Through The Gates of Vishnu

At 11am Anupshahr came into view – earlier than we had expected. We pulled over at a ghat built into the riverbank where monks mix with commoners to bathe and pray. Nothing so far experienced prepared us for what awaited us at Anupshahr.

Tethering the canoe and seeking out our money we had expected a crowd would gather but this was something else. The crowd, growing slowly in size - all with a desire to get a peak at us, numbered about a hundred. Leaving the boat in capable hands we pushed a route through the sea of people. Climbing the steps, the place was ablaze with hundreds of eyes - all jostling desperately for a glimpse at what easily could have been Ghandi himself. Our progress to town was denied, the congestion bringing us to a complete halt. It was at this point the crisis was averted; it happens all the while in the movies. Fortunately India being the country of many movies we were not disappointed. A rather chubby better dressed Indian man pushed himself forward, doing his introduction in best queens English. He looked like Anupshahr’s version of the fat man from a James Bond film, sporting dark shades. After a brief explanation, he offered to escort us. Apparently a lot of the people here had not seen westerners before. However, India is one of those countries where crowds just develop for anything out of the ordinary.

Acting as our unofficial guide and doubling as a security guard he pushed people aside to make way for us. Seeming like an American Football game we made two hundred yards and decided to eat to try and get a little privacy. We entered the thatched roof café - the crowds holding back outside having to be content with distant viewing.

The owner put his boys to work with sticks – making sure only those eating came in.

He was a walking picture of health: blood stained pyjama trousers, a holed smelly woollen sweater and a drooping roll-up attached between his lips. Sitting in the shade we could even see people climbing trees and buildings for a glance of the two unusual travellers. A bit overcome by all the attention I wondered if Sir Edmund Hilary had attracted such crowds on his mission to jet boat on the upper Ganges.

Yvette complained bitterly in her inability to control the many men that had felt or squeezed her bottom in the crowd. This had happened previously but not on such a scale, very unnerving and we were yet to catch anyone.

In a fit of western desperation Yvette asked if they had any butter. It arrived on a plastic plate, its use by date having expired the previous year. We politely refused, embarrassed, as the English speaking man had gone to great lengths to find it. We had come to discover this was quite common of Indian hospitality. Often refusal meant offending the host and no gifts were expected in return. On finishing the meal our guide insisted on paying our food bill. Obviously conversant in English customs he offered Yvette his handkerchief to clean her mouth and face. For an Indian man to even possess a handkerchief was unusual. Most of the time mucus and all out of the nostrils were propelled onto the floor. Anyway, carrying crusted bogies on a piece of rag in your pocket was considered dirty in India. Although I did not use one out of choice I could see their point.

We have according to Indians other undesirable traditions. Taking baths is one of these – most Indians cannot believe that to wash we wallow in our own dirt get out and claim we are clean. Actually I could not agree more and could clearly see the point. Yvette politely refused the handkerchief, now a bit flustered by all the men leering at her. The problem of getting out of the restaurant had increased – that is to say the crowd now numbered in the hundreds.

We needed kerosene and any food we could find for the next week on the river. Having pushed our way out of the restaurant we forced our way up the main street. Our friend had departed and we moved with the throng rather than in front of them. ‘What were they looking for?’ ‘What would they do next?’ I felt a triple back somersault coming on when – hooray – there was a store selling pulses. The storekeeper was very obliging at first; the crowd swayed forward, arms reached out to touch our skin from all directions. The wooden store started to rock under the sheer weight – action was needed before the poor man’s livelihood collapsed. A spitting cobra was thrust into our faces – that was it, last straw, we were gone. We fought against the surge of people. Looking back we caught a glimpse of the shopkeeper defending his store with a large stick lashing out at the people as it bent double.

Once the people discovered kerosene was on the shopping list we found ourselves carried along towards the right shop. Kerosene was expensive, and in short supply, so, to our embarrassment, we accepted a pint for no charge from the owner. The man may have heard at what happened to previous shops we had visited and wanted us gone as soon as possible.

After a two hour forced walkabout we arrived back at the canoe – much to our relief. Our return was heralded by the boat guardian, who asked for 100 rupees – four pounds English currency. The man quickly changed his mind, persuaded by the crowd’s disapproval and anger. Settling for a handshake and photograph he seemed satisfied if not relieved that he had avoided a lynching.

We still have fond memories of the short time we spent in Anupshahr. The place seemed to set a continuous trend, which was re-lived again and again along the Ganges. The people of the river continually broke records of hospitality and h