questions and answers

Early last week I mentioned to Bantu that I was interested in learning about the natural history of India. I knew that the depth of Bantu's connections in Varanasi was legendary; nevertheless, only a couple of days later, I was pleasantly surprised to see on the calendar that a lecture had been scheduled on the "Natural History of India."

When we sat down in the classroom that Friday afternoon, I expected to hear a rather straightforward lecture on ecology and geology and the like. Instead, our speaker, Krishna, began by listing all of the topics he could talk about -- from traditional gender roles in India to the sacredness of the Ganges to the reasons why Western science is like a religion -- and then asked us what we wanted to learn about. He told us he was a scientist at the University of Buffalo for several years before moving back to India to reconnect with his culture. Along the way he had picked up an intimate familiarity with the Western mind, so stubbornly "rational" and so ignorant about Asian cultures, and he knew exactly how to explain India to us in a way we could relate to. So for two hours we sat and listened, more attentively than any other classroom full of American students I have ever seen, as he explained to us why Hindus do not eat beef, and how the roles of men and women in rural India were different but not unequal. By the time he finished speaking, I felt I had learned so much -- although, none of it was what I expected to learn when I sat down for this "natural history" lecture.

In general, I find that whenever I ask a question in India, I get an answer that is totally fascinating but largely unrelated to the question I asked.

It took me a while to get used to the meandering way of speaking shared by many of those who have come to give us lectures -- a way that makes room for every interesting anecdote, that takes so many backtracks and diversions that it is often difficult to keep track of the point.

Because what is the point? What is the point of listening to someone talk? In high school I was conditioned to expect a speaker to have a clearly articulated thesis and a carefully structured outline, where each point was supposed to build on the last and to support the speaker's argument. What you were supposed to "take away" from a lecture was a two-to-three-sentence summary of the speaker's argument. Otherwise, how could you prove that you had learned anything?

But I find that our lectures and classes and my daily experiences in the city often defy easy summarization. (What did I learn today? Where do I begin...) India itself -- its congested roads and twisted alleys -- seems configured to resist any straight and direct path. Most of us, even those who came to India with a specific purpose in mind -- to learn the sitar or to study Ayurvedic medicine -- find ourselves wondering whether it would be better to pursue any of a number of new interests that have sprung up only in the two weeks since we got to India.

While the meandering path is less certain and, in theory, more risky, it seems to lead pretty consistently to something fantastic. Like one afternoon when Sylvie and I were walking through some of the alleys behind the ghats, with no particular destination in mind, and we suddenly came upon Lolarka Kund, a pool of water set some 50 steps below ground level. One of the oldest sacred sites in this, the oldest living city in the world.

Or, late one afternoon, when I poked my head into the temple on top of Assi Ghat.

I had been curious about the temple for a while, its massive stone spire dominating over the dozens of steps below. I figured I would take a quick look around and then go, but I found the main part of the temple locked behind a metal gate. A couple of old women were sitting on the floor in the vestibule, and they beckoned me to sit beside them. I took off my shoes and sat down, and from them I learned that the temple was dedicated to the goddess Laxmi. But neither of the women spoke much English, and as they turned back to speak with each other, I wondered how long I would wait before leaving.

Soon a third woman came, and unlocked the gate. The four of us stepped inside the temple, and I turned to the right and started to walk around the temple before I remembered something I had read once about it being sacrilegious to circumnambulate a temple in the counterclockwise direction. Was that for Buddhist temples or Hindu temples? I couldn't remember, but I figured it was best not to take the chance.

The women showed me the four minor shrines at the corners of the temple, dedicated to Rama and Sita, to Shiva, and to other gods. They offered me half a banana and some pomegranate seeds, and then poured a small amount of some reddish liquid into my cupped hands and motioned for me to drink. Remembering the story Christina told me about the students last semester who drank Ganges water and then got violently ill, I told the women I could not drink it. After some confusion, they decided I could pour it on my forehead instead.

Then they spread out a small rug in front of the main shrine and gestured for me to sit. One woman took out an instrument made of wood, shaped like a paddle and set with small cymbals like those on a tambourine. Another woman held a drum, and the third, the one who unlocked the temple, held a pair of small bells in her hand. She handed me an identical pair, and then the women began to play and sing.

Awkwardly I hit the bells together, trying to keep time as the women sang. Song after song, as the city grew darker outside, more women arrived and the rug became more crowded. I didn't understand a word they were singing -- whether they were asking the goddess for something, or giving thanks, or merely praising, I could not tell. As a white eighteen-year-old male, I couldn't have been more conspicuously out-of-place. But the women didn't seem to mind, and I sat on the edge of the rug, banging the bells together, watching.

After maybe a dozen songs, one of the women removed a flame from the central shrine and passed it around. I watched what the women did and mimicked them, passing my hand through the top of the fire and then touching my hand to my forehead.

After another song or two, it was over, and I followed the women as they filed out. As I walked back to my homestay, I thought about how fortunate I was to have come to that temple at that time of day, and how lucky I felt just to watch, just to listen.