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Today was spent traveling - in cabs and planes. I haven’t taken an Indian train yet. Why bother when plane tickets are practically free?

Being a wino, however, is a costly hobby in this country. I just dropped $20 on a bottle of good old rot-gut Yellow Tail, the kind you can grab for five bucks back home.

Meanwhile, my Chicken Biryani takeout - fragrant, spicy, and piled high was $1.50.

These folks might have their priorities mixed up... or maybe they’ve got it exactly right.

Goa appears to be a tropical party town. I bet its bedtime is later than that of Varanasi. I know it's later than mine. But then again, everyone's bedtime is later than mine these days. 

Yesterday, in Varanasi, I toured the silk factories with Abhi, Brother, and Uncle. I was told that at the end I could look at the inventory - "no pressure".

We went to the room where the machines were weaving away. The noise was deafening; it sounded like a buffalo stampede. No doubt, those poor workers will lose their hearing before they're forty.

The machines work like player pianos, fed by cards that create the patterns. According to Uncle, they run themselves - the workers are there to listen for a disturbance in the rhythm. Apparently, they know the song of each design. 

I couldn’t wait to get out of there. Not only was it ear-piercingly loud, but it seemed like the kind of place where you could lose a finger without anyone noticing. I should’ve counted the guy's fingers, but in my haste, I forgot. Between that guy’s fingers and his ears, he’s not getting out of there unscathed - that’s for certain.

After all that mayhem, we stepped into a quiet room where a gentle soul was weaving silk by hand. It was sweet and mellow. It felt like there should have been harp music playing, or maybe it was playing in my head. The gentleman weaving didn't look up. He was in some kind of divine trance. There might have been angels on his shoulders, and, no doubt, they were exhaling in unison.  

The experience culminated in Uncle’s showroom. This really ramped up. This is where his true mastery of the English language was revealed. Up until then, he only knew Hindi. He must have had a great epiphany as he was climbing the stairs to that showroom because he became, quite suddenly, eloquent - Shakespearean, even. 

And for a situation in which he promised "no pressure", I sure felt pushed to buy his entire inventory. The sales pitch started with small wall hangings made from spun silk, machine-stitched and slightly scratchy to the touch and ended with the hand-woven taffeta silk bedspreads that felt like satin. He unfolded each one and laid them all out for my eyes alone - I was the only potential customer there. "No pressure". 

Just me, a mountain of shimmering fabric, and Uncle. I cogitated on it; I felt my pocket for the small bundle of rupees; and I promised to return. But my promises were as hollow as Uncle’s “no pressure” vow. I think we both knew the game. He bowed. I smiled. And the silk stayed exactly where it was.

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