We step off the train into the mad swirl of the railway in Hinduism’s holiest of holy cities; Varanasi. The crowded station is filled with a mass of humanity walking, sitting and lying on every available horizontal surface.. We wade through the sights and sounds with beggars tugging on our sleeves towards the station exit and are swarmed by rikshaw drivers. “Hey mister, rikshaw”? “Madam, where you going? Taxi?” After the requisite haggling for 10 minutes we find a driver who wedges the three wheeled contraption into the near gridlock of traffic. We are soon flagged to a stop by a traffic cop who hassles the driver for twenty minutes because the paperwork on the ten day old rikshaw is not in order. After much hand wringing, pleading and shouting, are finally on our way. After a seemingly interminable ride through the clogged and dusty streets we are dropped off with vague directions to our hotel which was down a lane too narrow for the rikshaw. Many of the lanes of old Varanasi are too narrow for anything but pedestrians and the hundreds of cows that occupy the town. We soon discover that we have been had; we were nowhere near our destination.
Richard and Kate in the streets
After wandering around tired, lost and frustrated, we finally find a kind soul who s us get on the right track. We hire two bicycle rikshaws and go back most of the way we came to be dropped within a five minute walk of our hotel. It was difficult to understand why the first driver left us where he did. Where we needed to go was not any further. Ah, the mystery of India!
When we stepped down from the cycles another kind soul helped us find our hotel and while it is not the room of our dreams, it will do for our 24 hours in Varanasi. After checking in and a quick (for India) lunch at the rooftop restaurant we hit the streets. We are soon mired (literally) and lost in the cow pie spattered, twisting, turning lanes of Varanasi. We finally figure out we have more or less been paralleling the river. We see the proverbial light at the end of the tunnel and step out on to a broad platform with steps leading down to the Mother Ganges River. These are the famous ghats of Varanasi.
A view of the ghats downriver
We are soon swarmed with boat men offering a scenic ride on the river. We wave them off for the time being and begin a walk up the river and are soon confronted with the spectacle of huge piles of firewood announcing our arrival at the burning ghats. These ghats are the place to be cremated if you are a Hindu. It is believed that a cremation here followed by the dumping of your ashes into the Ganges River releases one from the cycle of rebirth. This is the holiest place in all of Hindustan.
Below us are several fires in in various stages of combustion each containing a corpse that is soon reduced to ashes. We see other corpses wrapped in gold or red cloth which denotes whether the corpse is a male or female. These macabre bundles are first washed in the holy water of the river and then propped on the steps to dry before being placed in a cradle of wood. More wood is piled on top and soon the men of the family circle the corpse and finally the pile is lit.
A corpse ready for cremation
It is difficult for me to understand how such a polluted river can be holy. Not only are the ashes of the corpses disposed of into its waters, but all the raw sewage from Varanasi goes in as well. Also the corpses of lepers, yogis, cows, dogs and all the detritus associated with the cremations is chucked in without benefit of burning. The river is a deep green, algaefied primordial soup that somehow sustains a variety of river fish. Most of the inhabitants and pilgrims bathe in it everyday as well. Holy? You be the judge.
For me, Varanasi is not nearly as powerful as it once was. When I visited Varanasi 35 years ago, the power and spirit of the place was palpable even to one who is as admittedly non spiritual as me. Today, the essence of Varanasi is buried in ads for tourist hotels, restaurants and cow shit. However, there are still bits and pieces of that spirit in evidence. It is evident in the temple that is half submerged from floods of many years ago. It is evident in the ritual of the funeral pyre as the eldest son sets the torch to the pyre of his dead father. It is evident in the early morning light when the river is peaceful, serene, still and misty.
A local bathes in the holy river
After a stroll crossing many of the ghats, we succumb to a particularly persuasive boatman and set off in a 20’ rowboat for an hour float along the Mother Ganga. As we drift along 100 yards offshore, the warts, filth, and babble of humanity fade and we can admire some of the ancient palaces Many of the kings of the old states of India built elaborate palaces here to commune with this holy place. There is a Nepalese temple, a Biharian King’s palace and palaces built by religious sects like the Hare Khrishnas. This is perhaps the best view of the city with the steps of the individual ghats in all configurations, styles and colors drawing ones eye up to the diverse and at times elaborate architecture above.
Sunset on the Ganga
Pilgrims release floating blessings
We leave the river shortly after the sun sets behind the city. We rush to the main ghat for the nightly ceremony performed by young Bhramin monks which seems to be designed to bestow blessings on the crowd of tourist boats at their feet. Nonetheless it is an impressive ceremony with drumming, clanging bells, and whirling pots of fire, smoke, incense and candles.
A young Bhramin pays tribute to the Mother River
We rise before dawn to take another boat ride. The morning is cool and damp and we shiver in the pre dawn light as the oars break the oily surface of the river to leave whirlpools of irridescense. The day brightens and we welcome a dull orange ball as it springs whole from the morning mist on the river. While I am not sure if we are born anew, we welcome the warmth of the sun as it turns from orange to yellow and warms our cold and damp bones.
Deb rows the Ganges
After a quick (for India) breakfast at a rooftop restaurant high above the river, we plunge into the narrow twisting lanes of the city. Walking is a challenge here as the lanes are at most six feet wide. We share this space with the locals and hordes of pilgrims who come to Varanasi to worship and or die. There are also cows, goats, dogs, motorcycles, beggars and the attendant droppings to dodge, avoid, step over or around. All the while one is also confronted with touts, woks of boiling grease, and monkeys scampering above. Music blares from many shops and the jabber of multiple languages is a cacophony to the ears. The smells of urine, feces, exotic spices, frying samosas and unwashed flesh assault the nose. Emotions are shredded by armless beggars, lepers, mangy dogs and the crush of humanity. This is a 100% assault on all the senses. There is no other place like this on earth. It almost seems to shout, “THIS IS INDIA!”
Three Saddhus meditate on the Mother
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