Benaras
Namit Arora shares his experience of visiting Varanasi in this lovely piece on 3QuarksDaily. Go read that.
My only visit to Varanasi was at the end of 2008. Accompanied by a friend, it was a stop on a 6000km pan-country journey whose purpose was somehow never defined, nor spoken about the minute the first train pulled out of the platform.
Getting off at Mughalsarai, we rented an incredibly nausea inducing taxi and were dropped off near Varanasi’s main railway station close to midnight. It was cold. Very cold. Three cows were sleeping on the main concourse. The familiar smell of diesel and shit was supplanted by fumes from rancid oil into which puris were being thrown in great quantities. We slept in the retiring room which had clearly seen better days. One cockroach was in a battle for its life against an equally determined lizard who seemed to relish the thought of a chunky dinner.
The next morning saw me trooping off the the ghats after a longish walk through narrow lanes that lead upto the river. One policeman asked if I was carrying a bomb in my backpack. I told him no. He seemed satisfied, adjusted his pants over a size 46 paunch and waved me on.
Every street seemed ancient. Looked ancient. Smelt ancient. Ghee, ash, milk and puris.
******
“300 rupees only, saab”, says Lakhan who wins my contract to ferry me around.
We head east first, towards the Harishchandra Ghat passing people who are drinking and sprinkling the same water a few others were washing clothes and peeing in a few meters upstream.
Even the floating Pepsi and Coke bottles take on an ancient air.
One pretty white lady in the adjacent boat is being hooted at by people on the banks. Her bra straps are showing.
At Harishchandra Ghat, three men kick some still burning ash into the river as another corpse arrives. Dogs go sniffing around. Other men mill about looking for scraps of jewelry. Cash is being exchanged among another set of men. One person looks longingly at the smoldering ash. One bangle is removed from the newly arrived corpse and handed over to thuggish looking guy.
Death is first and foremost an enterprise here.
We turn around and head west.
A boat croses our path. 3 people grieving intensely, holding an impossibly tiny body wrapped in white and goldenish cloth. One person doesn’t want to let go, but the two others take the bundle and dump it in unceremoniously. “Less than five years old child. Straight to heaven via the river”, murmurs Lakhan.
A group of six brothers are being led by a priest to perform the tarpan ceremony. Lakhan sneers, “25000 Rs for dead people not be reborn.”
Just before the Pashupathinath Ghat, a TV program is being recorded. The bearded saint is getting make up tips from the cameraman.
Japanese and German bakeries abound. One even doubles up as a boutique.
More pilgrims from the hinterland pour in. Shivering and all covered up, they would have spent most of their life savings to get here. Pushed and herded around like cattle for slaughter. One woman bends down, looks up at the sun, closes her eyes for ten seconds and sips the water. A piece of foam covered cloth floats by. She seems to be at peace.
Approach Manikarnika Ghat, the world’s busiest funeral place. I chuckle when I make a vague reference in my head to the British series ‘Allo ‘Allo and its undertaker Mr. Alphonse. His motto - swiftly and with style. No style here at Manikarnika. Just a manic endevour to burn bodies and move on. Logs of wood are stacked high. Traffic jam of corpses. The grief is palpable. It tangs the air.
100 meters down, kids play cricket.
The cycle remains undisturbed. Varanasi continues as before.
