"Don't thank me, the Guest is God"

Fausto, a good friend and native Varanasian left me with a few parting words of advice. “Amanda, be sure to get lost in the Old City and have apple pie for dinner, visit the monkey temple, and oh yes, go to the University of Varanasi, it is the biggest University in all of Asia!” 

Naturally drawn to superlatives, I decided that surely apple pies and monkey temples could wait; I wanted to roam a campus again, and why not make it the biggest one of all of Asia? So I hired a rickshaw driver for 40 Rupees (less than a dollar), and off I went. He dropped me off at the University and I began my wandering. The buildings were dilapidated and decaying, the people looked at me strangely until finally the broken buildings turned into a slum and I was face to face with the back of the Varanasi train station. I thought Fausto must have been gone for far too long if he regarded this as a beautiful place to visit. While deciding my next move, two men approached me and my female travel instincts kicked in immediately. I pulled the shawl closer around my shoulders, hugged my bag just a little tighter, and instantaneously moved a ring to my engagement finger. They read my body language easily and said, “Mam, you should no be here, very dangerous, let us help you, where you are wishing to go?"

Without removing the starkness from my face, I said, “Is this not Varanasi University?”

They laughed at me whole heartedly. “Mam, this is abandoned portion of Sanskrit University” Dude B. showed me his ID he was a Phd student. He pleaded again, “This not good place, come this way I get an auto for you."

“How far to the University?” I asked. 

“12 km mam."

I melted, 12 K was an eternity in India speak and it had already been a big enough ordeal to get here. He led me through the rest of the slum, quickly to the main road. No autos came. He asked if I wanted some chai while I waited, and I declined. Still on my guard as this helpful human offereed me tea while waiting with me for no reason, I realized just how jaded all of my Indian mishaps had made me and got lost in thought.  

20 minutes passed and still no rickshaws in sight.  

“Mam, let me take you to the train station, I have a vehicle.” I looked him up and down, His clothes were clean, he had all his teeth, a legit looking student ID, could he also have a rickshaw hiding somewhere? I glanced across the train tracks and alleys and could see the main station in the distance. Exhausted, I gave up and trusted him as he motioned me back through the slum. 

And there it was. Indian death on two wheels, his vehicle was as I had feared... a motorcycle. 

For two months I had marveled and cringed in transit. Millions of motorcycles, zero helmets, all moving at a breakneck pace through India’s lawless lanes. Most carry three to four people riding with charcoal eyed infants sandwiched in the middle on young mothers' laps. The danger looks romantic for a second in the country ranked #1 for auto-related deaths. Their vibrant sari's trail behind them in shades of red and gold, and they seem flawless even at 90 miles an hour.

The World Health Organization recently stated, “1.3 million die every year in India due to a refusal to wear helmets combined with horrendous infrastructure and reckless driving.” (Note I found this stat AFTER said motorcycle ride). But looking at the sleek black bike, and the man I had met 24 minutes prior something came over me and the only thought I could muster was, I can’t leave India without riding a motorcycle… besides, what could happen on a five minute ride? 

5 minutes later we were gracefully weaving between rickshaws and buses. The train station grew larger and all at once began shrinking as we rode right past it. 

“We go to train station??” I yelled over the honking horns surrounding us. 

“No. Guest is God; I take you to the university."

I had heard this phrase once before, from my friend Bijal as I thanked her again for showing me around Mumbai. "Guest is God, Amanda don’t thank me, in India the guestis God," said casually. 

I looked at the open stretch of highway, before us, painted with yellow rickshaws, the blues and greens and glitters of thousands of sari’s moving about on motorcycles, and brown buses spreading them all by force. My own hair had come undone as we picked up speed.  I held on a little tighter and put my faith in the universe as we swerved to avoid a naked beggar and jolted through a life size pothole. 

20 minutes later, I was barely holding on. Traversing the roads, swerving and jolting, seemed more natural than walking. But then the sky began to darken and the monsoon was upon us. We pulled over and though we hadn’t spoken more than a few phrases of broken Hindi and English on the ride (I still wanted all of his focus on avoiding death by bus), I felt completely bonded to this stranger. And so, soaking wet, we shared a road side chai and a piece of chocolate until the rain slowed. 

Another few minutes and we were flying beneath the beautiful tree lined lanes of the real Varanasi University. Veshran drove me all the way to the center temple and we parted ways. He refused money, did not ask me for my face book or phone number. He said, only, “Amanda, guest is God, please remember that and enjoy my country.”