The Red Heart of Varanasi

Backpacking in Varanasi was proving to be quite an adventure, and the last thing I needed was for something to go wrong. Naturally, it did. My only pair of jeans ripped in two places while I was scaling a sharp metal picket fence at the Kaal Bhairav temple — a bit of “karmic punishment” for trying to jump the queue to beat the summer heat and grab lunch early. As the fabric snagged and tore with a loud, public screech, my bright red underwear was exposed to the entire crowd. I had to awkwardly use my rucksack to hide my backside and “front” while making a desperate, flapping escape through the temple gates, endured by the laughter of locals who probably thought I’d been gored by one of the city’s famous bulls.

Rescue appeared in the form of a sign for “Jimma Ji Tailors.” I practically dove into the shop, sweating and disheveled, pleading for a fix. Jimma Bhai took one look at me and chuckled in his gravelly, old-quarter dialect: “Arre Barkhudaar! Ab pant to utaarnee-yee padegi na? Bina utaarey kaise see-oonga?” I shyly complied, revealing my glowing red underpants. He let out a booming laugh, “Khuda khair kare! Aaj to ‘nikkar’ pehen li mian, varna aaj toh tumhaara banda-baaja baj jaata!” When I protested that I wore them every day, he just pointed to a stool and barked, “Uss kone mein baith jain mian! Varna hmaari dukaan pe chhaapa padwa-ey ga kya?”

I waited anxiously for thirty minutes, hidden away on a wooden stool, until Jimma Bhai finally shouted, “Lo bhai! Ho gaya tumhaara kaam. Pakdo!” I rushed over, but when I saw the repair, I gasped in horror. He had used a saree for the patchwork, which was fine, but right on the hip — directly over my butt — he had stitched a massive, bright red heart. “Areee! Ye kya kiya bhai jaan?!” I cried out, devastated. The entire shop exploded in laughter as Jimma Bhai wiped his forehead, unfazed: “Arre shukar kar mian ke ye mil gaya, varna ek din khoti ho jaata tera!”

Imagine me walking through the spiritual heart of India with a giant red heart glaring from my backside. It was a walk of shame like no other, but it served as a permanent reminder of my impatience. From that day on, I learned my lesson: I never travel with “solo” clothing pieces again, and I have never tried to jump a temple line since. Sometimes, Karma doesn’t just hit you — it stitches a giant red heart on your rear end for the whole world to see.

Abstract Watercolor 2024