There are two kinds of travel writing: one in which the writer decides the script, and the other in which the writer happens to be part of the script, with people and places thrust on him. The latter usually makes for compelling reading, which is why when I travel for my books, I secretly hope to run into situations that could lead to rich material, such as being kidnapped by dacoits, or stranded in a remote town for weeks.
No luck so far, but I recall a small episode that wasn’t quite scripted by me. This happened on my second day in Varanasi, when I spent a couple of weeks there last October. That afternoon, a friend, whom I was meeting for the first time, took me to an art gallery on Assi Ghat, about a kilometre or so from my lodge on Jain Ghat. There, as we chatted with the gallery owner, two men joined us — one was an artist, and the other had just built a river ambulance, which was yet to be equipped with emergency-care facilities because of a lack of funds.
As I got up to leave after a very long chat, the river-ambulance man (hereafter referred to as Mr. R.A.) requested me to take a ride in his ambulance. “Some other day,” I told him. But he persisted. He wanted me to write about his novel project so that it caught the attention of potential sponsors.
The river ambulance, it turned out, was parked at Manikarnika Ghat, the famous cremation ground, located at the other end of the riverfront. So, we set out on bikes: Mr. R.A. insisted that I sat behind him, while the artist sat behind my friend. We manoeuvred through the heavy evening traffic, and by the time we entered the narrow lanes leading to Manikarnika Ghat, the sun had set.
We stood close to the burning pyres as a young boatman readied the river ambulance, basically a speedboat, for the ride. He was going to be our skipper. Around 7 o’ clock, the four of us stepped into the boat, and for about 30 minutes, we went up and down the Ganga, as if we owned the river. I was glad I came — and told them so.
Then Mr. R.A. suggested drinks. We pooled in money and handed it to the skipper, who parked the boat at Harishchandra Ghat — the other cremation ground in Varanasi, where two pyres burned slowly — and disappeared into the narrow lanes. He returned with a bottle of whisky and plastic glasses.
Mr. R.A. directed the skipper to take the boat to the middle of the river and turn the engine off. “Let it float,” he said. The artist opened the bottle, filled the cap with whisky and respectfully emptied it over the river. The drinking began. Mr. R.A. and the artist began impressing me with their insights into the ancient city, each insight prefixed with the standard line, “No one knows about this yet.”
Two hours passed, perhaps three. The artist asked me, “We are giving you a good time, what do we get in return?” I replied, “Publicity.”
Mr. R.A. then asked the skipper to park the boat on the opposite bank: a vast stretch of sand. We all hopped off the boat onto the soft sands and watched the full moon, which was red. Across the river, the pyres burned at Manikarnika. I was soaking in the sights when Mr. R.A. took me aside and said, “Do you mind paying for the diesel, and perhaps a tip for the boatman?” I told him I didn’t have the cash, and that I would have to go to an ATM. He said, “No hurry, I am not saying you pay right away.”
With money weighing on my mind, I missed a step while climbing the boat and landed on the wet soil of the Ganga. It was almost midnight when we got back on the bikes, my feet now mud-caked. Mr. R.A. led the way, but in one of the lanes, we had to stop to let an incoming funeral procession. His bike now refused to start, and he and the artist decided to spend the night on the boat.
I got on to my friend’s bike, but barely a kilometre from my lodge, he had a flat tyre. I walked back to the lodge alone, navigating the narrow, unfamiliar lanes in the dark. The gates of the lodge were shut. Thirty minutes later, my knocking woke up the cook. I went to the bathroom to wash my feet but found the tap dry. I slept that night with the fertile soil of the Ganga sticking to my feet.
