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Argh! Mosquitos! I’m going to have to buy some coils to burn in my room and start wearing my repellent regularly. By the end of the day I had a bite on my ankle and two on my chin (huh?). I guess I’m back into insect country.
I roll out onto the ghats around ten and start by walking south. I’m not sure why, but I’m still surprised by how hazy and smoggy it is in India. Every day I walk out of my hotel and can only see an outline of the buildings down the way. There’s only one way to describe the ghats of Varanasi: stairs, stairs, stairs and more stairs. Hundreds of them. Stretching for kilometers. I will have thighs of steel by the end of the day, especially if I continue to patronize my hotel’s rooftop restaurant.
It seems a bit quiet; not too many people are out and about and a fair number of those who are are tourists. You can’t really tell how polluted the river is as you walk along the ghats, but I’ve heard that this is one of the most heavily polluted stretches of water in the world. I can believe it after having heard what people use the river for: garbage dump; laundromat; burial ground (one person saw the corpse of a baby floating along after it came untied from the rock that held it on the river bottom); bathtub; bathroom; industrial waste storage; baptismal font; etc etc.
The buildings that run along my right all look like they used to be 18th century palaces that were allowed to fall into disrepair. The grandest has been turned into an observatory, but the others now seem to be shoddy guesthouses, stores or homes for several families. They didn’t skimp on paint, though, and the color palette is a multitude of colors that seem like they should clash, but never do. The other side of the river looks like a wasteland; no trees or buildings in site, just a barren stretch of beach as far as the eye can see. Someone explains to me later that it used to be covered in trees, but the citizens of Varanasi have long since cut them all down to use as firewood for their cremations.
Even though it’s fairly quiet, there’s still a hum of activity everywhere you walk: Kids skip up and down the river, flying kites made of sheets of crinkly, colored plastic. Women beat laundry with a stick. Men bob up and down in the water. Cows, dogs, goats and people loll in the sunshine. Ayurvedic masseuses call out for customers from their wooden chairs. A snake charmer starts a pair of cobras dancing with his pipe. A hundred men ask me, “Boat madam? Very good price. Just 100 rupees for one hour.” Groups of boys somehow manage to play games of cricket without the river swallowing their ball.
This morning, though, I simply want to be an observer, so I turn down all offers of boats and requests to stop into stores. I make my way as far south as I can go, to a large and very attractive-looking park. As I round the corner and follow the path on the other side, however, a nauseating sight and smell present themselves: it’s a river of grey sludge cutting a valley through mountains of garbage. I wish I could say I was exaggerating. This is absolutely the most disgusting thing my senses have ever had to cope with. There must be decades of filth built up in this ravine and I start to get emotional again over how little pride Indian people appear to have in their environment. If I could change anything about this country, it would be how the people dispose of their waste.
I rush down the path to the main entrance of the park as quickly as I can, intending to go in and get out of the building heat. The smell drives me on, though, looking for a café I can go into to have a cool drink away from what I’ve just seen. At this point, I see a sign with a name on it that I recognize: Open Hand Textile Shop and Café. The guidebook recommended it as a place to get fair-price and fair-practice garments and home goods. I had been meaning to check it out, anyway, so I stop in, get some tea and start shopping.
An hour later I walk out with a hunter green and deep purple scarf, a bright blue and red silk shawl, and the piece de resistance: the most beautiful sari ever woven. It’s a bold purple that has a red sheen when the light hits it and is intricately embroidered with gold thread. It’s the single most expensive thing I’ve bought in India and I really have no idea how to put it on myself, but who cares? It’s one of the three most beautiful dresses I have ever worn in my life. The saleswoman sends me to her tailor to make me a custom-fitted Indian-style blouse from the extra fabric on the sari. Salim is a wonderful man who agrees to rush and finish it tonight for no extra charge.
Oh, my god. I can’t stop smiling. This is fabulous!! I’m not sure when I would really wear it outside of Halloween, but maybe I’ll get really lucky and be invited to an Indian wedding in Singapore. Or maybe I should learn how to put it on and just wear it around my condo and feel glamorous.
I’m now walking back up towards the northern end of the ghats, passing some of the same people I saw before. A couple of children who speak excellent English trail alongside me trying very hard to get me to buy a small bowl with a flower and candle in it. At the evening aarti ceremony (much like the one performed in Rishikesh), you’re supposed to make a wish for your family’s health and prosperity and send it floating down the river. First they try to make me feel bad for not wanting to bless my family, but they change tactics when I tell them I have no money because I just went shopping. The little boy tells me not to lie because it’s bad for karma. I promise him, though, that if I had any money he would get it (eh, who needs karma, anyway?). To their credit they don't ever believe me, but eventually they start tailing another tourist.
When I get back to the ghat near my hotel I keep walking and arrive at the famous Manikarnika Ghat: the burning ghat. This is where every Hindu family in India tries to bring their deceased relatives; by being cremated here they can automatically achieve moksha, release from the cycle of reincarnation and entrance into nirvana. The women are not allowed past a certain point because it’s assumed they will lose themselves to grief and throw themselves on the fire. The men in the family are required to shave all of their hair off and cannot cry or the deceased’s soul will be stuck in some kind of Hindu limbo. And of course the higher caste families have their own site on the ghat for cremation, a bit further in from the river.
There is a strict rule about who can be burnt here: only those who died of natural causes. The following must be burnt further south on the river at a smaller and less prestigious ghat: suicides, murders, accidental deaths, pregnant women, babies and children, the mentally challenged and anyone other than priests. The latter are considered holy in and of themselves and are typically just tied to a rock and thrown into a river. Actually, it would appear that you can dispose of anyone that way and I’ve heard several stories of people who saw a corpse that had apparently floated to the surface after the rope keeping it submerged broke.
Although I see several large fires and a couple of bodies wrapped in orange fabric being washed in the river, I don’t see anyone actually being cremated. Even though the ghat runs 24/7, it seems that this is a break and they won’t begin again until after I’ve arranged to meet with friends. I’m not sure if I’m disappointed, though, because I’m not sure if it’s something I want to see or not.
I decide to walk on to take in all of the ghats before I meet Sally and Emma for the evening boat ride put together by the hotel. As soon as you pass Manikarnika the number of people dwindles to almost nothing. There’s an impressive, but now short, steeple from a temple that fell into the water from its own weight 150 years ago (which the industrious Indians simply built around and continued with their daily lives). One ghat is painted aquamarine, another has a crude sculpture of someone lying down and another has Varansi’s largest mosque towering a hundred meters above it.
But now it’s time to get back to the hotel and get on the water. Emma, Sally and I are going to take them up on their free evening boat ride down the river and back. The sun has basically gone down already, but the sky still has the color of an old bruise to it, yellow and pink with hints of purple. Lots of other boats cruise by and several people start putting the little bowls with candles on the water. As it gets darker they look like glowing trail of breadcrumbs leading back towards our hotel.
As we near one of the ghats towards the south, I realize that it's one of the burning ghats. This ghat is where the Manikarnikan 'rejects' are taken. There's also a large electric crematorium so that poorer families can cremate their relatives for less money (paying for the wood for a burning costs a small fortune). At night, it's a haunting scene; the fire turns everything into silhouettes, from the people walking around tending to the flames to the bodies sitting on them. Photography really is strictly prohibited, but I turn my flash off and surreptitiously take a few shots that turn out to be some of my favorites from this entire trip.
Our oarsman tells us the names of the ghats and a lot of things I already know, but then offers to row us up close to the evening aarti ceremony that takes place on the river. He’ll charge us, of course, but he says he can get us in front of the other boats and provide snacks if we’d like. Sally and Emma are interested (I’ve seen this before, but I go where they go if I want company) so we glide in front of the five small tables set up for the five Brahmin priests who will use the objects on them to give to thanks to mother Ganga for her gifts.
It starts with a long, loud blast on conch shells and then the bells start. Bells above the ghat, in the crowd and held by the priests will ring nonstop for the entire 40-minute ceremony. To summarize what happens, the priests start by waving incense and canters in circles, then small flames, then bigger and bigger candelabras until they require two hands to hold. All of this is accompanied by one man on drums and another singing and playing the sitar. It ends with another blast on the conch and lots of throwing flowers into the river. The only thing that really holds my interest, since I’ve seen this before, is the priest who is standing right in front of our boat. He’s strikingly handsome and he moves his hands with more grace than I’ve seen in any dancer. I’m absolutely transfixed by his gestures and am impressed by the practice that must have gone into such perfect movements.
We return to the hotel all too soon, but our oarsman thinks it would be funny if we three girls took turns trying to row the boat. I think he wants to show us how “hard” it is to move the boat along the river (although he has been doing this for ten years now) so that we give him a sizable tip at the end. It’s a riot! Bamboo oars that are only held in place with ropes are definitely a bit harder than the oars on the crew boats at Michigan and the photos we take of each other easily show the effort involved. Eventually he says, “All right, please let me row again.” The unspoken message was definitely heard.
Oof, we’re beat, so we head up to the now-buzzing rooftop café to have some dinner. At one point I look over and think I recognize a guy at another table, and after about 10 minutes I realize it’s one of the South African guys I met in Amritsar! What a small friggin’ country! I sit down with the guys for a bit and we chat about where they’ve been, where they’re going, what they’ve seen…our path probably won’t overlap again after this, but to see the same people after traveling so far is incredibly cool.
As I go to bed I realize I’m pleasantly surprised by Varanasi. The guidebook said this was one of the most difficult cities for tourists to visit, but that it could be extremely rewarding if you’re able to get past all of the sources of stress and difficulty. Well, I guess I’ve managed to do that because I confess I’m a bit enchanted by this city and would stay another day if I had the time. It would be fun to spend more time getting lost in Godawlia and stumbling upon more of the temples that seem to jump out at you when you round the corner. I guess I stayed the perfect amount of time in Rishikesh; maybe some divine hand is guiding me through India after all…
