Then There Was Sumer

After Ganesh, it felt as though anything was possible, so I headed north,

all the way to Brahma Ghat,

and there I sat,

the Ganga a stone’s throw and a goat at my feet.

Billy had his I eye on my daypack, and would certainly have eaten it had I not snatched it just in time.

I like goats, those big longing eyes, but they can quickly become a nuisance so I headed up the steps,

and soon after found my morning curd.

Nothing against yogurt mind you, but fresh curd under the Varanasi sun is special.

From there it was the lanes,

wider

and brighter

than those connecting the Anand Kanan with the ghats.

In need of a shave, I stopped at Sumer’s,

and was informed I was next up.

Sumer, “The Great Mountain,” is a little guy, like Ganesh. But soon enough, I discovered that his stature belies his great strength.

He asked if I wanted a haircut. I said “no”, just a shave, and only the neck. And that was the start of it.

Over the next hour or so, his straight edge alternating with scissors, bare hands with fists, I was scraped, plucked, pummeled, and manhandled.

A simple shave for Sumer meant the works. Knuckles cracked. Shoulders stretched. Scalp kneaded and back assaulted. I vacilated between crying for help and begging for more.

I once had a massage in Istanbul from a man three times the size of Sumer. The guy was a mouse in comparison.

And in Bangkok, two hours of back walking by a feisty old woman, a tap dancer next to Sumer.

Finally it was over.

“Did you like it?” What could I say except I’d be back. “Next time I give you full massage.”

Disoriented, stumbling, I took hold of myself and found my way to the Ganga,

the steps up the Dashashvamedh,

and the lane to the Anand Kanan.