The Major

Varanasi is one of the strangest places I have ever been or will ever go. Languishing along the banks of the Ganges, it sprawls down stepped ghats into the river itself, spewing out a constant stream of pilgrims, hippies, and the dead, who all arrive in the water for different reasons. It's noisy, polluted, and constantly hectic, with temperatures hitting 45-50 degrees, making it impossible to move. The streets are tiny and often blocked by cows, a problem to which the only solution is to find another way around. 

As a result of these factors, my travels around this holy city were mainly restricted to the evenings. I once tried to walk along the river during the day and collapsed near one of the open crematoriums (burning Ghats) with heat stroke, only to have the wind change and gain a mouthful of fleshy smoke. This was not an experience that I was keen to replicate, and as such I would wait until the sun went down to tackle the long walk into town. Due to my constant pursuit of mental inactivity I would generally do what I was told by any westerners that I was spending time with, resulting in a number of diverse experiences. These ranged from getting food poisoning AGAIN from homemade sangria to meeting a Special Forces Major in the Indian army, and everything in between. The first incident, while certainly more time consuming in terms of bowel movements and crying, has already been covered, and as such I will move on to my meeting with the unpredictable, fearless headcase and his lovely wife who took me out to dinner one night.

Again, not exactly this, but similar.

I was introduced to 'the Major' by some Swedish girls that I met. They had recently arrived in Varanasi and had met him on their train journey, during which he was apparently ever present in the interest of safety and chivalry. From what I was told he practically beat away any Indians who came near them, taking any sort of interest in the Swedes as some type of personal affront. "He pushed a man from the train" one of the girls had told me. 

"While it was still moving?!" I asked, not entirely sure how I felt about meeting a recent murderer.

"No, it was stopped, but he still fell over. The Major laughed and said 'FOLLOW MY WIFE!' before running off down the train." From this first hand account of my soon to be new acquaintance I a little apprehensive of what to expect from this compound of lethal training and teenage humour.

Around 8 o'clock that evening I found out that my apprehension was well founded. Through the entrance to my guest house came a plump Indian woman in a sari followed closely by the man I had heard so much about. He was nothing like I expected. Early 30's and standing at about 5 ft 8 inches he was a slight man, with short cropped black hair and a mustache that would have put Tom Selleck to shame. His eyes were small and dark, constantly flicking around the room as if looking for some unknown threat to take down, while his eyebrows were essentially carbon copies of his magnificent mustache, giving him the appearance of a potato being eaten by 3 huge black caterpillars. Dressed in an Indian Special Forces t-shirt (just so none of us forgot) and shorts pulled up above the belly button he frankly looked hilarious, but I tried my best to give the appearance of a humble private rather than an amused tourist.

"HI" he boomed on our introduction, crushing my hand in a surprisingly vice-like grip. I greeted him cordially and said my name, while trying to stopper the whimper that was forcing it's way from my broken hand to my mouth.

"Where are you from?" he asked.

"England."

"England? Fantastic, HAHAHA!" he shouted. His volume control was more than a little eclectic, a theme that was ever present throughout our meeting.

"Where did you have in mind for dinner?" asked one of the Swedes.

"My wife knows a lubbely restaurant near here, let us go there. FOLLOW MY WIFE!" His spouse took this as a signal to 'lead on', and bustled out into the street with the surprising speed of a bumblebee, while the Swedes and I did our best to pursue the couple through the narrow streets. 

It soon turned out that the conviction of 'the wife' in the location of this restaurant had been a little unfounded, as frequently the couple would turn out of sight round a corner only to re-emerge just as we got there, with yells of 'this way, FOLLOW MY WIFE!' leading us in a completely different direction. This was a regular occurrence and often lead to 'the wife' barreling into one of us, before scurrying past us with the pace of a light aircraft. Often even the Major would lose her and we would stand in the street, lost, until she sheepishly poked her head around a corner and beckoned for us to follow. However we did eventually reach the establishment, which advertised air conditioning, 'good fun', and Chinese/Indian/English/German/Hobbit cuisine, with a sign promising excellent cleanliness. What a treat. There was only one drawback, in that the table we were given was right next to a fan the size of a small jet engine, making it impossible to hear without shouting or avoid the insects that were occasionally thrust into my mouth by the gusts. However, as you have the idea about the noise level of the Major, I'll write in lower case to spare myself writing in capitals.

So, on sitting down the Major took it upon himself to order food and drinks for all of us, which, looking at the size of the menu, was probably for the best. 

"Hahaha! It is good to be back in the sack" The Major suddenly announced.

"What do you mean?" I asked.

"Well Edmooond, you see I am posting very far away in Kashmir, so I have no sex with my wife in Delhi. So we come to Varanasi for holiday, much sex!" He responded. I looked to his wife for conformation of this fact but her face remained blank at the mention of their carnal activities.

"Um...that must be nice" said one of the Swedes.

"Yes, yes it is! Waiter, picture!" shouted the Major, handing his camera to a passing Indian who had no affiliation to the restaurant. The Major lay back with his head on his wife's lap, one hand clutching her arm while the other tried in vain to reach her face, making him look like some kind of retarded Adonis. The confused Indian man who had been recruited took a few snaps and handed back the camera, before the actual waiter brought some drinks over.

"Edmooond, this is for you; it is a salt lassi. Help you put some muscle on ey?" he said, handing me a white beverage. I thanked him and tried it. It was like drinking sea water such was the salt content, and I went to put it down on the table, smiling with feigned delight.

"Hahaha no Edmooond, you must drink it all at once, like we do in the SPECIAL FORCES!" the Major yelled at me, the last two words loud enough to make clear to the rest of the restaurant what his profession was. He then started gently beating his fist on the table, staring at my lassi with a maniacal grin. The Swedes looked awkward. I felt awkward. He continued to hit the table until I started to raise the lassi to my lips.

"Ooooooh, eeeeeeeeey!" shouted the Major in a rising crescendo as I started drinking, his fist thumping the table faster and faster. The liquid was so salty there were tears starting to form in my eyes and my stomach was complaining heavily, but I finished it after what seemed an age. The Major yelled with joy before handing his camera to some unfortunate passer by and receding back into his wife's lap for another photo. I spluttered and reached for some naan to remove the taste of sea life from my mouth. Luckily after this incident everything settled down to a relatively normal state and I managed to eat my food without having to qualify myself with some act of bravado.

The rest of our meal passed without much consequence and after some heavy bartering with the waiter the Major paid for dinner. We made it out into the heat of the Varanasi night air and started walking back towards the river, where our respective guest houses lay. We had walked maybe 10 meters when the Major embraced me round the shoulder and slowed the two of us so we were a little way behind the rest of the group. 

"Give me a cigarette" he said. I obliged. "My wife doesn't like me smoking, it makes her fear for my health. How ridiculous, eh Edmooond? I have been shot 6 times, broken both my legs and my spine in a parachuting accident, and it is smoking that my wife fears for. HA!" I agreed that this was a somewhat misplaced priority.

"You've been shot 6 times?" I asked.

"Yes yes, I specialise in interogation and extraction, many times I have been injured by terrorists. 5 hit my vest, one my leg." he answered. We had now firmly lost the rest of the party in the bustle of Varanasi. "We are now brothers Edmooond." This was news to me. 

"Ok. What does that mean?" I said, half jokingly.

"If you ever need anything from me, you ask. Would you like a military escort around Kashmir?"

"Um...I'll think about it?" I responded. He gave me all of his contact details and told me to call him if I ever had any problems, ever, at any point in life. I thanked him for this generous offer.

"Well if you ever need someone to stay with I have many mistresses in Kashmir, please ask me when you get there." I had no idea to respond to this. It's not often that someone trusts you with knowledge of their marital infidelity so soon after meeting them, let alone a man so bat shit insane your main priority is to avoid being the victim of a homicide. I kept quiet and we continued on our journey. 

We walked for another 20 minutes along the waterfront, during which time the Major never once let go of my arm or shoulder, even when he was aiming kicks at passing stray dogs. He seemed to make it a priority that I understand him as a fearless individual, particularly regarding animals, as throughout our journey he would often feint a punch or kick towards some goat, cow or child, all the time holding my arm. Despite this strange behaviour we reached the massive flight of steps that led up to my guest house, where we stopped.

"Well, I'm up here, thanks for walking me home" I said, feeling like I was on the wrong side of a bad date.

"No no Edmooond, it is necessary for me to walk you to your door. I will race you up the STEPS!" he shouted, setting off at a sprint up the Ghat in front of us. I followed at a light jog, arriving at the top half a minute after him.

"HAHAHA" he bellowed, arms raised like the final scene of some Rocky montage, "you fat westerners are so slow!" I was so out of breath I sat down on the top step without response, panting. He laughed happily, dancing around me in the manner of an irritating Indian leprechaun, before bodily picking me up and resuming our travel by putting my arm around his shoulder. Much to my relief we were soon at my guest house, where he finally let go of my arm outside the front entrance. 

"Thank you for dinner, I'll call you if I have any trouble" I said. This definitely had the feel of prostitution.

"You are most welcome Edmooond, please do call my sister in West Bengal when you head to Darjeeling." he answered, slapping my face gently about 10 times. I thanked him and withdrew into the guest house slowly, in the manner of a man retreating from a pissed off bear, and closed the door behind me. I heard him laugh heartily and run off into the night. 

Varanasi is a beautiful, religious, and overwhelming city. From the babas to the eunuchs, there are many strange and bemusing aspects that I have failed to touch on here in my monologue of self interest. 

However, if you do manage to make the trip, don't bloody eat with any crazy Indian psychopaths who have a penchant for brotherhood and a virulent hatred of animals. I'm currently in Nepal and I'm still convinced I see him watching from rooftops and in the reflections of windows. I recently met a man here who's convinced he's God, Shiva, and Buddha all rolled into one, maybe he can shed some light on the situation. Either way I need counselling. Peace.