I forgot to say

Last night we walked into Old Varanasi, which is all tight alleys stuffed with wallshops and trees squeezing up through four tight stories to get to the sun, plus monkeys and people and somehow motorcycles. The Shops were nice, yes, but what was really nice was the temples. Small shrines everywhere but also a main temple called Vishwanatha, the Golden Temple on account of how its spire is covered in gold.

It's in the same plaza as a huge mosque, which is a bit of a problem.

We visited on December sixth, which although we didn't know it until that day is the anniversary of the Babri Masjid being torn down. The Babri Masjid is a mosque that was torn down by Hindu fundamentalists in 1993. Muslims and Hindus have alternately tolerated and hated each other in India since the Muslim Moghuls invaded North India hundreds of years ago. The Muslims decided on this day to spend the day in prayers in their mosques, which is uncommon as usually there's fights. The Hindus, on the other hand, decided on this day to spend the day in celebration, lighting lamps in their temples and setting off fireworks, which just goes to show something disgusting.

Anyways, on this day there were about ten armed soldiers scanning and searching everybody entering the plaza, as well as more checkpoints in the entrance to each place of worship. To make things happier, you couldn't enter the mosque unless you were Muslim and coming to the regular prayer, and we didn't even try with the temple - a plaque outside said "Gentlemen not belonging to the Hindu religion are requested not to enter the temple".

I was okay with that, though. I sat between the mosque and the temple, watching the monkeys. I told my mother that and she reckoned I should write it down, so here I am writing it down.

Monkeys. I really do love monkeys. They're so pure and simple. Yes, they fight at the snap of two fingers, but at least they're honest and don't muck about, badmouthing other monkeys behind their back or throwing insults at each other, and if you give them a date they're fine with you.

A jolly Brahmin guy called Santosh came along and started talking to me. I thought he might be trying to sell something but he was just curious about why I was sitting there, and if my mother was Hindu. A Sikh soldier in a pillbox said something to him in Hindi and Santosh asked if he was bothering me. I told him no, and Santosh told the soldier "Tig-hey", which basically means it's okay and it's alright. After that the Sikh guy came down from the pillbox and talked to me as well. He asked me what my mother state was. I asked him, in Canada? He said no, in India. I said West Bengal. Good as any, and I do sort of have an attachment to it.

A colonel or something came along and asked me "What are you doing sitting here!?"
The Sikh guy laughed and said "Uskaa ma Hindu hey", or "his mother is Hindu".
I guess that was all okay, then.

Peace is a rarity here, but when you get it, nothing I've had in Canada can compare to it.

Indian Feature: Bandhs.

Bandhs are Indian strikes. The way people strike here is quite interesting. They can't really afford to actually stop working, so whatever they think about politics they usually express in less drastic ways, until a bandh happens. It's amazingly simple. Take a current issue. Mamata Banerjee's party is angry that Tata, a company that makes EVERYTHING, from salt to cars, is buying land for factories from farmers and apparently not paying them enough. So, they announce a bandh, maybe a day in advance. Then when the day comes, they roam the streets in gangs, carrying big sticks, and if they see someone whose store is open and operating, they smash the windows and beat up the shopkeepers. Simple as mud.

Well, that's the way it works in Kolkata anyways. It's a really simple way to drum up support for your cause - "if you don't strike we'll strike you".

-Bashu