In Which We Find The Holy City Of Varanasi

River of Ashes

by DAYNA EVANS

It occurred to me as we sat in the ladies waiting room at Varanasi Junction, while I watched a mid-size rat scratch at an empty plastic biscuit wrapper and we sedately moaned about our train to Kolkata’s obvious delay, that it was no coincidence that our final resting place in a three-week holiday to India was Varanasi, the holy city.

This last day being then the mystical Friday the thirteenth, after a guesthouse owner had laughed at our “Bible,” (the overstuffed but indispensable Lonely Planet India) and after one of us got spontaneously ill over a toilet, I realized there were no coincidences in India. A scheduled departure was delayed as dusk approached, and my nerves forced me to pick nail polish off my fingernails like flaky sky-blue scabs. The pieces fell to the ground near the rat and the mess looked like shattered sky. Varanasi, where the sky had shattered.

We had been in Varanasi for three days. It is a distinctly holy city. The feeling that Varanasi disseminates is a mixture of overwhelming purity and ceaseless disquiet. At the times that I wobbled near the edge of uneasiness, squirming inside with the thought of how I might be being penetrated by some hyperevil Satanic antiforce that would reveal to the sacrosanct mass what kind of person I really was, I also felt good, wholesome, fulfilled. Cleansed.

Photography is prohibited at the burning ghats of Varanasi, where my friend and I ended up without having planned to when we turned a corner. I still wanted to, which I think is fairly normal, and I fought every instinct in my body. It was the first time I’d ever seen a corpse and there wasn’t just one, there were twenty. Maybe thirty. If I could have photographed the smell, I would have.

A man had adopted us. I never was able to catch his name but he was wearing a black-and-white striped shirt that was made from the same material as what I imagine to be a circus tent. He was actually considerably clownish in his conversation, especially as he identified that we liked jokes. His idea of a joke was confused with rhyming, so he thought that maybe if he rhymed words, we’d laugh.

“No worry, no hurry, no chicken, no curry.” I did laugh. What could that even mean?

We were standing in a narrow courtyard that looked out on the burning ritual. My friend and I were near the edge of the overlook point and it gave us a stadium-like view of men's and women's stuffed corpses being carried down a set of stairs to the Ganges below. The mother Ganga. The man explained that those with more money were burned closer to the Ganges. It was a status symbol. It got you closer to God. It made me think of my friend who told me that during Ramadan women are granted special God points for cooking and tasting the food in a way that makes it so they won’t actually swallow and break the fast. I wondered if I’d ever done anything ever to amass God points.

In three rows that crept closer toward the Ganges, we saw thatches of wood being stacked and disassembled in individual square patches, each assigned to a different person. Or, rather, now a nonperson. The bodies were brought down the stairs silently by four members of the Untouchables caste. They were laid on a patch of wood, then buried beneath several cross-hatched logs, and lastly, the whole structure, with the body packaged snuggly within, was lit on fire.

The bodies looked comfortable beneath their wooden blankets, which makes the heart feel lighter than one might think at a funeral pyre. Because only the head is revealed, and because I was too scared and disoriented to come closer, my view of the closest body was as near to the edge of disturbing as my reticent core would allow. I was experiencing quiet, unhinged nausea.

I saw skin melt off of a skull, which is the one detail I choose to share when pressed. I don’t think I should have to hold on to that image alone.

Our friend in the circus-tent shirt asked us if we’d like to go on a boat ride after he had shared more rhymes that had gotten worse and less natural to laugh at. I took a few moments to catch my breath and said “Sure” to the boat ride offer.

“Take it in stride, time for a ride.” The skull. Of a nonperson. Being burned, singed, melted.

We didn’t move, though. Watching us, he didn’t either. He offered up this detail: “The men who are in the river, right near the banks, do you know what they are doing?”

Wading in ashes, I thought.

“They are looking for gold and silver. When the body is prepared for burning, they have lots of fine jewelry on them. Gold, silver, lots of it. Those people want that jewelry. To sell.”

Jewelry to sell. I had imagined instead that they wore it, the men wading out of the ashes with big chains around their necks but a torn, ragged look on their faces from the weight of the burden of establishing someone’s honor and holding on to it. I saw the men emerging like zombies from the septic waters of the Ganges, but with big hearts. I thought of God points again. Surely, they’d get God points for that.

We saw three puppies sleeping next to a huge pile of water buffalo shit. The circus friend asked us again about the boat ride, then introduced us to a tall Nepalese man who had one tiny braid on the back of his scalp. The braid was capped by one green and one red bead and his hair was very greasy.

“He’s the boat man,” the circus friend told us. “We’ll take you down the river together.”

The Nepalese man rowed and I chatted with the circus friend. “Animals are too pure to be burned,” he said. “They get thrown in the river instead. Dogs, cows, water buffalo. Pregnant women, too. They must go straight into the river.”

I believed that my worst nightmare was a dead pregnant woman floating to the surface of the river while we rowed along leisurely. I scratched my ankle and peered into the mucky water. Nothing. All brown grime.

“And cobra bites.”

“And what?” I said.

“If you are bitten by a cobra, you go straight into the river. You are pure.”

“Can we get off now?” my friend asked. She startled me. She gets very seasick and I’d said that a boat ride would be fine. I’d dragged her along with me without even thinking.

“I don’t know where we are,” I said. Our clown friend was telling a story that I wasn’t listening to. I had my eyes closed behind my sunglasses. Then, very softly and shifting my body over my bag toward him, I said: “My friend is feeling sick. Can we get off now?”

“It will be very far for you to walk. We’ll turn around.” The circus friend rowed this time and the dirty Nepalese man played songs from his cell phone and sang along quietly. My friend and I didn’t really talk, but not out of animosity. Our faces looked dry and cold, hers was white, drained of humanity. Her eyes dragged.

We got off the boat where we’d got on. My friend didn’t get sick, though I was certain she would.

That night, she showed me some sketches she’d done of the bodies burning. She managed to deepen my anxiety over the charred skull by coloring the drawings in red. They looked like raw, exposed muscle, like an anatomy class. I didn’t remember the actual bodies that way, and it disturbed me that she did. Then I realized she’d only been using red China pencil for her sketches, and it was probably just a coincidence.

We got dinner at a restaurant called Ganga Fuji where I drank illicit beer that is illegal in the old section of town, and my friend had Coke in a glass bottle. The food released masala-scented steam and it helped us return to our senses. I was patiently wishing to sleep well that night as I rounded my fingers against the steel cup, listening to the tabla player tap out rhythms on a stunted stage behind me. I anticipated our last train ride in India, the stiff plastic cot beds and sheets that slid as you shifted around. We ate in near silence. My body felt hollow.

We eventually boarded the train that would take us to Kolkata, where I would fly immediately back to Bangladesh. Three hours in, we were both feverish and in pain. I locked my bag to a metal pipe and a stranger opened the sliding door to ask us if he could take our photo.

“No,” I said. “Thank you.” As the train shuffled onward, I brought my palm to my forehead and moaned from the heat.

Dayna Evans is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Bangladesh. She tumbls here. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here. She last wrote in these pages about Roman Polanski's Carnage.

"Met Before" - Chairlift (mp3)

"Frigid Spring" - Chairlift (mp3)

"Amanaemonesia" - Chairlift (mp3)

In Which Violent Delights Abandon Violent Ends

Convincing Nihilism

by DAYNA EVANS

Carnage
dir. Roman Polanski
79 minutes

Carnage, Roman Polanski's latest, is seventy-nine minutes, features only four characters, is not a part of the Fast and the Furious franchise, and — worst of all — is an adaptation of a stage play. What kept me watching as I struggled with the desire to never have to see Jodie Foster’s face again was the possibility of a blooper reel of John C. Reilly clips at the end in which he happily goofs around. Yes, the individual performances of Carnage are convincing, and their interactions with each another feel natural, but sometimes I found myself asking, "Why does this movie exist?" And I mean that in the nicest way possible.

The film opens with a long shot of a scene of young boys arguing in a Brooklyn Bridge Park and an altercation between two boys in particular leads to one grabbing a large stick and whacking the other across the face with it. It looks painful because that stick was, like, really big. This is our expository opener from which the whole film moves forward. Cut to the glowing screen of a Mac, where Penelope Longstreet (Jodie Foster) narrates an insurance claim as she types, three adults standing behind her. Penelope is predictably wearing octagonal tortoise glasses and is a skilled typist.

From the minute she presses print and lets the claim stream out of the printer into her hand, we have now witnessed all of the action Carnage has to offer. Quietly, I prayed that at least Ethan Longstreet, her “mutilated” son, will show up to bear to us his totally gnarled face and incisors, for necessary gruesome effect. (He doesn't.)

Because there isn’t much else to the plot, and the scene is set within the same boringly obvious Brooklyn apartment, stylized with attention toward modern academic nuances and laden with postmodern art books, apple-pear crumble, and fresh tulips from the "florist on Henry Street," we are forced to focus on the ultimate devolvement of civility between four grown adults. Even the merest discord amounts to high drama for Polanski: when Penelope asks Nancy if she knows a florist, she stares blankly at her. The viewer bears witness to a conversation-cum-argument between the couples for the entirety of the movie, and despite the short length, what it provides is not in itself enough to be compelling.

Enjoying the tension of watching Carnage is about praying for things to get physical — the closest we come is when Penelope tosses Nancy's very expensive-looking purse into the air and Nancy shrieks, "She broke my makeup mirror! And my perfume bottle!" I found myself applauding their sons for at least having a little more gall to pursue resolution with violence instead of with ninny philosophical language and whining. Probably that is Carnage's entire point.

Despite its shortcomings — lack of plot, lack of realism, lack of purpose — there is a glowing light to Carnage that cannot be forgotten, and his name is John C. Reilly. Call me biased because of my love for Steve Brule and Stepbrothers' Dale Doback, but this man is like a blessed angel sent from heaven to shine all over Jodie Foster’s perpetually grapefruity face. While Penelope is busy screeching about her out-of-print Kokoschka book that Nancy has vomited all over, ("There is no other one; it’s a reprint from the catalog of the 1957 show in London"), Michael is busy just playing the role of refined, adult goofball. "Is cobbler cake or pie? Why should pizza be a pie?" he asks, as a means to lighten the conversation. An interesting question, Michael! Perhaps the film's screenwriter (the same as the play — Yasmina Reza) could have added some more thought on that conundrum.

Instead, the decision was made to erode even Reilly’s character into a moral absurdity that looks weirder on him than the maroon merino wool V-neck sweater that he’s wearing. We find out that he’s somewhat of a nihilist. Does a man who refers to vomiting as "tossing your cookies" make for a convincing nihilist? Not exactly. The poor guy is afraid to touch his son's hamster (as he abandons the animal in the street) out of a severe psychological fear of rodents. I mean, come on.

The other adults — Nancy, Penelope, and Alan — are all decently acted, as well, but none really have the bite in them that I was looking for. Penelope is a pitiful drunk who turns into a puddle of tears and belligerence after two sips of scotch, while Nancy becomes less buttoned-up and more of a loud-mouthed aggressor who throws around slurs like "faggot" when she’s feeling feisty. Christoph Waltz, brilliantly cast as Alan, is a sinister and rude attorney who has yet to learn table manners. And though his character acting is brilliant, his constant barking into a blackberry (product placement) only begs the question of why his wife, an investment broker, is not as busy. She has nothing to damned do except sit around and wait to stage reconciliations between adolescent boys. And why the hell is her hair pulled back so tight?

Carnage gets most of its mileage by repeatedly pointing out Brooklyn mothers have no sense of humor. Penelope even reminds us, "I don’t have a sense of humor and I don't want one." Or maybe it’s just all mothers in general who don’t know how to laugh at things that are funny. Michael and Alan get to be leaders of gangs and Ivanhoe disciples, a contrast that strikes me as a little unfair and a lot outdated. It's also impossible to believe that pearl-wearing, fresh linens, and patent-heeled Nancy is actually a Brooklyn mother. That cerulean Pashmina scarf has never seen the light below 57th street.

Watching the claustrophobic Carnage, I was entertained by the novelty of the performances, contained as they are in a small space. By the end, I started to dislike it and was, more than anything, irritated by its existence. This represents an unfamiliar kind of betrayal for me because I usually sit through every movie quietly disliking it from the get-go unless it’s full of explosions or it gives me an opportunity to admire the overt dullness of Paul Walker.

The film concludes with a dramatic gesture from Nancy, who pulls the Henry Street tulips from their vase and smashes them all over the recently vomit-covered coffee table as she lazily mutters, "This is the worst day of my life." The blackberry buzzes, the screen fades to black, and within seconds, it fades back to a little orange hamster sniffing happily in the grass outside in the big, bad world. And boy, do we feel for that hamster. Free from the caricatures of New York City parenthood, there are no bounds to what you can do, little guy. Run with it.

Dayna Evans is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Bangladesh. You can find an archive of her writing on This Recording here. She tumbls here.

He's Only One Man: Roman Polanski

Daniel D'Addario on Frantic

Kara VanderBijl on Tess

Alex Carnevale on Bitter Moon

Karina Wolf on Repulsion & Cul-de-sac

Polanski's Script

"Out Loud" - Kidstreet (mp3)

"Nineteen Ninety-Three" - Kidstreet (mp3)

"Penny Candy" - Kidstreet (mp3)

In Which She Has Never Heard Of A Thrift Store

The New Destitution

by DAYNA EVANS

2 Broke Girls
creators Michael Patrick King & Whitney Cummings

Not that anybody asked for it, but TV has finally filled an empty hole in the Monday night lineup with a hipster, Ponzi-scheme, young white female buddy comedy for the recession era. 2 Broke Girls stars Kat Dennings as the sarcastic “no funny business” Brooklynite Max, and Beth Behrs as Caroline, a washed-up Sex and the City rich girl.

Caroline is a lively but sharp Wharton grad (yawn) who has been rendered penniless by her father’s Ponzi scheme mistakes and now seeks validation from the only person who will begrudgingly have her. The pair toil as waitresses at a cheesy nondescript diner that Max would never actually work at if she were in fact a hipster Brooklynite. Chanel-baubled Caroline wouldn’t bother hailing a cab over the bridge to make poor-people jokes. Poor Max! As if her eight-packed boyfriend who strangely resembles the lead singer of Maroon 5 and the greasy Russian sex offending line cook didn’t cause her enough trouble, she now has a third nuisance to interrupt her already sorrowful life. Make that four — Caroline comes with a pet horse named Chestnut.

The two end up living together in what will be known in television history as the world’s largest broke-girl New York City apartment with the exception of Rachel and Monica's apartment on Friends. When she isn’t working at the diner, Max bakes cupcakes (sold for $1.50 — a savvy entrepreneur she is not) and nannies for a rich Manhattanite because cupcakes and nannying simply don’t seem to want to die in film and TV executives’ views of young-sassy-hip contemporary culture.

Poor Caroline in her new destitution is forced to endure the “smell” of Brooklyn, whatever the hell that could be given the fact that Brooklyn is larger than a square yard and can be as fragrant as a powder room in a townhouse on Gossip Girl, which it is important to note, is filmed in the great big smelly borough. Due to Caroline’s desire to return to wealth and unconvincing need to help Max reduce her level of snark, which she interprets as “bad self-esteem,” a business model is established to sell — but what else? — cupcakes.

The two require only $250,000 and if the viewer can try to make it to the end of each episode, an amount pops up on the screen to notify us of how much startup cash they earned. As it turns out, the curiosity to see this number go up or plummet down bears the weight of the entire show’s intrigue. That and the hopes to see the eight pack of Max's now ex-boyfriend just one more time.

Despite Max’s blazers, lipstick, and vintage t-shirts — such as the oversize Run DMC shirt she wears to bed — the show feels like it is written by people too old to actually “get it” or worse, too Manhattan to have ever set foot in the borough of Brooklyn. One can imagine a conference room and a white board on which buzzwords are splayed in geometric and sharp handwriting: Coldplay, fedoras, tweet, kale, beanies, riding the subway, plaid. I mean, Coldplay? That meeting was already off to a disastrous start if they think that self-identifying Brooklyn hipsters are actually listening to Coldplay.

The humor written for Dennings’ character takes a stab at “edgy” when she drops bombs about masturbating and drug dealing, but it doesn’t work when her counterpart reacts with sheer horror and naivete.

The two have a falling out by the second episode when Max’s boyfriend hits on Caroline. In a moment of sitcom catharsis, they scream what the viewer is supposed to be digesting without scripted help: that all the qualities that make them so wildly different and thus more endearing will magically transform them into besties. It is as annoying as it sounds. Once the two kiss and make up by way of drunken late-night apology, Max is all of a sudden out buying Caroline organic juices and expressing interest in their “business.” Girl fights can all be resolved over a little cleansing pomegranate wheatgrass nu-health blend, you know?

Only five minutes into the third episode of the series, Max and Caroline, counting their tips at the diner after closing, have an extended conversation about facebook. We learn that Max does not check hers because she has no interest in seeing people update their statuses about the weather. Though this joke feels like a natural thing that two young women might talk about, the moment lasts too long and it is ruined. When Max and Caroline go shopping, as newly cemented besties are wont to do, and Max finds a “dope Strokes tee” at Goodwill, this marks both the first time Caroline has been to a thrift store and the first time the words “dope Strokes tee” have been uttered since 2001 or — scratch that — ever.

Physically, the two are mismatched and unnatural together. There is the weird way that Max talks while holding her hand over her belly and Caroline’s tendency to mug and gesture violently about as Max deadpans, unmoving. It's not that the chemistry isn’t there — between them, there is a determinate energy. But it is the energy between two people who simply would never be friends, making the moments when they are being girlfriend-y severely uncomfortable to watch and believe. Caroline enters the living room of their apartment wearing short-shorts and stilettos, booty-dancing to Nelly’s "Hot In Herre," which she sings with an inexplicable Latina lilt. Max makes a face that isn’t so much "Ugh, you're so not like me!" as much as it is registered indifference.

At a bar, we are introduced to JPEG, Max’s bartender/street artist friend who is the variety of attractive man fit for a rodeo in the Midwest, not a bar in New York. To mask this poor casting, he wears a pair of black Buddy Holly frames and a T-shirt with numbers on it. If that man is a street artist, then I am a marine biologist.

After one more catty fight over something more mundane than the last, we see Max’s soul for the first time, which has been glaringly and intentionally absent as a cheap way of showing how totally jaded she is. She slinks into their backyard, finds a shovel, and takes Chestnut for a walk as a favor to Caroline. While they walk, she talks to the horse lovingly and the animal nuzzles her in response. Her hand grips the shovel and the depth of Max’s feelings about her friendship with Caroline is revealed in hushed tones between young woman and quadruped. They reach a vacant lot, brick walls emblazoned with graffiti, and the horse relieves himself while Max waits, taking in the smells of Brooklyn.

Dayna Evans is the senior contributor to This Recording. She is a writer living in Bangladesh. She tumbls here. She last wrote in these pages about live tigers.

"Blacklisted" - Neko Case (mp3)

"Rated X" - Neko Case (mp3)

"The Tigers Have Spoken" - Neko Case (mp3)