Author Archives: nandan

US visa refused

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I had my US visa interview at the US Embassy in New Delhi, and to my disappointment, it was refused. This was the last thing I was expecting. Both I and the people supporting my trip were almost certain I would get the visa. I had four sponsorship letters, my sponsor’s bank account papers, and my own documents, but the visa officer didn’t even look at them. I reached the embassy at 7:45 AM for my 8:00 AM interview. Security seemed very strict and was managed by a private security company. I didn’t see any Indian police there, which, in my opinion, was a good decision. Personally, I trust private security more than the local police.

One thing I noticed was that a large number of applicants were Sikhs—perhaps more than half of the people there. I had already observed something unusual on the US Embassy website: they listed separate helpline numbers for different regions of India, and Punjab was given its own line, separate from “North India.” The website actually says “North India (except Punjab)”—which I found both surprising and somewhat amusing.

Since the embassy is a no-parking zone, vehicles are not even allowed to stop in front of it, and even the general public isn’t permitted to stand nearby. Only people with official business are allowed inside. First, my documents were checked outside by security staff, and then I was allowed into the building. The first step inside was a detailed security check. Every single item I carried—including my documents—was scanned carefully.

After this, I was directed to a large hall where many other applicants were already seated. A staff member guided me on how to arrange my documents in the correct order, then sent me to another officer who checked them and gave me a small slip with my interview number on it. I waited around 45 minutes until my number was called. Applicants were sent in groups of 10 through a passage into another big hall.

At first, an Indian officer (probably a VFS employee) checked my documents and asked a few basic questions, most of which I had already answered on the visa form. Then a young woman escorted me to another counter, where I met my first American staff member. His task was to take my digital fingerprints. It was the first time in my life I had gone through this process, and honestly, I preferred it to the messy ink method used at Indian offices. I remembered how, just a few months earlier, my thumb had been stained with ink at the Varanasi court while applying for my marriage certificate.

After fingerprints, I waited again for my interview number. I was nervous but curious, as this was my first visa interview. Finally, my number was called, and I approached the counter where a professional-looking officer—the visa consular—was seated behind a glass partition. His first question was where I wanted to go. I told him Seattle and a few other cities. He asked why, and I explained “tourism and business.” He smiled and said, “A little bit of both?” Over the next two minutes, he asked me several quick questions, including my income. That, I believe, was the turning point. I honestly told him my annual earnings. He typed something into his computer, kept my documents aside, and then returned my passport with a brief statement:

“I’m sorry, I cannot give you a visa. According to US laws, you do not qualify.”

I was shocked. I explained that my trip was fully sponsored, that I would be staying with friends, and therefore didn’t need a large budget. But he said those things didn’t matter. I asked what I should do next, and he advised me to try again in a few years when my financial situation improves. It was clear that my income was lower than what they expect from applicants.

I left the embassy disappointed. I had been so excited about the trip, and I was confident it would have opened up great business opportunities for me. But despite the refusal, I don’t blame the embassy or its policies. Everything inside was very well organized, the staff were professional, and the system ran smoothly. The visa officer, in my eyes, was simply doing his duty—like a robot, without personal bias or attachment.

It was not the end of the world for me. I respect the process, and I will try again next year when I am in a stronger financial position. And I know, for sure, that I will be better prepared. 🙂

USA visa application

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I applied for my US visa a few days ago, but the process wasn’t as easy as I had expected. Some things went smoothly, but there were a few parts I really didn’t like. First of all, I had to deposit the visa fee. The good thing was that the US Embassy in India had arranged for the visa fee to be deposited at HDFC Bank branches in several cities. So, I just went to my local HDFC bank in Varanasi with my passport and deposited the fee, which was about Rs. 6,700. They told me I could use the receipt only after 24 hours, since it takes them that long to upload it into their system. Still, I thought it was convenient that I could handle this step locally.

After depositing the fee, I went to the US Embassy website to schedule my visa interview, but it redirected me to the VFS website. I had to fill out the DS-160 form, and that turned out to be a real struggle. The website kept disconnecting, and every time the connection failed, I had to start over. Even the website itself warned applicants to save every page before moving forward, which clearly meant they were aware of this problem. It took me two full days and at least 6–7 attempts before I finally managed to complete and submit the form online.

The most frustrating part came afterward, when I tried to book my visa interview appointment. For several days, I kept trying multiple times a day, but the website always showed the same message: “No date available for interview. Please try again after 24 hours.” After 4 or 5 days of this, I wrote to VFS about the issue, but their reply didn’t address my problem at all. It seemed more like a canned response they probably send to many applicants with different questions.

Finally, I decided to call VFS directly, and their answer really surprised me. They told me that their website only works properly around 8:00 in the morning, so I should try booking my appointment then. The next morning, I logged in at 8:00 AM, and sure enough, the system worked. I was able to successfully book my visa interview. It wasn’t a terrible experience overall, but I certainly didn’t expect something like this from US government services. Later, I explained the whole issue to one of my trip sponsors, and he suggested that I should write to the US Embassy in India to let them know about it. He was confident that the Embassy probably wasn’t aware of such a glitch. Still, whenever I think about this, it leaves me with a different impression of US government services than I had before.

Menstrual cycle

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I recently learned something really interesting — the religious idea behind women having their menstrual cycle. I started exploring it because I often hear people say that women are considered “impure” during this time, and there are so many unusual beliefs associated with it. The religious explanation I found has a fascinating story, and although I’m not sure I believe it, I thought it was worth sharing here.

Two Incidents That Made Me Curious

A few weeks ago, two things happened that made me think more deeply about this subject.

The first was about an old Neem tree in my neighborhood that died. I was very sad about it, as it was the only tree in the entire area. While talking about it with friends, one of them told me something shocking: he said a girl whose menstrual cycle was going on had touched the tree, and that was what killed it. I asked him how that could be possible, and he replied that since women are considered extremely impure during their periods, if they touch a plant, it dies.

The second incident happened when I went to an ashram with a girl I was working with. The ashram was run entirely by women, and we went there to schedule interviews. They asked us to return the next day, but as we were leaving, one of the women suddenly asked my colleague if she was on her menstrual cycle. Coincidentally, she was, so she said yes. Immediately, the woman told her not to come back until her cycle was over.

This upset my colleague, and she told me that now she would have to bathe because she had spoken to and touched someone on her period. I found this perspective very strange and didn’t know what to say. Later, I discussed it with a well-educated woman who had deep knowledge of Hinduism, and she shared a story that really caught my attention.

The Story of Indra and the Sin

She explained that once Lord Indra, the king of the gods, committed the grave sin of killing two Brahmins. Because of this sin, Indra lost all of his divine powers. To hide himself, he went into a river and stayed underwater. His guru, Brihaspati, searched for him, eventually found him, and asked why he was hiding. Indra explained everything and begged for a way to be freed from his sin.

Brihaspati told him the only way was to share his sin with others. Indra approached many beings, but none agreed — until finally, four did: a mountain, a tree, a river, and women. Since they accepted part of Indra’s sin, all four were cursed to experience cycles of impurity.

  • Mountains: Parts of them turn reddish once a year, said to symbolize their cycle.

  • Trees: Some trees release a sticky gum or resin at certain times, representing their cycle. This resin is even used in foods for pregnant women.

  • Rivers: Every year, for two months, rivers foam heavily and their currents become stronger. This is considered their cycle, and bathing in rivers during this time is prohibited in Hinduism — except for the Ganga, Yamuna, and Saraswati, which are always pure.

  • Women: Their menstrual cycle is seen as the same curse, which is why they are traditionally considered impure for a few days each month.

Traditions Still Followed

Even today, many families in India follow certain rules during women’s menstrual cycles. Women may not enter the kitchen, touch elders, or sleep on the bed with their husbands. Some do not bathe for the first three days. Among Marwari families, the customs are stricter — women are kept in a separate room and may not come out until the fourth day, after bathing. The utensils they use are purified by passing them through fire, as fire is considered the purest element in Hinduism. Only then are the utensils allowed back in the kitchen.

The woman I spoke with said women should respect these rules and avoid going out or doing heavy physical work during this time. She even criticized modern sanitary pad advertisements for encouraging women to work and play sports during periods. When I asked what happens to women who cannot take leave every month, she paused and said that these rules were made thousands of years ago, when sanitary products did not exist, and working during periods was much harder. She agreed that today, since many women cannot stop working, they should continue — but avoid strenuous labor like lifting weights, jumping, or playing physically demanding sports.

She also said that science supports the idea of rest during menstruation, and that women should treat these days as “God-gifted vacations” every month. But I wondered — how can someone enjoy a vacation if they are not even allowed to leave their room or speak to others? Her final point was that if women do not respect these rules, they may face illness later in life.

My Reflection

I don’t know how much truth there is in these stories, but I find it fascinating that such explanations exist in Hindu texts written thousands of years ago. The imagination and storytelling ability of those writers was truly extraordinary. Whether one believes in them or not, I can’t help but admire their creativity. Hats off to the writers of our sacred texts!

Widows in Vrindavan

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I worked again with Irene, a graduate student from Ca’ Foscari University of Venice, whose research topic was Hindu widows. I had already assisted her in October 2009 in Varanasi, but this time she wanted to visit Vrindavan. She had heard a lot about the widows from Bengal who live there, and about the city’s importance for Hindu widows. Since I did not know much about Vrindavan myself, I contacted my friend Yashu, who lives there, and he kindly promised to help. In fact, he arranged everything for us — hotel, food, and even many interviews.

Irene had already heard about the Bhajan Ashrams (ashrams where chanting sessions are organized) and wanted to visit them to see if it was possible to interview the women there. I had also heard about widows working in these ashrams, but I had no idea how many there were or how large they could be. To my surprise, there seemed to be at least one in every alley, and some were extremely large, housing three to four thousand widows under the same roof. These ashrams are generally run by wealthy religious people. Each widow who chants for three hours receives Rs. 2, along with a small portion of rice and lentils.

The ashrams usually run two or three shifts a day — the first beginning around 8:00 a.m. and the last ending around 6:00 p.m. However, not just any widow can join. They must first register with the ashram, after which their chanting time is scheduled. There are thousands of widows in Vrindavan, most of them — over 90% — from Bengal. Many do not speak Hindi. Some live in government ashrams, some in private ones, some rent small rooms, while others sleep on the streets or along the Yamuna River. Over 95% make a living by working in Bhajan Ashrams and begging. Most widows chant during the day and then beg in the mornings and evenings, when pilgrims are on their way to temples.

Vrindavan, known as the “city of temples,” has nearly 5,000 temples and is considered one of Hinduism’s holiest places. Each year, hundreds of thousands of pilgrims visit. Because of the religious devotion of visitors, donations are common — which makes Vrindavan an unfortunate hub for begging. It was painful to see how many widows depended on it for survival. When we asked the widows why they chose Vrindavan instead of other sacred cities like Varanasi or Haridwar, most said that Vrindavan is particularly popular among Bengalis. However, few knew the reason behind this. One non-widow woman shared a fascinating story:

She said that long ago, two brothers worked as cashiers in a king’s palace. One day, while busy with their work, they ordered water with sugar. By mistake, the servant mixed salt instead of sugar. The brothers drank it without noticing, so absorbed were they in their work. When the servant confessed his mistake, they were astonished that they hadn’t realized the difference. This made them reflect: If they could be so devoted to their worldly duty, why not apply the same devotion to God?

The brothers abandoned material life and came to Vrindavan, then a forest, to meditate. Their devotion was so powerful that even the king came to meet them. When he offered them any reward, they only asked him to repair the broken stones at the ghat where they meditated. To the king’s shock, the ghat was made of precious stones that were rarer than anything in his own palace. Realizing their spiritual greatness, the king then offered them as much land as their eyes could see from one spot — and that land became Vrindavan. This, people say, is why Vrindavan is so popular among Bengalis.

Despite Irene’s efforts, we managed to interview only about ten women. Most did not speak Hindi, which limited communication. We also visited two government-run widow ashrams: one by the central government and one by the state of Uttar Pradesh. The central government ashram was more organized, a new building with 500–600 rooms and about 2,700 widows living there. At first, a government helper allowed us to sit and talk with the women. But soon, another official stopped us, insisting we needed permission from the district magistrate. A similar thing happened at the largest Bhajan Ashram. Finally, when we reached the state-run ashram, a kind security guard let us conduct interviews discreetly. He warned us not to let the officers find out, explaining that both officers there were corrupt.

According to him, officers steal from the widows’ pensions. They first demand Rs. 300 from each widow to issue a pension registration card, which is supposed to be free. Then they claim the pension takes a year to start, when in fact it begins within days. This way, they pocket the widows’ entire first-year pension. Even afterward, they keep half of the monthly pension for themselves. With about 300 widows in the ashram, he estimated that they steal around Rs. 90,000 every month, while also bribing higher officials to remain silent. I was shocked and saddened to hear this. How could anyone exploit poor widows who survive on Rs. 2 and a handful of grains?

It also explained why officials at the central ashram had tried to stop us from interviewing women — they didn’t want their corruption exposed. Because of these obstacles, we shifted focus to interviewing widows who lived independently. Many shared heartbreaking stories. Most were married very young, lost their husbands early, were denied education, and eventually came to Vrindavan. Some left home because their own children neglected them. A few Bengali women told us they stay in Vrindavan for 11 months, save money and grains, and then return home briefly to give everything to their children.

We also noticed cultural differences. Many Bengali widows did not strongly believe that widowhood was punishment for sins in past lives, while most North Indian widows did. Curiously, although North Indians often say Bengal discriminates most against widows, the Bengali women we spoke with did not feel this way. Perhaps, sadly, they have normalized discrimination to the point where they no longer recognize it as injustice. We asked about widow remarriage. Interestingly, older widows (around 70) supported remarriage, while younger widows (40–50) believed it was a sin. Younger widows felt that widowhood was divine punishment, and if they tried to escape it by remarrying, they would be punished further — even becoming widows again in the next life. Perhaps older widows, having faced loneliness, understood the value of companionship more deeply.

Later, we spoke with a Sanskrit scholar and katha speaker to learn what Hindu texts say about widowhood. She explained that scriptures list several causes for widowhood: disrupting another couple’s marriage, engaging in extramarital relationships, or even physical relations during the menstrual cycle. She insisted these rules applied equally to men and women. Interestingly, this also suggests that love marriages were accepted in Hinduism, since forcing someone into an unwanted marriage is condemned.

After spending time in Vrindavan and Varanasi, I reached one strong conclusion: widows who stay with their families and find some work, however small, live far happier lives than those who depend on ashrams or begging. The situation in ashrams is tragic, worsened by corruption and lack of accountability. In my view, the only real solution is education. If women are educated and skilled, they can seek employment, support themselves, and live with dignity. The question is: when will the Indian government finally take women’s education seriously?

corruption in Indian police

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I completed my tour guide training in December, and my license was printed in January. Soon after, the Ministry of Tourism office in Delhi asked me to submit a police verification certificate from my local police station. This certificate is supposed to confirm that there are no legal cases against me. The Ministry even provided a standard form, and I was told I simply had to get it stamped at my local police station. When I went there with the form, the officer refused to stamp it. Instead, he told me to go to the DIG office and apply for a character certificate.

By mistake, I went to a different police office. I explained my situation to an officer there, but after learning I was a tour guide, he mocked me, saying: “Oh, so your job is to fool tourists and exploit them.” I was furious but held my calm. After a few more questions, he finally directed me to the correct DIG office. The DIG office was in terrible condition—dark, dusty, and neglected. The officer responsible gave me a form, which I filled out and submitted with my documents. I had been warned by my local police station that I would need to “take care” of him, so I handed over ₹100 as a bribe. He told me to follow up with my local police station in two days.

Back at my local station, they confirmed my application had arrived but demanded a domicile certificate from the court—something that would take over 15 days. I had already provided my passport, which was proof enough. Thankfully, an advocate present at the time intervened, insisting that a passport was equivalent to a domicile certificate. Only then did the officer reluctantly accept my documents. Even then, he said they would send someone to verify my residence in a week. I understood what he really meant.

When I asked if I was supposed to “give something,” he bluntly said: “Such work doesn’t happen without money.” My friends had told me ₹500 was enough, so I offered that. But the officer said there were five or six people to share the money with, and it wasn’t enough. We finally settled on ₹700. After taking the money, he gave me an unexpected “lesson.” He explained how to bribe properly: always look around to see who is in the office, offer money when there aren’t many people, and never mention a bribe to another officer. He even warned me never to admit I had bribed his colleague at the DIG office. After this “training,” he promised my documents would be forwarded the same evening.

From there, my file went to the LIU (Local Intelligence Unit). At their office, the same cycle began. They said they would verify my residence but then hinted that a payment would speed things up. One officer casually asked for ₹500, saying that if I paid, nobody would need to visit my home and my file would move forward the same day. I paid. Something absurd happened while I was there: I received a call about my guest house business. The officer overheard and asked if I had a restaurant. When I said no, he looked disappointed and said he would have liked to come for a meal—especially if there was “hot chicken with whiskey.” I was shocked at how openly he said this.

From LIU, my papers went to the CO office (a regional police office). There, an officer told me: “We know your daytime character, but we don’t know about your nighttime character—how many women or prostitutes you sleep with, or how many bars you visit at night.” He repeated this in front of other officers, and they all laughed. I was stunned by the humiliation. Finally, I asked how much money he wanted. He said, “Give anything.” I paid ₹200, and suddenly there was no need to check my “nighttime character” anymore. My file was forwarded to the SP (Superintendent of Police) office.

At the SP office, I had to wait an hour before being presented to the SP himself. He looked at me briefly, asked why I needed the certificate, and signed the papers. That was it. His PA later asked me to come back if I wanted to “make sure things moved quickly.” I returned a few days later, and luckily my documents had already been forwarded to the DIG office. Finally, back at the DIG office, I was told that another senior officer still needed to sign my papers. I waited for three hours in the heat until that officer finally arrived. The DIG officer then took my documents to him, got them signed, and finally issued me the character certificate.

The certificate itself was laughably unimpressive—a small piece of paper stating that no legal cases were registered against me. They hadn’t even updated the forms for 2010; it was printed as 2009 and corrected by hand with a pen. In total, I had spent nearly a month of running from office to office—DIG → Local Police → DIG → LIU → CO → SP → DIG again—and paid around ₹1,700 in bribes just to get this single piece of paper. What hurts most is not the time or the money, but the way I was treated. I was mocked for being a tour guide, accused of sleeping with prostitutes, and humiliated by people who were supposed to serve the public.

In the end, I got my police verification certificate, submitted it to the Ministry of Tourism in Delhi, and finally received my license. But every time I look at that piece of paper, I can’t help but feel that my character certificate was issued by the most characterless people I have ever met.

Sudden request for dowry

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One of my relatives is getting married in the last week of May. The bride is a graduate student, and the groom works with a chartered accountant in Lucknow. The bride’s father runs a small saree business, so the family does not have much money. The marriage was arranged by one of their relatives. It is a very traditional wedding, with everything being done according to Hindu customs. When I first met the groom and his family, they seemed very nice. In fact, when the bride’s father asked about dowry, the groom’s father said it was not an issue for them. I really appreciated that response.

However, just a few days before the tilak ceremony (a ritual where the bride’s family visits the groom’s family), things changed. The groom’s family suddenly began demanding dowry. They asked for ₹51,000 in cash, a motorbike, jewelry, clothes, a refrigerator, a TV, a bed, and several other items. I knew very well that the bride’s parents could not afford this, but instead of refusing, they promised to give it—though arranging it would be extremely difficult for them.

Later, when I spoke with the bride, she told me she had discussed it with the groom. He assured her that he personally did not want anything at all and that the demands were entirely his father’s decision. He said he could not do anything to stop it. The bride looked very sad while talking about it, and I felt the same. I saw her father desperately trying to arrange everything, though I knew it was beyond his means. A few days after the tilak, the groom’s father called the bride’s father again and said that since the groom had already bought a motorbike, they no longer needed one—but they wanted cash in place of it.

When the bride’s father questioned why they still demanded money if the motorbike was already bought, the groom’s father insisted that they either wanted a motorbike or cash in exchange. On top of all this dowry, the bride’s family also has to arrange a wedding reception that will cost at least ₹1,50,000. Altogether, the expenses will come close to ₹3,00,000—an impossible amount for the bride’s family. Unfortunately, stories like this are not rare. There are countless cases in which brides are tortured or even burnt alive because their parents could not provide the dowry demanded by the groom’s family.

Sometimes, even after fulfilling the demands, brides continue to be harassed until they break down completely. Many end up taking their own lives. Yet, in many cases, brides remain silent, fearing that going to the police or taking legal action would bring shame to their family in society. I often wonder whether such marriages are truly marriages or just business deals—deals where one side always loses everything. Why is it always the bride’s family who must pay? They are already giving their daughter, who will devote her entire life to the groom’s family. Is that not worth more than a motorbike or ₹51,000 in cash?

It is heartbreaking to see how the dowry system is not weakening but becoming stronger. Families now demand more and more. Many people do not even want daughters anymore, because they fear the burden of dowry. I don’t know when this will change—or if it ever will—but it must change if we want to build a truly happy and developed society.

Dying in Varanasi

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I worked with a photographer named Jane Becker from Canada, who wanted to document widows and hospices in Varanasi. Since I had previously worked with a researcher from the University of Venice studying widows in the city, I already knew the places to take her. About two years earlier, I had also assisted a researcher from the University of Berlin who was interested in people coming to Benares to spend their final days. So I had some background knowledge on the subject. We decided to begin our work with hospices and ashrams. I first took Jane to an ashram near Assi Ghat, where we interviewed a few residents and she took some photographs.

The next day, I brought her to another ashram named Mumukshu Bhawan where more than 2,000 people live out the last stage of their lives. This ashram has separate sections—one for Sanyasis (renunciants) and another for families. The place was vast, filled with residents, and even housed a Sanskrit school. Although we visited, Jane did not photograph there. On the following day, we went to Kashi Mukti Bhawan, which was unlike any other place in Varanasi. The city has many hospices and ashrams where people stay to die, but this place was truly unique.

Kashi Mukti Bhawan is owned by the Dalmia family. The story behind its foundation is that when Mr. Dalmia once visited Varanasi, he noticed the large number of ashrams where people came to spend their final days. His grandmother also wished to spend her last days in the city. Inspired by this, he decided to build a free hospice for those who wanted to die in Varanasi. What makes Kashi Mukti Bhawan unusual is its rule: residents are allowed to stay for only 14 days. This may sound strict, but most people who come here are already in their final moments. The hospice does not admit anyone below the age of 60 or those who do not appear to be close to death.

The building has ten rooms, but during my visit, only one was occupied while the rest were vacant. There is also a temple inside where rituals are performed daily. The manager explained that until about four years ago, prayers were conducted 24 hours a day. However, as fewer people now come, the hours were reduced. In the past, all ten rooms would be full, but today there may be only one or two residents—or sometimes none at all. If a person is dying at Kashi Mukti Bhawan, a priest from the temple recites verses from the Ram Charit Manas for them four times a day, at least for five minutes each time. The belief is that hearing these sacred chants helps the dying soul attain salvation.

We interviewed a woman who had brought her father all the way from Sasaram, Bihar, so that he could die in Varanasi and achieve liberation. When asked why she chose Kashi Mukti Bhawan specifically, instead of another ashram, she explained that it was a family tradition—her relatives had also passed away here. She believed that not only was dying in Varanasi important, but that Kashi Mukti Bhawan offered the most ideal atmosphere, with constant chanting and spiritual rituals.

We also asked the manager why the stay was limited to 14 days. He explained that in most cases, two weeks is sufficient for someone in their final stage of life. In rare situations, if the person survives beyond 14 days but is still gravely ill, they may be allowed to stay for another week or two. Interestingly, he mentioned that there have even been cases where people came expecting to die, but instead recovered and returned home.

Overall, Kashi Mukti Bhawan felt profoundly different from the other ashrams in Varanasi, and I am eager to learn more about it.

Holika 2010

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Holika Dahan is a festival celebrated on the eve of Holi, which took place on February 28th this year. Unfortunately, I was unable to attend the festivities. This festival has a fascinating story behind it. According to the legend, there were two Asura brothers named Hiranyakashyapu and Hiranyaksha, who were notorious for their malevolence and persecution of religious people. Eventually, Lord Vishnu killed Hiranyaksha, becoming the arch-enemy of Hiranyakashyapu. After some time, Hiranyakashyapu performed severe penance and pleased Lord Vishnu, who appeared before him and granted him a wish.

Hiranyakashyapu requested immortality, but Lord Vishnu told him that everyone born must eventually die. Therefore, Hiranyakashyapu made a more cunning request: he asked for a boon that neither a human nor an animal could kill him, neither during the day nor at night, neither on earth nor in the sky. Lord Vishnu granted this wish, and Hiranyakashyapu began to exploit his newfound powers, tormenting innocent people, prohibiting religious practices, and declaring himself a god. Hiranyakashyapu had a son named Prahlad, who was a devout follower of Lord Vishnu. Despite his father’s strong opposition and attempts to force him to renounce his faith, Prahlad remained steadfast in his devotion.

Frustrated, Hiranyakashyapu attempted to kill Prahlad by throwing him into the ocean and abandoning him in the jungle, but Prahlad miraculously survived both attempts and returned home each time. Prahlad’s aunt, Holika, had a boon that made her immune to fire. She agreed to help Hiranyakashyapu by taking Prahlad to a pyre of wood. Holika sat on the pyre with Prahlad, believing that she would remain unharmed while Prahlad would be consumed by the flames. However, a miracle occurred: Holika burned alive, while Prahlad emerged unscathed. This event is commemorated during Holika Dahan, where people build a bonfire, place an effigy of Holika and Prahlad, and burn it.

On the day of the festival, people traditionally apply a mustard paste to their bodies, and the residue is then discarded into the bonfire. This practice symbolizes the removal of sins and the renewal of body and soul. However, this festival has become an environmental concern due to the practice of cutting down green trees for the fire. This year, for the first time, I saw a group of students educating people about the environmental impact of cutting down trees for the festival. While I support this cause, I doubt that change will come easily.

Benares, already suffering from a lack of greenery, is not alone in this issue; it’s a global problem. For instance, it’s reported that China cuts down over 25 million trees annually to produce chopsticks, and India has lost over 75% of its forests. If such practices continue, the future looks bleak. Education and awareness are crucial to addressing this issue, but the challenge lies in finding effective advocates for change. While we cannot stop the festival, we can reduce its environmental impact by using alternative materials instead of green trees. Please, let’s stop cutting down green trees and instead focus on planting new ones.

Holika Dahan Fire

Hindi classes with Italian cultural center

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For the past two months, I’ve been doing something new: working as a Hindi teacher at the Centro Risorse India center. I’ve been conducting “walking classes,” which are both interesting and enjoyable, though they can be a bit dull when dealing with absolute beginners. About two months ago, Marco, the head of Centro Risorse India, asked me to give these walking classes. Although I had no prior experience, Marco encouraged me to give it a try. He assured me that if I liked it, there would be more opportunities for me.

With some free time on my hands, I decided to take on the challenge. My first student was Caterina, a girl from the University of Venice. I took her out for a walk, and we started conversing in Hindi. To make the sessions more engaging, I chose topics related to Benares or Indian culture instead of sticking to general conversation. This approach proved effective. Caterina, who lived in the Nagwa neighborhood, was my very first student, and I felt a bit nervous on that first day. I chose to discuss the “History of Nagwa” as the topic.

We spent a couple of hours discussing Nagwa and also delved into some controversial political and social issues related to the neighborhood. The class flew by, and I found the experience quite fulfilling. Since then, I have worked with many students and thoroughly enjoy the job, especially when the students have a sufficient grasp of Hindi to express themselves. This role not only allows me to share information about India and Benares with foreigners but also gives me a chance to learn about different countries and cultures through my interactions with international students.

However, I encountered a student who knew no Hindi at all, which was extremely frustrating. I advised her to focus on Hindi grammar first before reaching out to me again. Despite this, the feedback from the students I’ve worked with has been positive. Now, the university is offering me a language and teaching training program in Venice for a month, which sounds exciting. However, I’m unsure if I should attend, as the program is scheduled for June, when I plan to visit America. I’m considering whether there might be an opportunity to visit neighboring countries of Italy after the training, which would make the trip even more appealing.

Finally received Indian passport

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I finally received my passport, and believe me, it took more than eleven months. I applied for it last February and only received it this January. The entire process was marred by bureaucratic red tape and corruption. From purchasing the application to finally holding the passport in my hands, it was a constant ordeal of bribery and inefficiency. The police were supposed to verify my documents by visiting my home and meeting me in person, but instead, I had to go to the police station, where they demanded Rs. 600 and never followed up with a home visit.

Similarly, the Local Intelligence Unit (LIU), known for its propensity to ask for bribes and its lack of genuine efficiency, was also supposed to verify my documents. I ended up meeting the officer in a hospital room where his wife was admitted. It was quite absurd: I received a call from an LIU officer who said he had my passport documents and wanted to meet me. When I inquired about the time he would visit my home, he told me his wife was ill and in the hospital, so he provided me with the hospital address and asked me to meet him there.

At the hospital, this officer took me to the room where his wife was lying in bed. She had the typical appearance of someone whose spouse is involved in corrupt practices. The officer briefly reviewed my documents and then demanded Rs. 600 as a bribe. My friends had advised me to offer only Rs. 300, so I tried to negotiate, but he insisted that the Rs. 600 would be distributed among all the officers at the LIU office. Reluctantly, I paid him the full amount.

Adding to the absurdity, the officer then asked me to teach him English. I couldn’t help but laugh at the request and didn’t know how to respond. I suggested a few language schools and quickly left the hospital. During our conversation, he revealed something troubling: when I asked why he didn’t come to my home for verification, he mentioned that they were primarily concerned with people who have beards, implying a focus on Muslims.I understand that one particular group is involved in the majority of terrorist activities around the world and may be viewed with suspicion. However, as an officer working for the LIU, he should have visited my place and conducted a thorough check regardless.

The inefficiency and bias of institutions like the LIU seem to contribute to the problem rather than address it effectively. It’s disheartening to see how these institutions operate, especially given the significant impact of terrorism on our society.