All That Money Can't Buy

At the crack of dawn, Anant boarded the boat to witness the sunrise from the Ganges. The hues of orange and pink painted the sky, and the ghats were bathed in a golden glow. It was a photographer's paradise. He marveled at the ghats capturing the ethereal beauty of Varanasi in his new SLR camera, as the city transformed into a mystical realm casting a surreal reflection on the sacred river. This ancient city is not only a place for Hindu pilgrimage but, over time, has attracted many artists and photographers like him who cultivate Hindu tradition and culture.

His hotel was a fifteen-minute walk from the Dashashwamedh Ghat. Anant lost his way back to the hotel; the lanes of Varanasi are known for their narrowness and labyrinthine design. Brimmed with small shops on both sides, the lanes were busy with the hustle and bustle. The streets were adorned with beautiful old buildings with fine carvings, ornate doors, and vibrant colors. Varanasi is colorful in general if you have the eyes you can skip the dirt and commotion. Then a sense of peace prevails in the air.  The city is an intricate tapestry of culture, spirituality, and everyday life. Anant filled his stomach with the local street food, the aroma of which was difficult to ignore. He kept going back and forth in parallel lanes which seemed like a maze. However, the multi-colored buildings, shops crowded with devotees, and the sound of bells and chants, kept him busy while he utilized the time to get some of the best shots for the day. 

After walking for quite some time, he reached a less congested lane. And then his eyes caught the sight of a small quaint shop which had a weird signboard. It read ‘We Sell What Money Can’t Buy.’ Impressed by the advertising style and struck by curiosity, he decided to enter the shop.

As he stepped inside, a fragrant blend of incense and the earthy aroma of wooden carvings welcomed him to a world of artistry and culture. It was a souvenir shop that had a ton of items from hand-painted pots and plates to decorative tiles and glass cases to traditional Indian jewelry; the shop resembled a kaleidoscope in the soft lighting. Statues of gods and goddesses, intricately carved panels, and wooden masks depicted cultural motifs which were a testament to the craftsmanship of local artisans. 

An old man sat inside, reading a newspaper, he was the only one. His face, etched with countless lines and creases, seemed to have a perpetual twinkle in his pale eyes as if they held a lifetime of secrets and stories. He wore an assortment of mismatched clothes, each piece seemingly plucked from a different era. His faded cardigan was adorned with patches of all shapes and sizes, a testament to his playful disregard for convention. Anant started a conversation with him as he glanced through a few curio items in the shop. The old man then said something very strange; he said that there is nothing in materialistic things, but he could give something that money cannot buy! It was as if he had an endless treasure trove of jokes and anecdotes, collected throughout his long and colorful life. 

It was an awkward moment, Anant wanted to leave because that would be safe but could not as he wanted to know more about the shop and the sign board. A corner of the shop was reserved for pottery and ceramics. Soft traditional music filled the air, enhancing the ambiance and transporting visitors into a world where the beauty of handicrafts. The Shelves were adorned with meticulously crafted brass and copper oil lamps, figurines of deities, and utensils with traditional designs. The gleam of the metal added a touch of elegance. The wooden sculptures and carvings stacked in another corner exuded a rustic charm. 

'What shall I take home please suggest', Anant inquired.

The man took out a metal box covered with some red pulpy material. Then, with gentleness and patience, he opened a few more boxes inside and finally took out a golden pouch. From inside the pouch, he took out a small glass bottle, which had some transparent liquid, and asked him to take a drop from the bottle and rub it onto the palm as it would bring him good luck. Then he busted into laughter; it was almost a hearty breezy guffaw.

The old man then offered tea and asked him not to take his words as a joke and rather believe him, as Benaras is a place where the magic happens.

Anant was rather anxious as he thought the old man was fraudulent and trying new ways to hallucinate him so he showed all signs of reluctance. Anant asserted that he did not need good luck in the form of some unknown fluids as he believed that his actions were only responsible for his success and failure, and he was there for some assigned project work, completing which he would return home. But the old man had a penchant for cracking jokes and spinning tales with his whimsical humor.

 Oblivious to his actions, the old man continued, he said that it was his bad luck that he arrived there, but not many people were as lucky as him.

Anant quickly tried to chalk out a plan in his head and leave the place but before he could do that the old man grabbed his hands and poured the liquid onto his palms a cold spirit touched his skin. For a few seconds, he felt like hallucinating, like the brushstrokes of an artist, his mind was painted with shades of inexplicable beauty but he could see nothing. He tried to focus but his pupils seemed to be less responsive to changes in light or movement. 

Finally, he found himself walking down through the winding narrow lanes of Varanasi, where every twist and turn can bring both surprise and danger. As he strolled he suddenly found himself on a collision course with an unexpected obstacle—a massive bull. The bull, probably startled by his presence, charged towards him with an unwavering determination. Panic set in as he realized the lanes were too narrow to make a quick escape. His heart raced, and he frantically looked around for a place to seek refuge.

Thankfully, just a few steps away, he spotted a small alcove, barely wide enough for a single person to squeeze into. Without a second thought, he lunged into the alcove and pressed himself against the wall, hoping the bull to pass.

As the bull thundered past, the narrowness of the alley worked in his favor. It brushed past him, its horn missing him by mere inches. He could feel the hot breath of the beast and the ground-shaking vibrations from its massive hooves. He took a deep breath, his heart still pounding, and cautiously stepped out of the alcove, grateful for its timely intervention. After what felt like an eternity, the bull continued down the lane, but suddenly, a bike rider came in the way in the blink of an eye. Startled, the rider could hardly react, lost control, and almost banged against a lamp post. Anant saw the bike rider, who quivered and dragged for a few meters, got severely injured, with scratches, ripped skin, and blood dripping from all over his body. The people who had witnessed the incident rushed towards him for help. Anant waited for some more time till the injured rider was taken to a nearby hospital by the locals.

People gather around the scene and they offer sympathetic smiles and gestures of relief, to Anant understanding that narrow escapes from bulls are not common in the lanes of Varanasi. That moment served as a vivid reminder of the unpredictable charm and adventure of navigating the small lanes of Varanasi, where every corner could hold a surprise or danger but one could be saved by a drop of luck!