BootsnAll Travel Network



Holy Cities of Northern India: Bodhgaya, Varanasi and Sarnath

My first train trip in India began in pleasant fashion. I climbed aboard the Capital Express (all of the major trains in India [and there are hundreds of them] have names) at New Jalpaiguri Station and found my seat. I was in plain, non air conditioned “sleeper class,” second from the bottom, with 3rd, 2nd and 1st class AC sleeper all above me and plain wooden benches with no bed below. It was still plenty comfortable, with lots of room available in the sitting configuration and narrow, but passable bunks when arranged for sleeping.

The bunks were arranged into “pods” with each pod having two stacks of three bunks perpendicular to the train on one side, and two bunks parallel to the train on the other. My pod was shared with a friendly Indian family on their way home from a vacation in Darjeeling. I talked with them for a while, and ran back out onto the platform to grab a snack from one of the many vendors before we departed.

The train in India takes the mild shopping experience of southeast Asian train travel and cranks it up about four notches. Pretty much any portable good or service a consumer might be interested in purchasing (and many, many I was not) were on offer by people wandering up and down the aisle shouting out what they had to offer. If I’d so desired I could have picked up a variety of toys, peanuts, seasoned puffed rice, various fried snacks, a comb, or even a pen with my name custom engraved by a man with a chisel, all within the first three hours of the train trip. Later on a kid came aboard and began sweeping the aisles. At first I thought it was very tidy and efficient of Indian Railways until I realized that he to was an onboard capitalist, soliciting monetary contributions in return for his cleaning.

Far and away the most numerous vendors, however, were the chai wallahs (“chai! coffee! chai! coffee! chai! chai! coffee!”) Many used plastic cups, but several others still used the disposable clay variety that could be finished then tossed out the window to break on the tracks (not that the disposal method of these was somehow special… My fellow passengers threw any and everything out the windows without giving it a second thought.) (For those unaware, “wallah” means man or salesman, while chai is delicious Indian sweet, spicy milk tea.)

As dark fell the ticket inspector came around and I discovered I had something of a problem. I’d booked my ticket on the 29th of March, planning on a single day in Phuentsholing, followed by a trip back to Siliguri the next day to catch the train on April 1. Unfortunately I’d somehow not realized that March had 31 days, so I was on the train a day early. The conductor was very nice about it, and with some help from the family I was travelling with he ensured I had a place to sleep anyway. In the late evening a chai-wallah was walking town the aisle and slipped, spilling some of his tea on a woman nearby. In response to this a man walking down the aisle (entirely unrelated to said woman) shouted at the chai wallah, smacking him on the side of the head (and not softly) and then thumping a fist against his back twice more as he apologetically fled the car. I had no idea if this was a caste issue, or an unrelated cultural difference, but it came as a shock to me.

I didn’t sleep well that night, with my continuing stomach troubles keeping me up through much of it. Despite the illness, I did manage a few hours rest, and wasn’t at all unhappy that the train had arrived late, bringing me to the city of Patna at 04:15 instead of 02:50. The Patna station was exactly what I expected an Indian train station at night to be. It was grubby but functional and there were people sitting or sleeping everywhere. The largest concentration was in the ticket hall where I went to arrange my ride to Gaya later that morning.

The train to Gaya didn’t have a name. It was a local train with one seating option: general admission. I was there very early, so thankfully I got a seat on one of the hard wooden benches, but was still squeezed by the one-beyond-design-capacity occupancy of the bench and the hordes of people crammed into the train standing up. At least I was sitting near a window and could enjoy the breeze as well as the sun rising on the golden farm fields and villages during the two hour ride. Many of the walls seemed to be decorated with round tiles perhaps 200mm in diameter featuring a handprint in their centre. Later it dawned on me that these were not, of course, decorations, but patties of straw-reinforced buffalo dung that had been slapped onto the walls to dry for later use as cooking fuel.

I arrived in Gaya and before heading into town reserved my ticket for the next day. I hadn’t been able to get a confirmed reservation, but the friendly Indian who had been in line behind me and had helped fill out the reservation form assured me that being number 78 on the waiting list meant I was almost certain to get a seat.

I left the station with him and we stopped for a cool drink before he dropped me off at a hotel and headed on to work himself. The hotel was a bit untidy, and the dirty sheet they put on the bed didn’t help too much. I was somewhat galled by the request for “help money” that the guy who fitted the new sheet made. After repeated refusals I finally thought better of it and gave him 10R as I left the hotel, headed for the town of Bodhgaya, 13km away.

Gaya was busy, dusty and crowded. THIS was how I envisioned an Indian city. As I walked through the streets to find a shared autorickshaw (similar to a tuk tuk in SEA) I had to physically remove the hands of two people who had grabbed my arm in an attempt to drag me into a shop, a conversation, a rickshaw or whatever.

I was happy when I got to the shared autorickshaw stand and got a ride to Bodhgaya at a reasonable price with no hassles. True, at one point during the trip there were 15 people in the vehicle that could MAYBE be said to be designed for seven, but it got us there.

Bodhgaya is the most important pilgrimage site in the world for Buddhists, as it was the place where Siddartha Gautama sat under the Bodhi tree meditating and found enlightenment. On the exact spot of the event sits a tall spired temple, whose architecture doesn’t belong to one particular Buddhist style. All around it are beautiful gardens and ponds, making it a blissful relief after the chaos of Gaya. Amongst the gardens there is even a descendant of the original Bodhi Tree (the tree itself died some years ago, but its replacement was taken from a tree in Sri Lanka which, in turn, grew from a cutting of the original.)

I wandered about the temple complex, occaisionally sitting down for a read, more often wandering and admiring the gardens. When I headed down the steps towards the main temple itself I was loudly “chhhh!!”ed at by an Indian who pointed at the shoes in my hands and said “no here!” In accordance with the signs outside I’d removed my footwear, but apparently this fellow (a tourist, not even a pilgrim) was not satisfied. This put me in an irritated mood, but a bit more wandering through the serene gardens got it out of me.

Bodhgaya WAS full of tourists, but not western ones (indeed, I only saw one of them during the day.) The large majority aren’t even Buddhists, but Indian Hindus, some of whom come for similar reasons to me, while others visit to worship Buddha as the 8th incarnation of the Hindu god Vishnu. My grumpiness even managed to make me annoyed with them for appropriating this most holy of Buddhist sites for their own, admittedly also holy, but not AS holy uses (yes, I recognize that this is very silly, but I was poorly rested and grumpy already.)

In addition to the main temple and the large numbers of souvenier stalls, restaurants and hotels, Bodhgaya also boasts a sort of United Nations of Buddhist Architecture. Most countries with large Buddhist populations have constructed a temple in their own style in Bodhgaya, so it’s possible to visit small pieces of Bhutan, Burma, Cambodia (under construction), China, Japan, Korea, Nepal, Sri Lanka, Tibet, Thailand and Viet Nam all within a few hours. Many of these temples even offer accomodation within their walls (usually for pilgrims, but during “low periods” like this one, anyone could stay there.) I would have loved to have slept at one, but the fact that my train left at 05:00 the next morning meant I needed to be near the station.

25m tall Buddha Statue

I spent the remainder of the day wandering around the international temples, being harassed by small children asking me to buy school books and pens at exorbitant prices so they could return them for a cut of the profit. The persistance of them was actually quite spectacular, with one kid following me for a good half hour, twenty minutes of which I spent making amusing (to me) refusals and explanations and ten minutes of which I spent ingoring him outright. At least the kids at Siem Reap in Cambodia had some charm and more than one pitch line… These ones were simply annoying.

By the time my visit to Bodhgaya I was in a decidedly un-enlightened frame of mind. I’d taken to telling anyone who asked that I was “tired and irritable,” because A. It wasn’t encouraging and B. It was true. I realize now that it was because of my illness and lack of sleep, but at the time I was thinking I’d started to grow tired of, even dislike India after only a few days there.

I returned to my hotel where I sat and enjoyed a nice thali and a (only very slightly successful) attempt at washing my colour stained clotes from Holi before getting off to a very early sleep.

The next morning I woke up and headed to the station. I was amazed by the level of activity there at 04:30. Already people were up and about, buying and selling, waiting for trains. There was even a camp-fire going in the station parking lot. I found a list of confirmed reservations posted on the wall amongst the people asleep inside and discovered that yes, I did have a seat for the trip to Varanasi that morning.

My train arrived on time and once again I found myself seated with a pleasant Indian family as well as a pair of young men. This trip was much shorter than my previous one, though the train still managed to arrive almost two hours late, clacking its way past the bridge on the river Ganga (Ganges) and into Varanasi Station.

Varanasi is one of the holiest sites in Hinduism. It is said that any Hindu who dies and is cremated here automatically ends the cycle of death and reincarnation and ascends immediately to Nirvana. The Ganga, which flows through the city, is said to have the power to wash away sins, and is at its most powerful at Varanasi.

I’d heard horror stories about touts and rickshaw drivers in Varanasi who were both incredibly persistant and incredibly dishonest, as well as various others about the difficulty of finding a hotel room without paying extra to give the driver a commission and still others about foreign tourists simply disappearing in the city’s maze of streets.

With all of this running through my mind I vowed that I wouldn’t say a word to anyone until I reached the pre-paid autorickshaw stand outside the station. I had to break my vow when I was approached by a tourist police officer who invited me to their office for a quick briefing about Varanasi and an unbiased rundown on places I might like to stay. I must say that the Uttar Pradesh (the state where Varanasi’s located) tourist police are spectacularly well organized and do their very best to ensure that visitors to their city don’t get ripped off or worse.

I picked up my prepaid rickshaw ticket and was surprised to find that conincidentally (or not?) my driver was one who had approached me inside the station. Also stuck in the vehicle was a hotel owner (the moment he started to propose I stay at his place I told him that I never buy or use any product or service that is offered to me unsolicited) and one other fellow whose purpose I couldn’t discern.

When we got near my destination we stopped briefly for traffic and I climbed out, saying that I’d walk the rest of the way. This elicited protest from the driver, who obviously thought that he might be able to drag a commission out of the owners even though I’d picked the place on my own. Nonetheless, I made it, and checked into the wonderful (if unfortunately named) Elvis Guesthouse. The co-owner, a Swedish lady named Seidi, confirmed that I had, indeed been followed by the third member of the rickshaw “gang” who had demanded that they be given a comission for bringing me there. In order to secure me a decent rate for my room she said she’d tell them that I was only eating lunch there, not staying, since the room cost too much.

I wasn’t feeling very well, so I spent most of the remainder of the day on the beautiful rooftop or in my room. One exception was about 2 hours after arrival I opened my door, and headed downstairs, only to see the rickshaw gangster standing at the bottom. Apparently he’d been waiting around to check out my story! I climbed back up, grabbed my pack and headed downstairs, explaining to Seidi that I’d seen him and thought I should look like I was leaving and that I’d be back in a few minutes.

My continued cold and stomach ailment meant that wandering around in the hot afternoon sun with a big pack on was no problem, but at least I did get a look at the streets surrounding my new home before returning for the remainder of a lazy relaxing day.

It may have been relaxing, but in light of my frantic pace and little sleep in previous days it wasn’t enough. The next morning I woke up feeling terrible. Both the cold and the stomach problems that I’d been nursing since Darjeeling were at their worst yet. I walked the few steps to the reception and told them I wanted to see a doctor. It wasn’t really THAT serious, but my mild diarrhea hadn’t stopped for six days, and the cold compounded matters. Besides, I’d paid for travel medical insurance and as such felt compelled to use it.

I fell back asleep and was woken by a knock at my door a few hours later. It was Seidi, who suggested that I would be better off walking to the hospital down the road, since it would be much less expensive and I was, after all, still mobile. I agreed and she kindly led me there. They hospital was semi-shut, but I still managed to see a doctor who wrote down a list of three medicines for me that I procured and returned with so he could confirm their suitability. I lumbered back to the hotel and fell into bed for the remainder of the day. By the evening I felt much better, though I still had to work hard to convince Nandu, the chef at the Elvis, that it was okay to make me even a mildly spicy dish for dinner.

The following morning I woke up feeling wonderfully rested (unsurprising given that I’d slept for about 18 hours the previous day) and ready to see something of the city.

I headed out into the streets of Varanasi, walking down the main road near my hotel towards the centre of the old town. On the way I stopped for a cup of chai at one of many streetside stalls where Indian men sat sipping away and reading their morning papers.

The road I was walking on was busy, chaotic, and even at 09:30 was becoming quite hot. Thankfully the old town offered some respite. While many of its narrow alleys were STILL busy and chaotic, they were so on a scale that wouldn’t admit much (if any traffic) and their very narrowness kept the sun off for most of the day and left them pleasantly cool. I wandered through the twisting, turning corridors taking a general direction towards the river. Many of the places I found myself were active commerce centres, with food, sweets, cloth or other goods changing hands, but others were actually very quiet. Many of the buildings fronting onto the alleys featured murals, almost all of which featured one or more Hindu deities.

My wanderings took me briefly back out onto a major street lined with shacks and shanties before I headed back into the labyrinth and found my way down to the river Ganga.

Varanasi meets the Ganga at a series of Ghats, or stairways leading down into the river. During the wet season these are almost completely submerged and buildings block the spaces between them, but during the dry when I was visiting, it was possible to walk the length of the city along them. While it was still fiercely hot, the breeze off the river and the pleasant intrigue of life along the ghats made it bearable.

Many temples and mosques are located at the tops of the ghats. People head down to the river to bathe or do laundry. The nearest Ghat is probably the most useful part of an address in crowded, winding Varanasi. At some of the wider ghats, children play cricket and men get shaves or massages. Boats used for transport up and down the river are located at their bases. Generally the ghats are just where Varanasi residents go about daily life. But perhaps the most famous of the ghats are those that deal with death.

Manikarnika Ghat is near the centre of the city, and I knew I was approaching it both from the smell of smoke and the piles of wood that started to appear along the alleys I’d briefly detoured into. Most Hindus are cremated when they die, and Manikarnika Ghat is one of the most auspicious places for this ceremony. This fact, along with its prominent location have also turned it into something of a tourist attraction. Several balconies have been built over the ghats. When visitors walked out onto one they first received an admonition from many bystanders not to take photos (entirely understandable) and soon after were greeted by one of a few men who say they’re from local hospices which undertake to house the poor and homeless elderly until their deaths and then provide a cremation for them by the river. These fellows explained all manner of details about the ceremonies and conclude with a request for a donation of a few kilos of wood (which they say costs 150 rupees/kg) which could be made to them or directly to hospice residents sitting on the steps outside. I did make such a donation, though looking back on it, I began to wonder if they were really on the level. Though I have my doubts I’ll choose to believe that they were honest, first because I dislike the thought of them profaning such a sacred spot and second because I don’t like thinking of myself as being so foolish.

I carried on walking south along the river, past Dasaswamedh Ghat, the heart of the city and consequently the one with the most irritating salespeople and scam artists. I’d already read that there were many palm readers there, so after the first man shook my hand and tried to twist it over to start his reading uninvited, instead of shaking offered hands simply pressed my palms together and said “namaste,” in traditional Indian style. The remainder of the offers weren’t quite so blunt and were easily turned aside with a polite “no thank you.”

Indeed, Varanasi was proving to be neither as good nor as bad as I’d been led to believe. Given the stories I’d heard, I expected that I’d find myself somehow moved by the deep spiritual significance of the place, and that I’d possibly “never see the world the same way again.” While Varanasi was an interesting city, its effects were nowhere near that profound. At the same time I’d expected to be CONSTANLY hassled and harassed by touts and con-men, but aside from several rickshaw drivers and the folks at Dasaswamedh Ghat, the people of Varanasi seemed to have relatively little interest in me, and were just going about their lives. Indeed, I was almost embarassed at my first day’s stony silence and refusal to look at those who adressed me. Almost all of the people who said hello were just being genuinely friendly.

My walk along the Ghats finished, I returned to the Elvis for a bit of reading, and later a bit of writing at a nearby internet cafe (there were a lot of terrible, expensive ones in town, but thankfully Gautam the other co-owner of Elvis directed me to a good one.)

The following day was my busiest of all in Varanasi. I had to make up for the time I’d spent nursing my illness which was by then long gone. I woke unaided around 05:30, which gave me time to get dressed and head down to the river for a boat ride along the Ganga at sunrise. On the way down I met a boat pilot who (again, much against my expectations) readily agreed to the standard government-set price for an hour long trip on the river.

Sunrise was the perfect time to be out on the river. It just a bit warm with a beautiful breeze blowing. People were heading down to the Ghats for their ritual baths in the Ganga. The quality of light was just fabulous, with the large vistas along the banks, as well as the individual buildings alike benefiting from it.

Better still, most of the town was just beginning to wake, so there was little sound other than the rippling or splashing of water. Some of this came from the bathers, some from the oars of the boat pushing us through the water, and some… well I suppose the smack of the dobhi-wallahs (laundry people) slapping dirty clothes down on the rocks wasn’t actually peaceful in a traditional sense, but it still added to the atmosphere.

The morning boat trip was definitely a highlight of my time in Varanasi. Many others had noted that they’d seen human body parts (unburned remains from the burning ghats,) dead buffalo and undentifiable lumps of sludge in the river, but my trip was all about the peace and the beauty of the holiest of Hindu cities rising for another day.

I climbed up from the river and, predictably, I suppose, fell back asleep for a couple of hours. When I rose I wandered back out onto the busy streets headed for Benares (another name for Varanasi) Hindu University. The streets leading to the scool were, unsurprisingly, just as busy and chaotic as elsewhere, but there was a tremendous shift upon walking through the main gates.

The traffic eased, trees appeared (I never thought a simple tree-lined street could be a tourist attraction, but given the paucity of green space in India, it felt like it) and things just generally appeared to calm down.

I wandered along the street, having a lovely time just walking in the shade, occaisionally pausing for a cup of chai at one of the (much less frequent, but still present) stalls along the side of the road.

Entirely by chance I walked past a building whose purpose held special interest for me: the Department of Civil Engineering! As I was admiring it (actually it was as I was chasing after a peacock trying to get a photo AFTER admiring it) I met a professor of computer science to whom I explained my interest in the buildings. He was delighted to have me as a visitor, especially since he’d been to Toronto and Montreal himself, and invited me to the faculty lounge for a cup of tea. While there I chatted with a half dozen or so professors of engineering and mathematics, hopefully managing to be polite and charming to them al (though when the math fellow told me something about how his thesis supervisor from McMaster had been the first one to solve the suchand-such-something-or-other-node problem back in the 1960s I had to admit that he was going a bit over my head.)

The architecture of BHU was genuinely beautiful. The school was constructed in 1917, with a common (and very pretty) architectural style throughout. While the STYLE is the same for all, each building retains a unique design, making it a wonderful place to simply wander around. I did this for a quite some time, with a long break spent talking to a 4th year mechanical engineering student who was, in turn, taking a break from studying for exams. He was quite happy to hear that it wasn’t only Indian students who often left studying until a few days before.

My final stop at the university was the large Shiva temple at its centre. Most Hindu temples are off limits to non-Hindus, but this one was special, being open to all. The temple itself was nice, but nothing particularly impressive (though the picture of Shiva inside accented by blinking red LEDs inside was memorable.) The best part of the area was the temple grounds which were probably the prettiest and most relaxing places in all the university grounds.

On the way back to the guesthouse I wandewred around the streets, stopping for an occaisional snack and observing the just slightly odd advertisements that appear in many Indian cities. Some of the ones that struck me in particular were those for huge arrays of branded cement and rebar, as well as this poster for a film that, despite being produced outside the US must almost certainly be in terribly bad taste (at the VERY best.)

After my visit to the temple I returned to the guesthouse and spent the remainder of the afternoon engaged in a typically Indian activity: watching cricket. India and Pakistan had just finished a series of three test matches and now were playing the second of six one-day matches as a follow-up. I started to enjoy cricket when I spent two days in South Africa in my friend Nick’s hotel room recovering from jet lag and watching the 1999 World Cup. Ever since I’ve had something of a fondness for the game. Not a fixation as some (e.g. about a billion people in India) have but just a general enjoyment of having a game on in the background somewhere. I quite enjoyed spending the early evening watching the replay of the match (they started the replay LESS THAN AN HOUR AFTER IT FINISHED) and trying to explain the rules to Andre and Eve, a couple from Quebec who had humoured me on the previous evening by allowing me to inflict my abysmal French on them.

My final day in Varanasi wasn’t spent in Varanasi at all, rather, in the town of Sarnath, some 15km to the north.

I hired a cycle rickshaw and negotiated the price and off we went. (When looking for a rickshaw I vowed that I’d refuse to hire anyone who called out to me, but this proved an impossibility since 95% of the drivers did, and the other 5% didn’t speak English.)

The streets were, as always, busy, and it was a long way out to Sarnath, especially by pedal power. This wasn’t helped by the fact that the driver took a longer, less direct route than was necessary and had to stop for directions a couple of times. Our trip took us through the outer areas of Sarnath which, it seemed, housed some of the poorest residents of the already poor city.

Sarnath itself, when we arrived, was a beautiful place and reminded me a lot of Bodhgaya. Which it should have, because Sarnath is the SECOND most significant Buddhist pilgrimage site. It was here that Buddha delivered his first sermon following enlightenment, leading the place to be called “the birthplace of Buddhism.”

It really was remarkably similar to Bodhgaya, with the central temple at the site of the sermon, the loads of souvenier shops and the multiplcity of temples constructed by individual Buddhist nations. Of special note is Ashoka’s Pillar, a brick tower constructed as a monument by the famed Buddhist emperor Ashoka in the 7th century. Also notable was the Thai temple, which was much less ornate than any other Thai Buddhist temple I’d yet seen. It also had the most relaxingly pleasant gardens, and was preparing for the erection of a huge standing Buddha image. The platform and feet had already been constructed, while the head sat smiling peacefully, already covered in gold leaf by pilgrims, and waiting for its day to come.

My walk through Sarnath also led me to a couple of pleasant chats with Sri Lankan Buddhist monks. Presumably their presence in Sarnath was so strong since the Mahabodhi Society, responsible for the construction and upkeep of the temples at Bodghaya, was founded by Angarika Dharmapala, a Sri Lankan who was appaled at the poor condition of the cities when he visited. After spending his life working there, Dharmapala died at Sarnath in 1933.

In additon to Buddhists, Jains also regard Sarnath as a holy site, since it was the birthplace of the 11th of their 24 great teachers. The Jains had one large temple on the site, which was attended by a very friendly young man who explained to me some of the tenets of their religion and its similarities and differences to Buddhism.

Before returning to Varanasi, I went back to the main temple once more, this time taking a look inside. The interior was covered in beautiful frescoes by a Japanese artist, each showing a different scene from the life of the Buddha (it’s unfortunate how they’ve put the ugly plastic signs on the doors immediately below them, but I suppose you can’t have everything.)

The trip back to Varanasi was just insane. I’d thought I’d seen bad traffic before in Varanasi, but it had NOTHING on that afternoon’s mess. We wound our way through street after street (which were interesting for the way single types of businsses concentrated themselves) towards the centre of town. By the time we got to our destination at Gai Ghat nearly an hour had passed, and I felt that my rickshaw driver had probably worked harder than he’d expected for the 100 rupee return fare. That said in my experience to date, rickshaw drivers had invariably been the worst offendors when it came to cheating and hassling tourists, so I didn’t feel THAT bad for him.

I concluded my stay in Varanasi with a walk back along the ghats to the Elvis. During the heat of the day, it was much less pleasant. This was likely due to the fact that most Indians had the good sense to stay indoors during the worst of it (though the monkeys were still out and about it seemed.) It doubtless also had something to do with a ridiculously persistant fellow from one of the burning ghats who followed me for perhaps 1500m soliciting still further donations and later even threatening to have the film removed from my camera if I didn’t comply (an odd threat since A. I hadn’t taken any photos NEAR Manikarnika Ghat that day and B. It was a digital camera.)

Also on the way back, I was stopped by a man who asked if I wanted to come to his “government bhang lassi shop.” A bhang lassi is a basically a marijuana smoothie (common, but still clearly illegal in India.) I was so busy laughing at the idea of such a shop run by the government I hardly had time to say no thanks.

I spent the remainder of the afternoon at Elvis chatting with Nandu (their superb cook), Gautam and Seidi. My only small break was a quick visit to Gautam’s cousin’s silk shop (and though this may ring alarm bells, the guy really was Gautam’s cousin) where I had a very inexpensive silk sleeping bag liner made.

I ended my time in Varanasi crammed into the back of an autorickshaw with two other passengers headed for the train station and out 17:20 departure for Agra, home of the Taj Mahal.

BIG BIG BIG thanks to everyone at the Elvis Guesthouse in Varanasi. They were spectacularly friendly, scrupulously honest, and provided the best room and food in Varanasi at a reasonable price. Anyone who’s planning on a visit to Varanasi, STAY AT THE ELVIS GUESTHOUSE, B3/39 Shivala Ghat, Varanasi-1, phone no. (0542) 2276290. You won’t be disappointed.



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