have one, you at least have something derogatory to say about your friends'. i have had the pleasure of watching many a guru in action on television. the usual: a bunch of people dressed in white wriggling upon brightly colored yoga mats that you (the viewer) secretly pray would start flying because lets face it, "aladdin" is way more entertaining and has a far superior soundtrack. i've yet to meet anyone whose guru hustled postcards and diy henna kits in the day time.
varanasi reeks of spirituality (whatever that means)...its inhabitants have divinity in their footsteps and their glistening skin is only slightly tinged with a layer of ashes. for hours, we watched bodies carried in bamboo stretchers and wrapped in gold lame ushered to the shore of the ganga to burn after a quick dip. the relatives of the deceased are mashed in front of, behind, and next to the body. not one member of the grieving parties shed a tear. heads are shaved, white fabric is worn, but their eyes smile and their hips sway to the beating drums that lead the processions down to the ganga.
inspecting the steps of the main ghat prior to the nightly ati (sp?) ceremony, a boy popped his head out from behind a mass of walking saris."don't sit in the crap."
"ehh, i wont. anyways, it's okay. this is india."
"no it isn't madam. this is varanasi. the rest of india is very clean."
"have you been?"
"no...."
"well, i have, and i can tell you there's dirt everywhere."
this was how i found my guru. avoiding cow pies. my guru's name is and was prakash. he's 13 and he has several brothers and sisters. born and raised in varanasi, he comes from what he explained as a long line of business men who mainly sell (aka harass) tourists. little prakash was taking a break from the hustle and flow. he showed me his wares, but only as a side conversation. he had some sun-bleached booklets of postcards and a diy henna kit, which ellen explained she was allergic to.
"then i must throw it away," prakash said, looking at the kit as if it was suddenly emblazoned with the mark of the beast.
"no, no, no," ellen protested, "it just makes me sick."
"then it's no good." she spared the kit's life by quickly feigning interest in the postcards.
"how many rupees for these?"
"80."
"what??? i know someone who will give it to me for 50."
"then show me where they are, so i can hit them. they don't know how to make a profit."
"just give me the indian price."
"i can't give you the indian price. you aren't indian, and if i don't charge you 80 rupees than i don't make a profit."
little prakash saw this was going nowhere. he sat down to tell of his tour guide days and how he has met people from all over the world, whom impressed with his english and general knowledge, have offered to take him away from this "place."
a cell phone rings. prakash digs in his pocket. "i got this from a romanian." it's a text message, he bemoans. his friend wants to know if we need a boat tour. he rolls his eyes. he commiserates with the hassling and says that he usually backs down when he can see that a tourist is upset. he sits. we buy some chai and offer to get him a cup."that's bad tea. foreigners drink that. i'll go get some good stuff." he comes back with a cup that while appears to hold the same milky liquid mine does, it somehow seems more authentic in his little brown hands. we steer the conversation towards culture. ellen and i realized that we have trapped ourselves. we initially told my guru we were from canada because americans are thought to be richer, thus have more rupees to throw around. in keeping with the lie, we discuss canadian issues...you know, hockey, syrup, the symmetrical maple leaf???
prakash and i then discuss love. he confesses that women do nothing but complicates one's life and he's honestly too busy to even entertain the thought of having a girlfriend at the current time. he admits proudly that although his family is traditional, his mother would never arrange a marriage for him unless he requested it. in between shooing away older men who keep asking prakash to convince us that we need massages, he admits to me that i need to watch out for myself because i am "miss universe." he explains by saying that men here want to do "things i don't want to say to you" to you if you are a white woman. we share a laugh and i convince prakash that we are not interested and indian men are simply curious. he smirks. he doesn't believe me and silently whispers that i am lucky that i cant understand what men around me are saying.
with his well-trained eye, prakash targets a middle-aged white woman in a floppy hat. he dashes off every 10 minutes or so to try and sell something. "i'm not so lucky." i try to cheer him up by reminding him of how clever and well articulated he is. he laughs. "i know, everyone tells me this, yet they won't buy anything from me. i don't want to sell my conversation, but i wish i had more luck."
prakash asks about our future indian plans, and i regrettably inform him that we are leaving varanasi the next day. he hunches his back slightly and looks at the ceremony. "it's a shame you know, everytime i make a good friend, they always leave so soon." i actually got tears in my eyes and felt a little mickey mouse club...whether or not it was an act, prakash was and is an extremely lovable and happy child. i considered him so clever for his age, but then remembered that i was also a little spitfire at thirteen, and we probably would've gotten along quite well. it's weird how as you get older, you peg "children" as being naive and simple...yet, they really are as complex as you are at 26...they just have less bills and wrinkles. (to be continued...)