Issue 4 | 6th August, 2022 | 8-10 minutes read
Happy weekend, Multitude readers. For the first time in a long time, you’re getting this on the fortnightly schedule I originally intended, but you’re also getting a slightly different tale than usual. This week, I recount misadventures from a hurried trip to Varanasi in 2016. I’ll admit, some details from this have become fuzzy over time and I’ve had to take a few creative liberties to fill in the gaps. Also, I can’t for the life of me find photos from then, so I’ve used stock images instead. Still, I’ve tried to capture the bizareness of that evening as best as I can, and I hope you enjoy it.
Our evening started as it does for most tourists in Varanasi. We were on a boat in the Ganga taking in the sights and sounds of the evening aarti, shuffling a bit to get a good view without tipping our little raft over. “We” consisted of my friend Sukanya and I, and a bunch of fellow travellers we’d befriended earlier in the day. There was Indian guy from Bangalore and his cousin, Joshua, who was visiting from Australia; a Britisher who I think was named Max; and Michelle, an American girl who’d taken travel advisories far too seriously and now possessed a bloated medicine pouch containing cures to every conceivable ailment.
Once done with the aarti, our attention shifted to another of the city’s staple tourist offerings, albeit a more controversial one. Enticed by the prospect of legal cannabis consumption, some of us got a hankering for bhaang.
We didn’t need to look hard - just off the ghats was a shop whose enterprising owner wooed us with the promise of “the best bhaang in all of Varanasi.” We were naive 20-somethings in search of cheap thrills, so it didn’t take much to convince us. Enchanted by his salesmanship, our little group settled in to his cramped little shop.
Our excitement for the drink was tempered by some nerves. Bhaang had a reputation for potency and none of us had tried it before. We still had a long evening of walking around town lay ahead and didn’t fancy being baked out of our minds for that. Hesitantly, Sukanya and I chose to share a “medium strength” glass. Joshua and his cousin were more bold, opting for one each.
With theatricality matching Turkish ice-cream vendors, the gentleman prepared our intoxicants. With a glint in his eye, he excitedly told us of the wonders awaiting us on the other side of this experience. After great flourishes where he swished our drinks between containers, frothing them up through muscular motions, he handed us three kulhads full of “the best bhaang in Varanasi.”
I studied mine. It had a greenish tinge and a layer of foam. It looked innocent enough. Gingerly, I took a sip. There was a slightly savoury flavour to it, but it also tasted…odd? Never having tried it before, I assumed that was normal. Like coffee and beer, maybe this was another thing I’d have to acquire a taste for on my journey to adulthood? And so I drank some more. (I’ve never had it since - if anyone better informed than me knows the answer to this, shoot me a reply).
Eventually we drained our kulhads and bid our smiling bhaang-maker farewell. Those of us who’d drank were a little on edge, anticipating of a wave of intoxication to wash over us at any moment. The night was young, though, and we had a major task yet to complete. Joshua and his cousin, in pursuit of an “authentic Indian travel experience,” wanted to visit a hookah parlour. They were committed to this goal and, earlier that evening, had roped our hostel manager, Samar, into their plans. Samar, for his part, was more than game. He confidently proclaimed he knew exactly where to take us and told us to meet him at a “Cafe Buddy” after we were done with our shenanigans.
And so, we set off into the night, expecting a glorious high from the bhaang and in pursuit of Cafe Buddy. Sadly, neither materialised.
Having psyched myself into believing that I’d be baked as a bread roll, I think the most I got was a slight placebo high. Soon enough, though, it became clear that it the bhaang was doing nothing for any of us. After repeatedly asking each other whether “it’s hit” only to hear a sad “no” in response, eventually we realised we’d been taken in by the shopkeeper’s showmanship.
Cafe Buddy proved equally fictitious. According to Google Maps, the nearest place with that name was in Baroda, Gujarat, three states away. Samar, meanwhile, was barely reachable over the phone. When we got through to him after many failed attempts, he mumbled directions over a broken connection to an autowallah we’d flagged down. our driver seemed to understand where we needed to go and set of into the night.
About ten minutes later, our auto stopped on a desolate road and we were told we’d arrived. Where exactly we’d arrived, we had no clue. There was barely a soul about, the buildings seemed lifeless, and one lone streetlight illuminated that stretch of road. Still, our driver insisted he’d taken us where he was told to and would have nothing more to do with our misadventures. Samar’s phone was once again unreachable. With little idea of where to go, we abandoned children of the night walked forward.
Soon, though, we did find our way to civilisation. We stumbled upon a neighbourhood with some life and better lighting; the likelihood of being mugged seemed much reduced. To compound our joy, a little ways down that path we heard Samar yelling at us from across the road. Hallelujah.
Standing outside a dishevelled looking building that I think was called Hotel Ashok, he wore a proud smile. He’d found what we were looking for, he announced. I couldn’t see how - the building behind him looked like it catered to conservative, desi families; It seemed hardly likely to host an illicit hookah bar.
There was no shaking his confidence and so we followed him towards the building’s entrance. As I turned to enter it, he said “No, no, not there,” guiding us instead towards a staircase on the side of the building that led into a basement. Following him into it with some trepidation, we entered a brightly lit but bare room whose walls and floor were plastered with white tiles. We were perplexed to say the least. That is until he, now joined by someone who seemed to work there, moved to a far corner of the room and pushed at what appeared to be solid wall.
With little effort, that section of ‘wall’ swung on its hinges. Through the deceptively designed doorway came loud music and flashing lights. All of us looked at each other uncertainly - hidden chambers in shady basements weren’t where we expected the evening to take us. But, by this point, we’d surrendered ourselves to fate. Accepting what came our way, we marched onward into this dungeon.
It didn’t inspire more confidence from the inside. Its black walls were illuminated solely by strobe lights that were poorly coordinated with thumping music blaring out of oversized speakers. It was almost entirely empty and we clearly didn’t look like its regular clientele - I figure that its illicit existence made it less than likely to feature in the Lonely Planet or find its way to tourist itineraries.
Still, here we were, so our motley group of seven made its way to a booth in the corner. While the rest ordered I took in the room. I remember it being empty but for a neighbouring table occupied by three boys who didn’t look a day over thirteen. It happened to have been Eid that day and they were still dressed in their white kurtas from the morning, likely spending their Eidi in ways their parents likely wouldn’t approve of.
Their was a clear hierarchy among that group. One kid sat with his arms outstretched, a leg perched on the sofa, and his top two buttons undone. He held an air of authority like a little seth sahab (boss man?) and his two companions seemed more than willing to submit to it. They looked admiringly at him as he ran his fingers across his pre-pubescent moustache, taking deep pulls from the hookah tower in front of him. I don’t remember if they talked much, but the situation looked primed for him to dole out life experience and wisdom to these enchanted onlookers.
Eventually, I turned my attention away from the trio back to my table, talking with everyone till our own hookah arrived. When it did, Joshua decided he had to learn how to blow smoke rings that night. None of us had first-hand knowledge to offer, so we grabbed our phones and turned instead to the internet. Lessons from Google didn’t help much, though, with his best efforts resembling an awkward cross between a spit and a cough. The smoke emerged from his mouth in decidedly un-ring-like shapes, leaving a dejected expression on his face.
To add insult to injury, his efforts elicited laughter from the neighbouring booth; the little seth sahab was utterly bemused by our antics. Looking straight at us with arrogance in his eyes, he took a long pull from his own pipe and blew perfect smoke rings in our direction. One after another they floated towards us, reminders of who the boss was in this fine little establishment.
I hope you enjoyed reading about that odd little evening from way back when. Let me know if you’d like to read about more such eccentricities in the future. If you’re in the mood for more travel content, you should watch Beau Miles on a four-day long Kayak trip to work below, or read Craig Mod recounting recent walks around Venice.
Anyhoo, that’s it for this week. As always, if you’re new here, feel free to subscribe above. If you know of others who might enjoy this, send it along to them by clicking the button below. I’d really appreciate it, and I hope they do as well.
Till next time,
Shantanu