My Wallet Got Purloined In Varanasi
The Visible Helpers
This is a story about
one man’s journey in India, in search for answers, and along the way he meets great souls
who helped him in ways that he may never pay back. For him, they were the
Helpers, the Visible Helpers.
“I had come for a few days, but now find that I myself cannot endure for any length of time the stifling magnetism even of my own countrymen. I have seen some of our proud old Sikhs drunk and staggering over the marble pavement of their sacred Temple.
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| Varanasi |
I have heard an English- speaking Vakil declaim against Yog Vidya and Theosophy, as a delusion and a lie, declaring that English Science had emancipated them from such degrading superstitions, and saying that it was an insult to India to maintain that the dirty Yogis and Sunnyasis knew anything about the mysteries of nature; or that any living man can or ever could perform any phenomena!" These are the words of one of the founders of the Theosophical Society, after a brief visit from his mountain abode.
Varanasi-- the city of mysteries-- is well-known for its role in
Indian spirituality, and yet has become the hotbed for tourism in India. There
had been times when I wondered whether India is in danger of becoming over-run
by Western influence. And the question that keeps coming up concerns the attractions that bring thousands of tourists here on a daily basis, whether
the tourists have direct connections to these ceremonies, or the riverside
massages, or the weird-looking, but interesting men who stand alongside the riverbank
all day. And of the kind who daubed their faces with chalk and then sit between
corners of bygone centuries of faded buildings while whispering to tourists in broken
English. Could it be the fat bearded astrologers who would accept any amount to do your
reading? No, I refused to accept this; that India will be totally over-run by outside influence, though it has successfully forged—even in the midst of
this very Indian city—a strong presence. I refused to accept that Western profanity
alone can and will render India bereft of the spirit of its ancient sages. Verily, “the world
was never evolved between two monsoons” a great man once said. I trust the
first generations of Indians and their philosophy, and I believe that even today, their prophecies remain
as potent as before. This, to me makes Western influence more of a caricature-- a modern day Sisyphus. I say it’s a vain labor, and it’s no empty hyperbole
when I say so, that those saintly men who once laid her cornerstones must have known
quite well what storm was coming.
Lacking the resources to come in by air, I usually enter Varanasi
by train, which I see as opportunity to observe and engage directly the several
aspects which make up the daily struggle in the life of the ordinary Hindus.
Besides the countless other fancies within the rank of an Indian train, he who
ventures gets that rare opportunity to witness the kindness of spirit and
sacrifice only an Indian knows how to give.
Standing outside, opposite the Varanasi station, and looking just
over the busy streets before the market, where millions gather every day to
make their living; you hear the weird medley of Asiatic tongue that contributes
to the cacophony. You see the stark difference between the ancient city and the
western world. The streets are narrower, crowded, and full of impatient drivers.
– You sense the tension amongst motorists which seems to stimulate and keep
them honking for passengers. You notice how they are able to narrowly dodge pedestrians and animals alike with their vehicles. And, for the first time you
also see, that in the midst of this conundrum, there exist an order, and then
you see how beautiful that order is.
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| The Puja Ceremony in Varanasi |
The Ganga River sees a big crowd of people every evening when the
priestly class comes together to repeat a ceremony, which dates back thousands of years.
This powerful ceremony calls on the duty of the ablest and the finest of the
men of the city, and then they gather all about the River on low pedestals to
perform the special Puja. If you’re new to Varanasi, then for the first time
and in true heroic fashion, you see the display of lightening, musical
instruments, costumes depicting Indian royalty— hence, you get an idea of the
old India.
.
I returned my Kindle back in its pouch and carefully stepped off
the train, on to the now populated platform. I moved slowly amongst the crowd
towards the exit, struggling under the weight of my own luggage. Then I decided to
stand for a while to study the mob. Near me, I see a well-dressed Indian man, probably
in his mid-twenties, about 5' 8.'' He gave me a friendly smile before asking to
know where I was from. Towards the exit sign, I see the moving crowd-size,
appeared still the same. Impatient, I move forward, still fumbling with my huge bags
amongst the crowd, which I now felt more like a powerful ocean wave against my body. Then it
happened! And I screamed! My wallet was gone!
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| Going over Police Report |
People came rushing! I could hear a man was screaming near me;
"What happens?" "What happens?" Another man led me to the
Police Station. I felt drowsy and confused, but I answered their questions. The police
were very professional, kind and helpful. After writing the police report, one
of the officers recharged his cellphone, which he gave me to make a phone call
back to the States to cancel credit cards and debit cards left inside the
wallet.
Inside my barely furnished hotel room, I composed myself before
contacting friends back in the U.S. and this was a really hard work -- to ask for
money-- I reached out to a friend from North Carolina and another friend from
Philadelphia. To my surprise, although more to my delight, the one in Philadelphia
received the news as quite a shock, and within hours, she was on her way to the
Western Union.
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| Inside a locker room |
Later that day when I arrived at my guest house, I meet Lily, a
young, and soft spoken tall Jewish woman, who had taken a room next to mine. I
was immediately stunned by her openness when we first met. With the same kind of matter-of- factness that’s
reserved between two good friends, she asked me whether I could accompany her
to the restaurant. I confess! For some reason I felt uncomfortable with the
approach. After all, I am a black man with some western education on race-relations--
-- Her manner has triggered something inside me, because my mind went
ruminating over all kinds of ideological, mainstream racial perceptions—worrying
that these bizarre concepts might be what motivated her to ask me the way she
did. Meanwhile however, I finally conceded to my better judgment. I agreed to
take her.
The restaurant stands prominently in plain sight on a small
foothill overlooking the River. I remember the last time I had dinner here was
with a Canadian gentleman about two years back. We were four; which included a
French couple who had been traveling for two years. The main dining hall was
crowded with tourists when we entered. A tall, middle aged man greeted us with
smile from behind a giant kitchen table before coming forward to take the
orders. We sat outside where we could
see the boats with their human cargo, gliding over the River under the bright
moonlit which lights up the night sky. I turned away to say something to
Lily but she wasn’t there. Some few feet away, I see the Jewish woman was now
heartily talking to someone, and the other woman was smiling. I adjusted my
eyes, and I could see a cheerful face behind a set of thick reading glasses.
Lily was still picking at her meal when the Indian lady joined us.
She said her name is Alpa Mewawala. I immediately found her voice amusing. I
listened while she spoke, her manner and appearance showing something of an aristocrat,
and much to her credit, she has the grace that goes with it. After a moment, she asked politely about
what we thought of her City-- her voice, again, giving out that distinct note of
‘good character.’ I imagined thinking that day, that I was fortunate to have in
my midst the ideal daughter of India. Ms. Alpa slowly ate her meal staring now and then at the River from behind her eyeglasses, still waiting
to hear our opinions.
Surprisingly, I found myself having trouble speaking; whether I
should say that everything was okay, or just yell and say I need help! “I like
Varanasi," I finally blurted! "Including the history, the ceremonies,
and the River. Hence, how could I not like it, when, for years I had sought
the company of your learned Brahmins?" I paused for effect. Alpa was now paying close attention. Then I mentioned something about my stolen wallet before pausing again
to pick up the fork. “Here, take this!” I looked, and the Indian was holding in
her right hand a small stack of twenty dollar bills. “I have some money here,
take this.” She repeated. I have been keeping it for sometimes now.” She said.
I tried in vain to persuade the Indian that earlier during the day I had spoken
to two of my friends in the U.S., and I was expecting some money, hopefully
soon. When the Indian spoke again, her voice was firm and philosophical,
insisting that I shouldn’t stop her from doing the “good work.” I was totally taken by surprise with her
determination. Feeling embarrassed, I
looked across the dining table at my Jewish friend, checking for approval, but
she seemed unconcerned. I turned back to the Indian, still feeling embarrassed.
I accepted the money, straightened up and thanked the kind lady.
It was about midnight before we left the restaurant. Holding her
one free hand, I helped the Jewish climbed down the narrow stairway, which
brought us back to the River bank.
Once inside my hotel room, I started to wonder;--“Who were these women? Why did I meet them?
Why was I unable to say no to them? I asked myself these questions over and over. Then I
remember a story Lily had told me one night.
She painfully recounted an incident that happened in Jerusalem, where an arranged marriage between a young, eloquent Palestinian man and a Hebrew
girl went wild. I listened as she explained how the marriage was interrupted by the
bride's parents. She talked about the
violent reactions that ensued because the groom is Palestinian. Then suddenly, she veered off, and her voice became grave. I look again, and for the first time she
seemed withdrawn, her soul wrapped in thoughts. At that moment, her personality
impresses me again, as being provocatively interesting and decidedly attractive.
Eyes, dark and flashing, reveal a keen mentality; voice, soft and sympathetic,
reflects a kindly heart. Oh, I feel anew that I liked her. From that brief
moment, Lily and I forged a simple bond. We began sharing everything, daily
expenses, planned trips, dinning together and temple visits; I even learned a
little Hebrew secret.
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| Lily here taking an auto rickshaw |
Days later, I accompanied Lily to the main road to find her an auto-Rickshaw driver who would take her to the train station. We hugged briefly before an audience of street vendors, who were already clearly involved in the trust eroding habit of gossip, and perhaps even getting voyeuristic in my business with the Jew. I turn away from the fools who were still smiling broadly, as I watched Lily's vehicle swiveled around the corner one last time, and then out of sight. I left Varanasi on the following day, still wondering over the role of these saintly women who had touched my rather poor life.
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