India - travel of provincials - Varanasi. Hands up - a sacred record! "Practice" of standing monks

I'm reading an amazing book about India - "Shantaram" by Gregory David Roberts.
The author of the novel is a man with an unusual destiny. Heroin distributor, criminal and prisoner who served several years in an Australian prison and then escaped from it to India, where he hid from the authorities for about 10 years, learned Marathi, became a respected person, rethought his life, and then surrendered to the authorities to serve the rest of his sentence and "clear" your name.
The result of the author's misadventures was a book in which you want to live, a book whose pages are fragrant with heat, hashish, and the stifling sweetish spirit of the Mumbai slums.
One of the most colorful moments of the novel is the chapter about the monastery of the Standing Monks. There is extremely little information about this. There is a suspicion that the monastery is just a fiction of the author, inspired by the Mahabharata and Ramayana... However, some information about the monks can be found in small notes and. The first also contains a photograph of one of the standing monks - 35-year-old Khadhadya (photo). At the time the photo was taken, the monk had been standing for three years. However, no information was found about the “standing” monastery “near Bayculla” about which the author of “Shantaram” wrote. If anyone has information, I would be extremely grateful.

Varanasia
The train arrived in Varanasi by lunchtime. Until that time, we looked out the window at Indian landscapes and pictures of peaceful rural life. A peasant morning in India begins with the most mundane procedures, such as brushing teeth and pardon the toilet.
When our man goes to the toilet, he takes a cigarette and a newspaper with him and calmly does all his business there. The illiteracy of a certain layer of Indian society and the absence of a toilet as a structure, in principle, do not allow him to touch civilization so closely, so he takes a toothbrush and a bottle of water and goes to the embankment, where he sits with his pants down in the eagle pose, brushes his teeth and looks on trains. And tourists look at him from the train with their mouths open and their teeth unbrushed. Numerous agents had already met us on the platform, offering to put us up in a good, inexpensive hotel. Having a voucher in hand for hotel accommodation, we did not need their services, but in my opinion it is impossible to convince an Indian that you do not need his services; he will still leave feeling deceived, like we did after making a purchase in an Indian store. Therefore, tired of sending the “Mowgli” spinning under our feet, we turned to the tourist office at the station to solve problems with tickets.
The return ticket, which was purchased for us by the tour company Merrigo Travel from Delhi, has long bothered me with its low cost. After traveling on the train, we realized what the reason was. Taking advantage of our ignorance, a “respectable” company saved its costs by buying us almost the cheapest so-called “sleeper class” ticket for a passenger train, rather than for an express train, where travel is much more comfortable. Having contacted the tourist office at the station for a replacement, we were informed that there were no tickets for the date we needed. They spat and decided to postpone it until later.
At the entrance, agents were glued to us again. At the auto-rickshaw parking lot, there was a long column of free scooters, or rather it was not even a column, but several rows of vehicles pressed closely together. For us, the rickshaw on duty was torn out of this mass; in the process of snatching, bargaining took place. Having heard that we were heading to the India Hotel, another agent tried to persuade us to abandon this idea and go to his very good and cheap hotel. But the growling tuk-tuk was already picking up speed, we rushed through the streets filled with an insane number of motorbikes and pedicabs, motorcycles, scooters, bicycles; there were practically no cars. Everyone was driving tightly pressed against each other, sometimes it seemed that you could throw away the steering wheel, but there was nowhere to go, the stormy stream would still carry you where you needed to go. Having dived under the bridge, our vehicle jumped out closer to the outskirts, the traffic here was much less, the road was more spacious and the speed was correspondingly higher. Soon our hotel appeared. A large, modern building, a very nice interior, the people at the reception were quite nasty and somewhat dissatisfied. We were accommodated in a spacious room with a good interior. The hotel was indeed quite high class, as we were promised in Delhi. But everything was ruined by the local centralized air conditioning system; two barred holes were made in the wall, each about a meter long and fifteen centimeters high. So, air was sucked into one of these holes, and icy air was blown out with a roar from the other, directed directly into the bed. In general, a system that has a terrible effect on your nerves with its constant buzzing and on your health with the constant icy air blowing on you. Demands to turn off this idiotic system led to nothing, since the entire hotel was cooled this way and no one was going to turn it off for our sake. In the end, we solved the problem by simply plugging the hole with the icy air, morning newspapers pushed under the door. We must pay tribute that the linen and towels were changed here every day, with very clean and white ones.
Soon there was a call to our room. Somehow we figured out that the partner of the Delhi tour operator, Mr. Nandu, was bothering us. He sent a car for us to talk with us in his office. Out of curiosity, we decided to take a ride. The white Ambassador sent for us took us around the corner, where a very modest office was located. Quite young, but well-fed, which clearly meant increased well-being, Nandu, cordially greeted us at the door, gave us tea and began offering his services, an excursion program around Varanasi and the surrounding area. Having listened carefully to his program and having decided on what we needed to see, we politely refused his services, thanked him for his welcome and promised to contact us if we decided to do so. By the way, this is a very good policy for those who don’t know what you can see, go to any tour company, they will immediately write out the entire program for you, later visiting all these attractions on your own, so to speak, you will see that it is somewhat cheaper, sometimes it is several times cheaper .
Since it was still light outside, we decided to go to the Ganges. The first rickshaw that turned up agreed to take us there and back for 90 rupees. By the way, this is another minus of the hotel, it is far from the Ganges and the center, and travel costs quite a lot of money. All the rickshaws that later took us to the Ganges always invited us to wait for an hour or two completely free of charge, the main thing for them was to get guaranteed passengers, but we basically agreed to go only in one direction.
The road to the Ganges, or more precisely to the main “ghat” - steps descending directly into the river, passed through the central part of the city, the eyes were corroded by smoke and smog, which lay like a thick curtain over the city. I don’t know, many people write about the smell of “shish kebab”, from the corpses constantly being burned on the shore; ordinary smoke corroded our eyes. Soon, our rickshaw stopped, announcing that it was impossible to go further, in the evening the passage along the main street was closed and we would have to walk a couple of blocks (and a couple of kilometers), but he would wait for us here for two hours. We moved down the street, crowded with bicycles and pedicabs, past shops and shopkeepers, who, by the way, rather sluggishly invited us to their place, and in some places limited themselves to the duty “Helyu-yu!”
Having somehow reached the “ghat”, where along the railings dividing the steps into two parts and apparently installed so that they could hold on to them during the descent, sat numerous saints, wretched people and ordinary beggars, all with special clothes. stainless steel bowls, which they knocked on the stone steps and held out in your direction. The sun had already set, and on the platform, next to the steps, the daily ritual of saying goodbye to Ganga was taking place, something like wishing her good night. On five small wooden platforms stood handsome, tall young men in priestly costumes, and to the sounds of a small orchestra of noisemakers and screamers, accompanied by the ringing of bells, they performed a ritual, waving either small smoke bombs or oil lamps in the form of a fruit slide with a handle filled with small smokers. lamps. There were numerous tourists around, in pre-prepared places, fervently praying pilgrims and curious people like us hanging around.
Having seen enough of the process, we feel that it would be nice to have a snack.
We make our way through the crowded streets to the crossroads, where “our” rickshaw is waiting for us. Already half a block away, he noticed us and actively gesticulated, indicating his presence, and probably driving away any attempts from competitors. And now we are rushing through the atmosphere of the “country of Varanasia” that corrodes the eyes and nose. From a conversation with a travel agent, we learned that the standard program for tourists includes a morning boat trip along the Ganges combined with watching the sunrise. Therefore, an agreement was concluded with our rickshaw driver for a morning trip to the Ganges at 5.30.
We went to the hotel restaurant for dinner. As it turned out, only their prices were high, and the quality of service and food turned out to be very moderate. The waiters walked around looking like yesterday's dethroned maharajas, and the dream of potatoes ended in something fried in oil and more reminiscent of candy in consistency. And having somehow dulled the feeling of hunger, we went to the room, where we were greeted by the hum of the “air conditioner” and a stream of icy air directed into our faces.

Along the Ganges
We jumped up at five in the morning, it was time to rush through the entire city to the Ganges, take a boat cruise along the shore and watch the sunrise. We jumped out into the street at the crack of dawn, the gates were locked, we were about to climb over, but an alert guard appeared, with a fairly sleepy face in a uniform cap and smiling knowingly, they released us into freedom. In front of the hotel there were already several rickshaws ready to take us to the ends of the world at any price. But we, like decent people, waited for “our own”, with whom we agreed the day before. Time flew by and the darkness began to dissipate. Realizing that yesterday's rickshaw driver probably slept through his luck, we take the nearest one, who basely begins to overcharge the price, in the end, victory was ours and now we are roaring through the deserted streets of the morning Varanasi, on a tuk-tuk. He brought us almost to the river itself, where we were immediately embraced by a large tribe of boatmen. Tearing us into pieces, they announced simply insane prices starting from 700 rupees per boat, and then, “just for us,” they made global discounts. After fighting off a dozen of the most persistent intermediaries, we found the owner of the boat directly and began to bargain with him, it seems that we were both stuck with 200 rupees. And on the shore, individual tourists and entire groups have already begun to be seated in boats, boats, boats. Crooked bamboos with plywood nailed to them, serving as oars, had already crashed into the water and the quiet tourists, accompanied by music rushing from the shore, began to move. The huge sloop looked especially cool, with several Buddhist monks in orange togas sitting “at the head”, and the remaining seats were occupied by Japanese aunties, quiet from the awareness of the moment and society.
We got a small two-seater boat with a rather large, strong “captain”; it was easy for him to row, so without much strain he took us along the standard route, first downstream, along numerous desert “ghats”, on which, in some places , in small groups, pilgrims and local residents gathered for morning ablutions, combined with the usual washing and brushing of teeth. Someone, having already fulfilled his religious duty, was erased. The motley, colorful tourist flotilla moved slowly towards the electric crematorium towering in the distance, where it turned and climbed even more slowly upward towards Manikarnika, the most popular cremation site. Floating boats and benches scurried around, where the owner of the store sat on the oars, and his young children demonstrated their goods, under the motto “where can you go from an Indian boat.” As our boatman immediately explained to us, leisurely plopping his oars, finishing your mortal life in an electric crematorium is not at all prestigious, although it is very cheap (300 rupees), but you will not have a guarantee for a worthy rebirth or even a way out of the wheel of samsara, unlike the classical process cremation with a pre-calculated amount of wood, right on the river bank. The price of this type of cremation is already more than 2000 rupees, but the sanctity of the process is no longer in doubt, and the leisurely waters of the Ganges regularly carry away the ashes of the cremated. Quite large piles of ash stood on the shore; our boatman said that for a symbolic price of 30 rupees you could buy a little of this very valuable, healing and holy product. It is this kind of ashes that Indian ascetics, or whatever they are called here, smear themselves with.
The entire coastline on the Varanasi side, continuous ghats, stone steps going into the water. In some places there are small platforms, in the mornings local saints sit on them, with aloof faces. Pilgrims are floundering in the river, first they pray, throw offerings into the water, do several ritual ablutions, some simply splash water on their faces, while others plunge headlong, then the routine washing begins under the gun of hundreds of tourist photos and video cameras. armies ten times larger in number. In principle, none of those washing object to such close attention, the only thing is that when we sail closer to the crematorium, the boatman warns that we cannot take pictures and protesting cries begin to be heard from the shore. But is it possible to stop tourists...
The sun's collectively observed dawn appeared to be an orange disk emerging from behind the dim haze. Softly painting the tall buildings along the shore, revealing and emphasizing colors invisible during the day due to the blinding sun and harsh shadows. The city looks absolutely fabulous. The almost hour-long walk comes to an end, and people pour out onto the shore. Numerous barbers sat right on the stone steps, spreading out their bags and laying out tools passed down from generation to generation, and ran to catch those who wanted to shave and get a haircut. The captured clients, right there in the bag, will have their hair cut with a mandatory head massage, carefully shaved; by the way, for shaving, water immediately collected from the Ganges is used.
The entire river bank is covered with silt and covered with garbage, mostly the remains of wreaths and paper plates on which small offerings are floated down the river, with a burning candle in the middle. The water turned out to be quite clean and transparent, well, within reasonable limits, like the Sea of ​​Azov in Taganrog in August. Natasha even wet her hands, I didn’t dare. Unfortunately, we did not encounter any half-burnt corpses, and judging by the ashes on the shore, everything burns there... if anything remains, these are pieces of bamboo sticks to which the corpse is tightly tied. Elderly people in India are shrinking incredibly, very often you can see some incredibly tiny grandparents, they are so thin that they could be labeled “flammable”, it seems that they are ready to catch fire from a small spark. Cows and dogs wander along the shore and stone steps, leaving traces of their activity here and there.

Sarnath
Returning from the river, we decided to visit the Buddhist center of Sarnath. Since it was quite far away, we were persuaded to take a car and here we are already on a white Ambassador, making our way through the crooked streets of the “country of Varanasia”, it’s hard to imagine that the city is more than 3000 years old, only the temples are truly ancient here, maybe a few buildings on the shore , and in general the town was constantly being built and rebuilt. Small houses of irregular shape, something is constantly being added or built on to them, lightly whitewashed with gray lime and again the mortar is stirred and another windowless room is sculpted from terrible crooked bricks, handicraft production. Windows in India are a different story. Windows are a completely unpopular thing here. Most buildings do not have this architectural excess at all, which serves only to heat the home by direct sunlight and the penetration of nocturnal insects. The first floor is almost always used as a small or large shop, in extreme cases, a workshop, and more often, both. People are milling about everywhere, everyone is busy, some sew, some mend, most of course trade. In the city center, shops are beginning to displace residents from the second floors, turning into large “super shops” because the range of goods is still designed for its buyer. For tourists only souvenirs.
They say that Sarnath is a separate town, but somehow we didn’t notice this, it seemed to us that we had simply moved to another area. First we visited a Buddhist temple, looked at a huge Banyan tree, a relative of the tree under which the Indian prince Gautava Shakyamuni gained enlightenment. An altar has now been built around the tree, people are sitting and praying. We didn’t bother people, looked with one eye and moved on. A tree is like a tree, quite large and old, but we saw more. At the time of our visit, a Buddhist rally was taking place in the temple park; hundreds of people in white robes with enlightened faces were taking pictures with their teacher. A little further there was a small zoo, where for a nominal fee, 10 or 20 or even 4 rupees, you could take a walk and see several aviaries with birds, several ponds with small crocodiles covered in duckweed, and several cages with parrots, which, in principle, they fly anywhere. At the far end of the park, a small group of Indian preschool children were having fun scaring the smallest, grimy little girl. She ran roaring to her mother working nearby, but the thirst for communication overpowered her and she returned to the team, only to run back with a terrible roar a couple of minutes later. Seeing in us a new target for entertainment with the aim of enriching themselves, they gathered nearby in a crowd and extended their hands asking for money, pens or something else; the former victim immediately joined the group, putting out her pen. So we walked until the very exit with this white-toothed, black-eyed, cheerful and very noisy retinue.
To the left of the park stood the world famous Buddhist stupa. The entrance to it and to the ruins of the temple was already for more substantial money. Natasha refused to go look at the remains of the foundation protruding from the ground. And I went to photograph the remains of brickwork excavated by Indian archaeologists. Right there, behind the hill, restoration work was in full swing, the foundations were being actively built on, and in some places walls had already appeared. Probably, if you are in Sarnath in five years, at this place you can find a very ancient Buddhist temple with a very high entrance ticket price. Nevertheless, this place is a great shrine for Buddhists all over the world; it was here that Buddha delivered his first sermon. In several, apparently especially revered places, traces of worship were visible in the form of thin plates of gold leaf glued to the walls. The smoked base of a giant 35-meter stupa, covered in some places with carvings, was also covered with gold spots; it was installed exactly in the place where the sermon was read. Pilgrims use natural gold leaf by simply laying the sheet directly onto the stones and smoothing it with the palm of their hand. Despite the holiness of this place, and the large number of pilgrims, the thickness and vastness of the golden layer is very small, either very rarely does anyone have the opportunity to leave such a mark, or local workers are clearing the area for new donations. I read somewhere about a huge rock in Myanmar, also covered with the same petals of gold, they say it is almost all gold, apparently either they have more Buddhists or fewer workers. Unfortunately, almost all the images, more than 100, from Sarnath were lost due to technical reasons.
The heat was already incredible and, following the example of the local inhabitants, we hid in the hotel room and arranged a short “quiet hour” for ourselves, cooling down in the air-conditioned room. After 16 hours, the ambient temperature dropped to a reasonable limit and we, in a pedicab that had persuaded us, went to the Ganges. Precisely the Ganges, for this river is feminine in Indian mythology. The driver we came across was small but wiry, despite the considerable weight of the Russian tourists, he pedaled quite quickly, and when he got into the usual traffic jam at the entrance to the river at that time, he rammed the carts trailing ahead. Usually, pedicabs, having previously agreed on the price for which they are ready to transport you, during the journey they begin to show with all their appearance how hard this very “pedicab” work is, and you are an exploiter of the working Indian people, forced for a pittance, to practically drag your portly body on yourself, while they puff and groan. But the most important thing is that no one remembers the sensations of the rider, the fact is that the bench on which you have to sit is only 15 centimeters wide, and it is tilted so that you immediately begin to slide down it, and is not really designed for European seats.
You have to hold on and hold each other with all your strength so as not to slide down and fall out of the cart, when the front wheel is vigorously stuck into the rear axle of the same vehicle, and another impatient citizen is stuck into you from behind, carrying six children from school or an entire Indian family of four to five people. We were always surprised how they fit. When the trip was finally completed, we left the shaky car with relief, paid a little more than the promised price and, satisfied with each other, went in different directions.
On the river bank, preparations for the evening ceremony were already in full swing. Platforms with the necessary attributes were installed, bells were hung, chairs and benches were placed for tourists and pilgrims. People came from all directions. I especially remember the girls, either from Spain or from Greece, in impossible ethnic outfits, with the same hairstyles. I still managed to capture one in a photo, near the bead dealers, who were sold here in huge quantities, although it cannot be said that they were cheap. The sun was rapidly setting, unlike the Indians who were not in a hurry. But then piercing music began to sound, drums began to crackle, and young men came out onto the platform for the appropriate ritual and began to perform the action, waving various personal belongings, brooms made of elephant tails, smoking smokehouses and smoky chandeliers.
Since everything goes on not five to ten minutes, but much longer, we, having admired the procedure of wishing Ganga good night, moved aside and sat down on the steps that seemed clear in the darkness. After some time, a company of Indian guys appeared next to us, wearing formal national sheets instead of pants and shirts almost reaching to the knees. Ordinary, simple guys, not a word of English, but they really wanted to communicate, so they started interrogating us in Hindi, and we answered them in Russian. In general, we talked for about twenty minutes, they treated us to “Sar”, and we seemed to be treated to sweets. A little about "Sar". In every most run-down shop, where in principle there may be nothing, or rather nothing except hanging ribbons reminiscent of disposable shampoo or condoms, on which “Sir” is written. All this is sold individually, it is used quite specifically, the bag breaks, there are small granules inside that need to be poured under the lip. It really tastes like cologne or the same shampoo. We can only guess what this gives to Indians; it probably suppresses appetite and thirst, and since the packaging says that it contains something like nicotine, it may be a little intoxicating. And they chew constantly, betel or pan, tobacco, Sar. At every corner there is a betel nut merchant, right before your eyes he takes out a green leaf from a basin of water, smears it with special lime, puts on spices, pieces of nutmeg and something else, each merchant has his own family recipe, rolls it up in a cunning way, and the satisfied customer immediately puts a compact bag into his mouth. We honestly tasted the bag of Saar that was presented to us on our tongues, then carefully spat it out because the disgusting stuff was terrible.
We didn’t wait for the ceremony to end, we went to look for an auto rickshaw and go home. Since traffic in the evening was blocked for motorized vehicles, we had to walk along the illuminated benches for almost a couple of kilometers to the intersection where probably fifty tuk-tuks had already gathered. We buy something to eat along the way. We negotiate for 40 rupees with the driver and, with the roar of the engine, we “rush” through the crowded, smoke-filled streets, by the way, we have already gotten used to this smog, although it still hurts our eyes a little. It's time to go to the hotel, drink the usual 100 grams of whiskey and sleep. Tomorrow we will go to the temples. Around town.
Since the morning we have been dealing with the problem of train tickets. We walked to the office of a local travel agent we knew, Nandu. We arrived a little early and had to wait a bit. The first thing he did after opening the office was smoke with incense sticks at the altar with numerous gods, and then he started working on us. After drinking tea, mutual compliments and walking around us like a cat around sour cream, we came to the following decision. Instead of wandering around smoky Varanasi for another day, we will be taken to the city of “three rivers” Allahabad. Our ticket to Bombay will be surrendered and two others will be purchased! We will go first to the city of Bhopal and from there to Mumbai (the modern name of Bombay). Tickets will be in a reserved seat with air conditioning. They immediately resolved the issue of exchanging money, if the rate at the hotel was 43.00 rupees per dollar, but for us they changed it to 44.75, which was profitable, although illegal. By the way, local money changers often show you a little trick, tearing a 100-dollar bill in front of your eyes, and then observe your reaction and demonstrate its integrity.
Having decided on the further route and getting rid of the “headache”, we set off to explore the city’s attractions. After a long bargaining with the auto-rickshaw that was coveting our bodies, we drive around the city with the goal of visiting the Golden Temple and the Temple of the Monkeys. The first thing this scooter did was go to the gas station. Often our cab drivers began their journey at a gas station; only after getting a client could they be sure that they would be able to buy themselves a couple of liters of gasoline and a glass of oil. At a gas station, a couple of local boys about 10-12 years old stuck up to us, and they didn’t even ask, but looked at us point-blank like strange white monkeys, their eyes bulging and their mouths open. The local gas station attendant considered this behavior unworthy of the Indian people and shot the couple with a slipper he immediately removed, sending them fleeing. And we rushed with freshly fueled equipment to our temples. Soon, having finished meandering along narrow streets with bad asphalt, we stopped near some reservoir with bright green, stagnant water; on the shore stood a temple painted with dark burgundy paint. Poking his finger at it, our charioteer insisted that it was “Golden Temple!” Golden Temple! I'm reading the guidebook. Exactly. This stagnant pond is called Gyan Vapi - the Pond of Knowledge, the waters of this pond are considered very healing, the sick and healthy, covered with ulcers, atone for sins, rush to wash themselves here, and often rush to give this water to infants and not-so-infants to drink.
The priestly brahmins immediately rush to receive a bribe for the use of water from the pond in which Shiva himself lived at a time when the nearby Vishvanatha temple was destroyed. At one time, one of the rajahs donated gilded copper sheets to cover the roof and vaults of the temple, and the temple received the name Golden. I looked for traces of gold for a long time, but, alas, people and time tore off all the gilding. Several copper columns support the arch above the altar, under which people crowd with offerings and prayers. Around the courtyard, under the awnings, musicians sit and slowly make rather melodic sounds, except for the crackling of drums and the constant ringing of bells. I take pictures, trying not to attract attention, although people around me glance at me without approval. Already at home, looking at the photographs, I saw a huge inscription: “Taking photographs is strictly prohibited!”
The next point was the Monkey Temple. We leave our shoes in the Tuk-Tuk and, splashing through the dust, we go to the yellow gate leading to the temple. We immediately find a small monkey family, a mother with a baby under her arm, and a couple of longer babies. The head of the family, a huge monkey, was sitting about 30 meters away on a huge pile of garbage, surrounded by crows, and didn’t even look in our direction. The macaques here are of course amazingly snickering.

The Indian woman tried to give them something, but they sniffed and were tempted by this food, without even intending to. Natasha, however, found their weak point. And the whole company, seduced by the orange, poured out onto the path and, tucking one slice into their cheek, pulled their hairy hands for more alms. On the way to the altar, I was convincingly asked not to photograph anything, but in principle there is nothing special to photograph in Hindu temples, a smoky altar, piles of wilted flowers and bowed, concentrated worshipers. Although the brahmins in the monkey temple were very colorful, almost naked and hairy.
Having been a little disappointed in the thousand temples of the city, there are probably even more of them here because around every corner you can find a temple the size of a shoebox, where sits a lopsided image of one or another god, in front of it something is smoking in a small bowl and several wreaths of flowers are withering in the sun. We asked the driver to take us to the Ganges.
After wandering around the streets a little, he turned into a terribly narrow street and was soon forced to stop. Beckoning us to follow him, he led us along a street no more than one and a half meters wide to a narrow door. The long, dark corridor ended in a “ray of light”; more precisely, it was clear that it went straight into the sky. Carefully stepping over the bodies of people dozing in the coolness, we reached the upper steps of one of the Ghats. On the right hand stood the crematorium already known to us. Downstairs, the laundry was in full swing.
Laundress, in India, is a purely male profession, this does not mean that only men do laundry, women also do this very often. But only a man can wash large volumes, since the process itself is very unique. Right in the river, where the water is just above the knee, there are stone slabs, one side of which is immersed in water, and the other protrudes slightly, and they hit this slab with terrible force with linen twisted into a rope. If the laundry is very dirty and “usual” methods do not help, the unfortunate rag is laid out on a stone and “bleached” with a huge club, raising columns of muddy splashes above your head. But the most important thing comes later, when the laundry rolled into ropes begins to dry. Pants and shirts are pinched between two woven ropes immediately stretched, and sheets, pillowcases and other large things are simply laid out on the steps of the ghats or simply on the sand. The pillowcases dried directly on the ground and turned over to speed up the process looked especially colorful. Carried away by photographing those doing the laundry, I missed it when people from the crematorium began to notify me that photography was inadmissible, in the form of shouts and gestures. I intelligently portrayed in response that I had been dreaming about them with their crematorium for 1000 years and were not at all interested in them as a subject of photography, especially since practically no one there had burned out, only a couple of half-burnt green bamboo sticks and a pile of ashes between them marked the place of the last “burial.” They returned through the same narrow corridor, along which individual townspeople were sleeping peacefully.
On the street, a charming face peeked out from behind one peeling door. Before she came to her senses, I took a photo that I consider one of the best. A girl from Varanasi, a little grimy, in strange clothes, but with such clear eyes and a smile. He showed her the resulting portrait, which caused a storm of delight and the company of her small relatives or neighboring children, who also had to be photographed and demonstrated the result, causing another storm of joy. After rewarding the subjects of the photo shoot with sweets, we head to the hotel.
On the way back, an auto-rickshaw lured us into a large souvenir shop, but Shiva took revenge on him for us by breaking his tarataika. When paying the unfortunate driver, we added a little on top of the agreed price, but he was clearly dissatisfied, although we had to walk a little way to the hotel.
In the evening, once again going to the Ganges, citing the closed center, we were brought again to the same place where we were during the day, which, by the way, we were even happy about. A very narrow street ran parallel to the river, in some places it was enough to stretch out your arms and you were already touching the opposite walls, dark corridors led to the ghats. Moreover, there were no alleys, so they walked, turning their heads, looking at houses, small shops of musical instruments inviting to free evening concerts, jewelry shops and small cafes.
In one of these cafes, seeing numerous Europeans sitting there, we also decided to eat. From the dirty menu lying on the table, it was clear that the prices here were very low. The first problem arose when expressing a desire to wash my hands. Natalya was taken to a small courtyard, where a pipe with a faucet stuck out of the wall. At the next table, a group of Germans looked in bewilderment at what was brought to them; they immediately immediately dissociated themselves from the glass of cloudy liquid, and began poking at the food with their forks. Afterwards, a boy waiter jumped up to us, when he tried to explain what we needed, he shook his head and handed over a notepad, showing with all his appearance that we should write the order ourselves, i.e. the guy did not know how to write. Deciding that this risk was not such a noble cause, we remembered a small restaurant we had noticed earlier on the main street nearby.
Restaurant Naradj, small but quite cozy. We had our eye on a modest but very decent establishment for a long time, where we had a bite to eat, tasty and inexpensive. Dinner for two cost us 150 rupees (100 rubles).
Satisfied, we went to bed; tomorrow we had a trip to Allahabad.

The main character of the autobiographical novel “Shantaram” G.D. Roberts, a fugitive Australian criminal, comes to Mumbai to lay low and is drawn into the whirlpool of the incredibly bright, beautiful and at the same time disgusting life of the city. He will walk the length and breadth of Mumbai (and you along with him), settle in the slums, open a free clinic for slum residents, visit the child slave market, save a circus bear, almost die in prison from torture, make real friends, visit in the opium den of the Standing Monks, will join the Bombay mafia clan, meet a leper colony, go to war in Afghanistan, burn down the odious brothel of Madame Zhu, act in Bollywood films, fall in love with a beautiful woman, be betrayed several times - and at the same time - remain kind human. Everywhere in this country of the poor he sees beauty - the people, their actions, the fantastic place where they live - Mumbai. I read the novel in February, re-read it in March, and in May I had three days traveling to Mumbai; three days is so little time to explore a universe like Mumbai - the second most populous city in the world with 22 million inhabitants! However, I practically learned the city by heart from the book, so I had a very specific geography of places that I wanted to visit. Several standard sights from the guidebook have been added to the "In the Footsteps of Shantaram" program; and my charming friend lives in Mumbai - she is from an old Mumbai family - who showed me the everyday life of a Mumbai middle class.

Where to live?- exclusively in Colaba. Colaba is the most tourist area of ​​Mumbai; accordingly, the safest area; hence close to all major attractions; and most importantly, it was here that Shantaram lived, pushed dope, suffered and glorified life. Settle anywhere - there will be an Indian flavor everywhere.

I suggest:
in style - in the majestic Taj Mahal, which faces the ocean and the Gateway of India - the calling card of Mumbai; the hotel was attacked by terrorists in 2008;

budget - Salvation army hostel - next door to the Taj Mahal! Cheap, and close to the rich, very Indian;

average - like me at the Strand Hotel - it is located a few buildings from the Taj Mahal, also on the first coastline, and three houses from my friend’s house. The hotel is nice: a standard pink bucket for the shower, normal food in the room, no cleaning with a “Please clean the room” sign, polite staff, baksheesh, everything is great.

Where there is: everywhere, everywhere is interesting.

The main rule is not to eat where they put ice of unknown origin and where Indians, right in your noble presence, crush food with dirty hands. I recommend visiting:

1) cafe-bar "Leopold"- an iconic place in the novel, a gathering place for the main characters and tycoons of the underground world of Mumbai.

Leopold itself somewhat did not live up to expectations - in the book it is a luxurious restaurant, sparkling with splendor and vice; but in real life, alas, this is a completely ordinary bar, which, however, does not diminish its cultural and historical significance. The tables are not marble, as promised, the floor is not painted, but ordinary tiled. My friend, seeing the disappointment in my eyes, patiently explained: “Did you see how many tables there are at Churchill or Olympia?” Five or maximum six! So in the 80s, Leopold's may well have been the biggest restaurant in all of Colaba; and the floor may have been changed after the terrorist attack.”

2) B Badshah Ice Cream Parlor Opposite Crawford Market, since 1905 they have been making a special Indian, very labor-intensive ice cream - kulfi. Forbes listed this cafe as one of the 12 best ice cream parlors in the world. The establishment itself is so old that it is likely that the old man Mahatma Gandhi himself ate ice cream there.

Here we are eating kulfi (on the left) and falooda (in the center in a glass, something like a thick milkshake with jelly balls) - the falooda turned out to be tastier!

3) Eat pan for ten rupees on the street- an exotic mixture of herbs, spices and fruits and nuts, wrapped in betel leaf. Here’s how Shantaram writes deliciously: “I put a rolled-up leaf behind my cheek, as others did; within seconds my mouth was filled with juicy, aromatic sweetness; the taste was reminiscent of honey, but at the same time it was sharp and spicy; the leafy wrapper began to dissolve, and hard pieces of shredded coconut, dates and seeds mixed with the sweet juice.”

What to watch?

1) Of course the city itself- luxurious and poor, monumental and slum, which must be passed on foot.

2) Incredibly beautiful Jain temple Walkeshwar.

The dome ceiling is painted with zodiac signs; in the niches stand unprecedented big-eyed deities; the air is saturated with completely unfamiliar incense; in the center there is an altar from which water drips into a golden bowl. A religious service is underway: women are holding unusual books in their hands and reading unique mantras, beating drums, beating cymbals, and one is playing a mini-piano, inflated with bellows! The temple building is stunningly majestic, with a high ceiling, decorated so brightly and richly that you want to close your eyes, and at the same time the space is very cramped and somehow intimate.
3)


Marine Drive- the best embankment in Mumbai, I tell you. If you and I go to Mumbai and you lose me, then look for me on Marine Drive - I will be sitting there on the parapet and looking at the ocean. By the way, it doesn’t smell like the ocean here; for some reason it doesn’t smell at all; and there are no seagulls. But there are crows, black clouds of crows.

Read the book - this love song to India, go to Mumbai and, friends, it will be a cool trip.

India They call it a country with many faces, because it is impossible to form an unambiguous idea about it. Especially when it comes to the cultural heritage that ancient Indian temples have carried since ancient times.

Top 10 most popular temples - photos and descriptions

Each of the temples is a page of history, part of the rich biography of the country and people, who have something to say to future generations.

Taj Mahal

No popular tourist route is complete without visiting the legendary Taj Mahal. Joined the ranks of new ones in 2007 seven wonders of the world The famous mausoleum-mosque surprises guests of the country not only with stunning architecture, but also with a romantic history of its creation, which dates back to the 17th century.

Taj Mahal is monument to love, built by the Mughal king Shah Jahan in honor of his beloved wife, the beautiful Mumtaz, who died giving birth to her 14th child.

In memory of his beloved woman, Shah Jahan erected a palace of fabulous beauty, in which he buried his wife and after a while he himself found eternal peace.

Marble walls of the mosque during the day change color:

• during the day the building shines whiteness;
• the building glows in the moonlight silvery shades;
• at dawn the palace becomes scarlet.

Complete the architectural ensemble gardens with ponds and fountains. There is a legend that Shah Jahan planned to build an exact copy of the Taj Mahal from black marble on the opposite bank of the river, but, having been dethroned by his own son, did not have time to do this.

Lotus

The name of this temple reflects its appearance - a white marble structure with 9 entrances and a single dome resembles opening lotus flower with 27 petals, which you can admire when visiting the capital of India, New Delhi.

Lotus Temple erected for devotees Baha'ism in 1986 and corresponds to the dogmas of the sacred scriptures: it has a nine-sided shape and one dome, symbolizing the unity of all religions (the temple accepts supporters of different faiths).

In the 75-meter central hall there are no altars, images or sculptures, but there are benches where people can simultaneously indulge in prayers. 1300 people.

The Lotus Temple building has features of another famous building - opera house V . It was he who inspired the architect Fariborz Sahb to create such a structure.

Shiva

Regardless of the time of day or day of the week, the Shiva temple always crowded. Pilgrims from all over the world rush here to pay tribute to the most revered deity - the warlike Shiva.

The architectural complex is a building made of colored granite, on the sides of which there are statues of elephants.

On the premises of the temple there are figures of various deities from the Mahabharata, as well as world's largest statue of Shiva, 37 meters high. During religious festivals, temple servants decorate the elephants with colors and flowers, symbolizing the son of Shiva (Ganesha).

In India, blessings from these sacred animals are believed to bring good luck.

Watch exciting video about Indian temples:

India is probably the most “strange” and unusual country in terms of religion and traditions. I realized this as a student from the fiction of writers G.L. Oldie, namely the “Black Screwtape” series (by the way, I haven’t read anything new by this author for “a hundred years”). Such freedom in choosing your God and such unusual rituals and ceremonies probably cannot be found anywhere else on the planet. (There are thousands of gods in the Hindu pantheon and any number of them can be worshiped)

You and I have already looked at and discussed and were surprised

In order to prove their faith in a higher power, Indians often deprive themselves of earthly goods. Sometimes their desire to demonstrate devotion to the gods develops into mania, bordering on self-mutilation. Although most likely some analogies can be found in any religions, they still take extreme forms in India.

Mahant Amar Bharti Ji lives in the Indian city of New Delhi. At first, he was no different from his compatriots: he was a successful official, got married, bought a car, built a house. gave birth to three sons... Maybe even planted a tree. That is, I did everything. according to popular wisdom, a real man should do in his life.

But one day Amar had a dream.

Photo 2.

What exactly the father of the family had dreamed, he did not tell anyone, but suddenly, without any explanation, he left work, left home and settled in a tent. All alone. However, he could not sit in the tent, and he, again without explanation, set off to wander along the roads of India. Perhaps he was looking for a path to self-improvement, or maybe even then he decided to devote himself to serving Shiva... Who knows? Be that as it may, Amar wandered for three years.

Photo 3.

However, years passed, and the wanderer realized that he had never achieved his goal - he did not please Shiva in any way, and it seemed that he was far from self-improvement. And then, by some impulse of his soul completely incomprehensible to you and me, dear reader, Amar Bharti raised his right hand to the sky. This happened in 1973. I wonder if Amar had any idea then. that he is no longer destined to lower his long-suffering limb?

Some sources claim that Amar Bharati was in great pain due to the wars and strife all over the world and he decided to raise his hand up for the sake of peace.

Photo 4.

In Indian culture, “sadhus” are saints, yogis and ascetics who do not strive to achieve the three goals in life according to Hinduism: achieving dharma (duty), artha (material enrichment), kama (sensual pleasures).

One such saint is Amar Bharati Baba.

Moreover, other religious fanatics decided to imitate Amaru, who kept his hand raised in honor of Shiva. But almost no one withstood such a test. There are only three known men in the world who have held their hands for 25, 13 and 7 years.

Photo 5.

Some might think it's easy. But an ordinary person cannot stand it even if he holds his hand for 10 minutes. After some time, he will begin to experience excruciating muscle pain.

For the first few years, the muscles and joints hurt terribly, but the ascetic got used to it. After so many years, his hand had turned into useless bones, covered with skin, with thick and spiral-curled nails (because no one had cut them). The hand completely atrophied and froze in an unnatural, almost vertical position.

Photo 6.

According to Amar. in this situation he gained much more than he lost. In any case, he managed to achieve harmony with his own self. Well, besides, who was Amar before? An unknown official, father and husband.

Photo 7.

Despite his worldly background, the sadhu Amar Bharati is highly revered during the mass Kumbh Mela pilgrimage rites in the city of Haridwar. Now he is famous throughout India, he has dozens of followers who idolize Amar in almost the same way. like Shiva. True, I can repeat his feat - living 43 years with my hand raised up. - so far no one has succeeded. But it’s not about the record!

Photo 8.

The Maha Kumbh Mela in Haridwar is one of the largest religious public events in the world. Amar Bharati has inspired other sadhus to raise their hands for peace and harmony. Some of them have kept their hands up for seven, 13 or even 25 years.

Photo 9.

In an interview, sadhu Amar Bharati said that his spiritual discourse focuses on the bitterness and strife in the modern world, how people destroy their fellow men, and what is most important is to live in peace and harmony.

When asked if his raised hand hurt, Amar replies that it hurt, but he got used to it. Like most ascetics, he did not want to talk about life before he took his vow.

Photo 10.

Amar Bharati explains that he is doing the same thing that many saints did before him, and that he is simply continuing the tradition. In India this is called Urdhaman Tapasya and refers to a type of service where an ascetic dedicates part of his body to God.

Photo 11.

Although there is no documented evidence that Amar Bharati kept his hand raised at all times for 43 years, Indian sadhus are known to perform unusual tasks in the name of faith, such as sleeping standing up or fasting for long periods. In India there is a saint, Prahlad Jani, who did not eat or drink anything for 70 years. His case has been verified and documented by doctors.

Photo 12.

Photo 13.

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