Follow the Elephant (8 page)

The man showed them how to lock their backpacks to the chain that ran from the floor to the ceiling to keep them from being stolen, but Gran shook her head. “We nearly lost everything we owned at an awful hotel. I’ll sleep better with my backpack right beside me.”

The couple on the top bunk across from Ben had settled down for the night; he could hear soft whispers and rustling noises that made him think
they
weren’t finding it too crowded.

“Don’t we get a sheet or a blanket?” Ben asked.

The man said, “Don’t worry, you won’t need anything. It will get so hot up there you’ll bake like tandoori chicken.”

Gran leaned out of her bunk and pointed at the ceiling. “Don’t tell me that’s our air-conditioning?”

Ben stared at a dilapidated wooden fan with two broken blades. It was moving in a slow jerking circle precariously close to his bunk. He decided not to undress and made a pillow out of his rolled up jacket. He shoved his pack under his feet and tried to settle his body on the hard wood.

He lay awake wincing at the erratic motion of the ceiling fan. Only when the blades slid with a jolt toward him did he feel the smallest movement of air, and with it, the heavy smell of too many bodies in too small a space.

The train started with a bump, then rocked and swayed along the track as Ben closed his eyes. No matter how far away you were or what kind of a strange place you were in, you carried your sadness with you. Ben remembered that Dad had promised him a train trip across Canada. “You’ll love it,” he said. “The prairies are something to see. I’ll take you to the place where I grew up. It was a two-grain-elevator town.” Well, that would never happen. Ben could feel himself slide down into sleep.

Suddenly the train came to a rasping halt and Ben heard voices from outside. His watch said 2:20 a.m.

“You asleep, Ben?” Gran whispered.

“I was in the middle of a dream.”

“Sorry if I woke you.”

“It’s okay. It was only a dumb dream.”

“Ben, you didn’t have stomach cramps at the Taj, did you?”

“No.”

“I’m glad.”

“It’s so hot I’m being cremated up here.”

“It’s going to be a long night.”

The train bolted to a start again. It had been a horrible day. The only thing that would make this trip worthwhile would be if he could surprise Gran by finding Shanti. And for that he needed one person out there who knew her to check in with the school website. Just one person.

“VARANASI! VARANASI!”

Where was he? Ben peered into the dark. The muggy air drifting from the fitful fan reminded him that he was in the top bunk on a train in the middle of India. It was five in the morning and the difficult night’s journey was over.

Ben’s shoulders ached and he had a cramp in one foot as he and Gran joined the other half-awake passengers disembarking from the train.

“I’m sore in every part of my old bod,” Gran said, as she trudged stiffly beside him to the station exit. “Let’s find a taxi.”

“It’s pitch dark out here,” Ben said, “but look at the line of taxis.” The first driver nodded when Gran asked for a guest house called Vishnu. They left the station and turned onto a main road with the car’s single headlight guiding them. The taxi stopped in front of a small hotel with a sign: VISHNU LODGE.

“Maybe we’re getting lucky,” Ben said. He could see Gran’s lips pinched with nervousness.

Their backpacks seemed heavier this morning as they came into the lobby and went up to a desk clerk who was sound asleep with his head down on the desk.

“Sorry to wake you. Good morning,” Gran said.

The clerk’s head jerked up.

“We’d like a room with two beds please,” Gran said. “And we’d also like to know the name of the owners of the lodge.”

“Most certainly I have a room available for you,” the clerk said in a groggy voice. “The new owner, memsahib, is Mr. Gupta. He has just recently purchased the establishment. Would you like to talk to him?”

Gran’s voice was tight. “I guess we’ll need information about the previous owners.”

“Mr. Gupta will help you. He is, of course, sleeping in his room upstairs, but I will give him your message when he wakes.”

As Gran signed the register, Ben tried to reassure her. “The owner probably bought the lodge from Shanti’s parents. I bet they’re still in Varanasi.”

The clerk handed Gran the room key. “May I suggest, since you are so clearly awake, that now would be an excellent time to visit our holy Ganges River. The Ganga, as we call it, is an unforgettable sight at dawn.”

The clerk carried their bags upstairs and brought two cups of hot chai to the room. From the window he pointed to a narrow lane across from the hotel that would take them to something he called the ghats at the river.

“Let’s go,” Ben said, rushing to drink the spicy sweet tea. “We can’t go back to bed, and by the time we get back from the river, the owner will be up.”

Gran’s hair was unbrushed and she still looked sleepy, but she agreed. She finished her chai while Ben found his camera in his backpack.

They felt their way down the outside steps of their hotel and crossed the dark street to the lane. More men and women joined them until they were part of a crowd, some people limping or using crutches. All were silent in the early morning darkness.

At one corner a beggar woman carrying a baby wrapped in rags grabbed at Gran’s arm. Gran jerked back, stepping onto the tail of a pale mongrel dog that had been scrounging for garbage at the side of the lane. The cur snarled, moved closer and bared its teeth. Gran backed away. Without thinking, Ben stepped between his grandmother and the dog, then took Gran’s arm and guided her ahead.

“Thanks for protecting me, Ben,” Gran said. “That dog was mean enough to take a chunk out of my leg.”

“No problem,” Ben said. It felt good to be watching out for his grandmother.

The lanes opened onto a large square, and in the dim light Gran and Ben had their first sight of the wide Ganga.

Gran said, “Those must be what the hotel clerk called the ghats.” She pointed to stone steps leading into the water.

At the top of the ghats, they were swarmed by eager boatmen. Like chickens scurrying to peck at the tourists, the men called: “Look this way.” “See the sights, memsahib.” “Come with me! Five hundred rupees for one hour.” “Here is the best safe boat. Very cheap too.”

They found themselves being herded down the steps by a small man with a bare chest and a dhoti twisted between his thin legs. It was as though he’d done the choosing and swept them up before they’d had a chance to think about it. The man’s dark eyes gleamed at them over a sharp nose. “You will be calling me Anoop,” he said. “I am your best guide here and I will have answers to all your questions.” He acted as if they were lucky he’d chosen them.

Anoop helped them board his open rowboat, where a man and a woman were already seated, clutching at the sides of the rocking vessel. Gran and Ben sat down on the seat across from them; then Anoop hopped in and took up the oars, guiding the boat out into the swiftly flowing river.

“Seems we have fellow Canadians here,” said the woman. She nodded at Ben’s baseball cap and introduced herself as Martha and her husband as Geoffrey Bonder, from Calgary. Martha had long straight hair and wore a flowered skirt with leather sandals. Geoffrey had a huge camera around his neck and an Adam’s apple that bounced like a yo-yo over the collar of his brown shirt. He was wearing the same awful hat as Gran, along with an ugly fishing vest completely covered in pockets.

“I see you’re a fan of Tilley stuff, too,” he said, laughing and pointing to Gran’s hat. “This vest is a Tilley
and
so’s my underwear! Great stuff — dries in an hour.”

Please let this not be true, Ben thought. Two Tilley freaks in one boat. If the water hadn’t been covered with yellow scum he might have jumped overboard.

“I’m Norah Leeson and this is my grandson Ben,” Gran said. “Aren’t we all a long way from Canada.”

Anoop pointed to the east and signalled his passengers to watch across the river. Ben had seen a few great sunrises camping with Dad, but none were a match for this. Rising above the horizon was the largest crimson sun he’d ever seen. Beside them, other boats bobbed in the murky water, their passengers under a collective trance at the magnificence of the morning, their faces bathed in the reflected glow of the red ball of the enormous sun. To complete the picture, the sound of clanging temple bells drifted across from the shore. Ben felt as though he were in the middle of a movie set.

A smaller boat approached their side and a sari-clad woman held up a coconut shell with a small lit candle inside. A wooden shelf stretched across her boat; on it sat more shells, each containing a glowing candle.

Anoop explained, “You must have a candle to float on the river. They will be keeping company with the ashes of the departed for their journey to the next world.”

Gran handed Ben coins to pay for the candles, while Geoffrey, who was like a walking filing cabinet, scrabbled through one vest pocket after another trying to find his money. One by one, Anoop’s passengers leaned over the side of the boat to put their shells in the water.

Ben watched his own small flame drift away. Was his father, too, one of the departed on a journey to the next world? Was there a next world? If he could understand what happened after someone died, maybe he’d find a way to stop feeling so angry. His shell bobbed farther and farther away to join the floating jetsam of banana peels, blobs of plastic and orange flowers.

As the sky lightened, their boat continued south along the rows of ghats that made an endlessly shifting scene before them. Against a backdrop of temple spires, hundreds of people had crowded onto the steps. Men and women, still fully dressed in their clothes, waded into the rosy-hued river to soap and wash themselves, the women’s saris billowing around them as they submerged to rinse their hair in the filthy water. In one place, a man had taken his cow to the river to be scrubbed. Beside the cow, whose body was lathered in soap, a young mother and her two children were splashing and playing.

Anoop explained, “Since the seventh century bathing is being a Hindu morning ritual in Varanasi.”

Ben found it impossible to believe that he was tossing around in a small boat on a holy river thousands of miles away from home. This was real life, more amazing than any computer game ever invented.

On the top steps, lean yogis had taken up their positions, twisting their legs like pretzels around their necks. Other men, as unmoving as statues, sat with their feet folded into the lotus position, their palms together in a
namaste
prayer.

“They are doing
pujas
,” said the boatman.

“What are they?” Ben asked.

“
Pujas
are our prayers, and just as Hindus must be bathing every day at sunrise, so they must be saying their
pujas
.”

Ben peered across the water at a large object floating toward them. He pointed. “Over there, what’s that?”

As the thing floated nearer, Ben saw it was the bloated black body of a cow. With its legs stiffly in the air, the body bounced up and down, coming closer and closer to their boat. Ben stared in horror. Good thing Lauren wasn’t there. She’d be totally freaked out.

“Ugh! Horrible,” Gran said. Geoffrey and Martha groaned and turned their heads away, but Ben found himself unable to stop looking. As he watched, the waves tossed the cow’s body over to his side of their small boat. The nearer it came the more Ben could see. The poor animal’s face was swollen grey, its mouth set in a grimace, the cloudy eyes popped out like milky marbles. The cow’s stomach was distended like a pregnant hippo’s, and as it came nearer, the stench of rotting flesh made Ben pinch his nose shut.

“It’s going to hit the boat!” Martha screamed.

“Its stomach will burst and send pus all over us,” Geoffrey said, hunching his shoulders and pulling his hat over his face. Martha screamed again, trying to pull part of her flowered skirt over her head, which showed her hairy legs.

Anoop was straining at the oars as fast as he could, but the dead cow had bumped against the boat. Ben reached for a metal pole at his feet. One end of the pole was sharp but luckily the other was blunt. He pushed the blunt end into the cow’s tough hide and pushed with all his strength. Gradually, the cow was caught by the current and swept out to the middle of the river.

Geoffrey was ashen and his Adam’s apple was vibrating. “Good grief, Ben, we could have had that cow’s innards all over us. You’ve got a quick head on you not to poke with the sharp end.”

“Good work, Ben,” said Gran.

“Thank you for assisting, young man,” said Anoop.

Ben was concentrating on getting his heart beat back to normal.

“What’s a dead cow doing in the water anyway?” Martha said, smoothing her skirt over her knees.

Anoop explained that it was a usual practice for a cow’s body to be tossed in the river. “As you must be knowing, our cows are holy. When they are dying, it is always of natural causes and they are never burned. Our beloved Ganga is taking them peacefully to the next life.”

Ben had missed his chance to take a picture, and by now, the cow was too far away to look like anything more than a tree stump floating in the river. Just as well. Lauren and his mum would not want to see it. It had really been an amazing sight, though, and he felt proud of himself for not freaking out when the body had come so close.

As the morning advanced, more and more boats floated around them. People shouted to each other across the ghats, sounds of chanting drifted from the temples, dogs barked, and from the streets farther away came the honking of horns.

“Now we will return past the burning ghats,” Anoop said.

“Martha and I have read in our guidebook about the burnings,” Geoffrey said. He was still nervous, patting his pockets and adjusting his hat.

Anoop turned the boat around, and it bounced precariously upriver past piles of wood stacked on the river bank.

Anoop pointed to a wooden platform where a body lay wrapped in white cloth. “This is the funeral pyre. You will see the grieving relatives.” A family stood beside a platform watching as a robed priest poured yellow liquid over the body, and then gestured for the family to stand back.

The priest used a torch to light the fire, which became a signal for the keening wails of the female relatives to begin. Like the calls of high birds, the sounds carried across the water to their boat. Trailing behind came the smell of the blaze as the wrappings around the body caught fire. It was not the clean smell of a campfire, but the heavy stench of burning rags; and then another smell, sharp and sickening.

Burning hair. Ben remembered his sister reaching over her birthday candles, the few strands of her hair, flaring only briefly, but filling the room with alarm.

Suddenly the flames burst into a lashing red and for an instant Ben saw the clear outline of the body. He saw the head of the corpse, the arms folded across the chest and the outstretched legs. He heard the crackle of burning flesh. Other sounds came into Ben’s head.
The heavy thud, thud at the graveside as they took turns shovelling dirt on his father’s coffin. The March wind shaking the branches of the tall cedars that lined the edge of the burial ground. His mother and grandmother and Lauren crying
.

He had not cried once. He remembered the heaviness of the shovel in his hands, how dirt had stuck to the handle and the dusty smell that stayed on his hands all that day
.

He’d never thought of asking why his father wasn’t cremated. In some ways, burning was simpler. You weren’t forced to think about the body of a person you loved rotting slowly in the grave
.