Great Expectations

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‘Come with me sir, cremation starting now – you come, you see, you mourn … come, come now … ‘. I am not sure whether Charles Dickens ever visited Varanasi, on the banks of the River Ganges, but surely the wizened, and somewhat dishevelled, ancient man who was now tugging on my sleeve and trying to pull me goodness knows where, features in one of his novels. I had fallen behind the others, as they climbed up the ever-narrowing lane away from the cremation ghat with our guide, to take a photograph of the huge piles of wood stacked ready for more cremations. Luckily the same guide had just warned us to turn down such offers flatly and not to linger in the area where the dead were lying in shrouds ready to be burned at the water’s edge. This was the first time in India that I had felt at all threatened or intimidated, and a creeping fear did actually run along my spine as his hand, looking and feeling as strong as a tree root, grabbed my arm and he tried more forcefully to pull me. Fairly violently I shrugged him off, left him cursing me in my wake, and walked away rather rapidly. Glancing back, I saw that his face, which moments before had looked full of despair and pleading, was now just furious. I wasted no more time and caught up with Diana and the children as our guide navigated the narrow streets of the old town in our search for the golden temple of Lord ShivaThese were streets that Dickens could have written about; buildings overhead so close, they seemed to touch, closing out the post-dawn pink sky, cobbles covered in detritus, all manner of excrement and the sleeping animals and people that had produced it, temples at every turn and, even at this early hour, all manner of labourers from bamboo scaffolders to professional mourners, making their way to work.
We had expected much from Varanasi; our best chance of sampling India’s ancient and profound spirituality and to try and understand the power of the draw that Mother Ganges has on the millions of devotees and pilgrims who come each year to bathe, drink or scatter the ashes of their loved ones in her water. We visited the main ghat at both sunrise, for mass prayers, and again, at sunset, to observe people’s individual rituals. The children were very disturbed at the number of beggars that greeted us, and especially at the sight of a very persistent young woman, whose face, neck and hands had been reconstructed after what looked like horrific burns or scalds. They had another scary moment when a young man, jokingly, made to run over their toes on his motorbike. His smile (of apology?) afterwards suggested he realised how his action seemed in the chaos and noise of the busy market street leading down to the river. We decided that the press of humanity building up around the platform where the prayers would be offered would prove too much for W ad E and so we watched the ceremony from a balcony a short distance away. As the sun set behind us and bathed the river in a beautiful pink glow, we could just about trace the path of the tiny candle-carrying boats that the children had, just moments before, launched out across the water. I am sure that the wishes they had been asked to make included some element of getting away from the crowds and the beggars as soon as possible! The seven young Brahmic priests climbed up on to their dias (???) and offered prayers in a very elaborate ceremony that made much use of fire and incense, and was led by their singing, chanting and clapping and accompanied by much bell-ringing. There was much too much detail and complex symbolism for us to really follow what was going on but this truly was a spectacle worth coming for. The crowds leaving the river were worse than those we had encountered previously and it was with some relief that we found our driver and snaked our way back across town to our hotel and the chance to sleep in proper bed, sandwiched as this night was between the pleasures of nights on board sleeper trains. We were so tired that even the drums, marching band and the explosions from the wedding outside our room couldn’t keep us awake!
Zombie-like we met our driver the following morning before dawn as our guide was going to take us out by boat to watch the river come awake. The beggars were still there, forming a sort of colonnade following the steps down to the ghat, as was the young woman, much to the children’s dismay. We wasted little time in boarding our long canoe. A dipped hand revealed the water to be surprisingly (and suspiciously) warm but this didn’t prevent a number of those immersing themselves to emerge somewhat startled and to breathe in gasps. Young, old, men, women, children, faces etched with sorrow and joy – all manner of private (apart from all of the onlooking tourists) ceremonies were unfolding. Happiest seemed to be the family of pilgrims drenching each other fully-clothed and it was reassuring that even here, in the most holy of rivers, mum had remembered the shampoo! Most poignant were an old married couple, who delicately navigated their way hand in hand down the final steps and through the debris on the water’s edge before submerging together, and then hugging with tears streaming down their faces. I felt dreadful for having photographed them, and averted my gaze and put away the camera. The camera was definitely not welcome, nor used, as our ferryman rowed us past the banks of the dead and the groups of mourners waiting for the priest to come and light the funeral pyres they stood around. I am not sure that W and E really understood what was going on here, or that they knew what lay beneath the golden shrouds on the steps behind. After my encounter with Dickens’ mourner and the briefest glimpse through the doorway of the golden temple and the adjacent mosque we left the river area behind. Such was the security surrounding this flashpoint from the past, that it was a relief to get back on to the market streets – W is a bit of a one for staring anyway, and I had visions of him showing too much interest in the body armour and submachine guns …
Before catching the afternoon sleeper train to Kolkatta we made two short visits. Firstly, we went for a drive around the campus of Asia’s largest university, the Baharas Hindu University, founded as a charity about a hundred years ago. This seemed like a strange site to visit but it was quite bizarre to see departments for Astrology and Molecular Genetics near to each other, such is the range of courses on offer here, all for ridiculously low fees. Of course, the competition for places is intense (100,000 applicants for 70 places to read medicine) and in a country where education is savoured and highly-prized this must make for a very intelligent student body. It was reassuring, and heart-warming too, to drive through the massive campus and to see young people having fun in the warm winter sunshine, away from the bustle of the dusty streets or the shiny shopping malls. As tiredness crept up on us, and the temperature climbed towards thirty degrees, our attention and interest wandered as our guide took us around the archaeological remains at Sarnath, where Lord Buddha first preached having attained enlightenment. One object in the museum woke us all up though, and made us think again about archaeology and about India, and its remarkable history. In the centre of the entrance lies the 2300-yr old lion capping stone, erected to celebrate Buddha’s life with its message of restrained power, and peaceful intention. This is the symbol you see at the centre of modern India’s flag and it is a remarkable piece of art; huge in scale, beautifully-carved in sandstone (polished so well it looks like marble) and incredibly preserved (apart from the odd bit of axe-damage from the monghul hordes). It must have made for an even more impressive sight at the top of the 40-m high column where it sat originally. Perhaps Nehru and the others wanted this to represent what lies at the heart of India – powerful, yet peaceful and ancient, yet still influential?

For once our train experience has worked for us, and I am typing this in the early hours on the lower bunk of a 4-berth surrounded by the gentle snores of W, E and D. All sitting (and sleeping) together has made the journey more fun, and far less stressful, and was what I had envisaged when I put the itinerary to the travel agent many months ago. I hope that we are all rested as we pull into Kolkatta in the morning – two days with the Carlings could throw anything at us, including chaos not unbecoming this amazing country!

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Comments

[The Scorers]

Homeward Bound!
Hello, We have loved reading your Blog and seeing gorgeous pics and can't believe its so nearly over. Have a safe journey home and we look forward to hearing the highlights in person soon. Lots of love, Nick, Kate and Annabelle xxx