We now head back past the post office to our next temple, what Twain called “the mouldering and venerable Briddhkal Temple, which is one of the oldest in Benares, the home of the Well of Long Life”. The good news—practical news rather than divine—is that I’ve learnt how to cope with the traffic in the interconnecting thoroughfare; one walks between a pair of water buffalo. Wits are needed: too close to the one behind might mean a shove in the bum, too close to one in front might mean… well, yes. The motorcyclists aren’t too happy as one has spoilt their slalom course but overall it works and at a pleasant, stately pace to which one can soon adjust one’s gait.

Thus promenading we arrive at the main road next to post office. The water buffalo, to a beast and for reasons known only to themselves, all turn left and join in that particular melee. We need to dodge death across the road and soon find ourselves in another sewageway and then promptly upon the Briddhkal Temple and its Well of Long Life.

Shailesh leans low to squeeze under the lintel and rings the bell above his head. Gillian, Sita and I kick off our shoes and follow close behind. Unlike the Dandpan of twenty minutes ago the Briddhkal is empty. The Brahmin in here is decidedly grumpy, whether the cause or the effect of the emptiness is unclear. Shailesh is a little sheepish admitting that he has never been here (“but you see there are over 11,000 temples here”) and receives his instructions from Mr. Grumpy Brahmin.

Inside the entrance is the well. Everything is painted orange: the well itself, the grating over it, the pail that goes down it and the wheel around which the rope revolves. Shailesh lifts up the grating, lowers the empty pail, raises the full pail and hands it to the Brahmin. The latter takes a small swig and hands it to Shailesh who takes a longer draught. Only then are we allowed to look down the well at the water far below. God knows what’s in it. Outside I say to Shailesh, “Well you got off lightly.”

“What do you mean?” “You only had to drink it, not bathe in it too.” “Mark Twain, I suppose? Go on, what happened?” I read from Following the Equator: “In here you will find a shallow pool of stagnant sewage. It smells like the best limburger cheese, and is filthy with the washings of rotting lepers, but that is nothing, bathe in it; bathe in it gratefully and worshipfully for this is the Fountain of Youth; these are the Waters of Long Life."

He says he’ll let me know and, brave face and saving face, doesn’t say much else for a while.
(The Indian Equator)