Varanasi: City of life, death, and everything in between

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We made it to Varanasi in the morning of March 26th, after a very long 42 hours on a train from Mamallapuram. Kerstin, Jeff and I befriended an Austrian guy (Pavel) on the way, and the four of us decided to get a hotel together in town. We'd read in our guidebook that Varanasi was literally the worst place in India for touts, and any attempt to make it our hotel of choice by simply asking a rickshaw driver to take us there would result badly--either we would unknowingly pay up to 80% extra for our room as commission to the driver, or we would be taken to the wrong hotel with a similar name. To avoid this we called our hotel, Shanti, from the train station, to arrange to be picked up. Half an hour later a guy from the hotel showed up to make sure our rickshaws took us to the correct place.

The soul and life of Varanasi revolves around the Ganges river, which runs through its center. Stone ghats (stairs) lead down into the water along the banks of the river, and the ghats are endlessly crowded with people worshipping, washing clothing, ritually bathing, begging, selling floating candles as offerings, meditating, and simply watching life unfold around them. Leading up to the ghats is an endless maze of narrow cobbled alleyways between stone buildings, filled with trash, stray dogs, cows, children, small shops, funeral processions, the occasional goat, and always a mass of people busily going about their day. Rickshaws can't fit into the alleyways, and our hotel was tucked deep into the maze, so we had to walk about a half an hour with our packs through the densely crowded alleys, carefully sidestepping fresh cowpies. At one point, unable to see the ground due to his frontpack and Pavel walking close in front, Jeff stepping right into a fresh pile of cow dung. As if in slow motion, he slid forward onto one knee, somehow managing to avoid dirtying anything aside from his sandal. As it turned out, cow dung was one of the most significant dangers of Varanasi--I have never seen a place so densely covered with it. We finally made it to Shanti Hotel, only to discover a set of incredibly steep stairs leading up to our rooms. We dragged ourselves upstairs, dropped our bags, and headed up to the upstairs restaurant to relax and refuel.

Shanti Hotel was definitely a little old and creaky, but othe simple rooms were nice enough and the restaurant had a fantastic view of the surrounding clutter of buildings and the nearby river. The guesthouse was located nearby to Varanasi's main "burning ghat," where bodies are cremated in open fires by the riverside. Varanasi is one of the holiest Hindu sites in India, and dying and being cremated by the Ganges are considered to be supremely auspicious. Many people come to Varanasi to die, and supposedly the cremation fires at the ghat near our hotel have been burning non-stop since the city was created. Funeral processions carry decorated bodies through the nearby streets at all hours, and bodies are burned rather unceremoniously on individual pyres, wrapped in simple white sheets. Workers tend the fires day and night, stoking them with logs taken from enormous stacks piled in the nearby alleys. The whole process is surprisingly casual and efficient--but then again, I suppose they would have the routine pretty well figured out after so many years.

With the exception of the two funeral ghats, where death and the constant cloud of grey smoke create a more somber atmosphere, the rest of Varanasi's ghats are teeming with color and life. Almost every day we would wander through the alleys and along the riverbank, often becoming hopelessly lost in the narrow streets, but always able to ourient ourselves by tracking down the river. The central ghats were always the busiest, crowded with sadhus wrapped in bright orange, often ringing with bells from the daily puja ceremonies, smelling of chai and sewage. Rowboats hauled tourists up and down the river at all times of day, and buffalos swam in the shallows near the ghats. Everywhere--in alleyways and crevaces, on ledges and windowsills--were tiny shrines covered in flowers and paint. It was as if the ancient holiness of the river had seeped into the buildings and alleys, creating sudden pockets of religious essence, like bright flowers growing out of crumbling bricks.

Our hotel offered free hour-long boatrides at sunrise and sunset, and we took advantage of both a number of times. At sunset one evening we stopped at the central ghats to watch the nightly puja ceremony, where six identically-dressed Hindu students perform the ceremonial worship in a neat row, waving flames and feathers slowly and methodically as offerings to the gods. The river and steps are crowded with watching crowds of people; Indian tourists as well as foreign tourists, along with the ever-present sadhus. Another night we watched the ceremony from the steps instead of the water, literally surrounded by the chiming of bells and smell of incense and the dense spirituality of the participating crowd. As the light faded, the river began to twinkle with the flames of hundreds of floating candles, cast into the river as offerings and for good luck. Even from our hotel the floating flames were visible each night, snaking along slowly with the current, a flickering parade of tiny wishes.

Despite its still-blue waters and the inherent holiness of the river, the Ganges is terribly polluted, filled with sewage, chemicals, heavy metals, decaying bodies and trash. Yet worshippers still bathe, wash their clothes and drink the holy water daily, and none of them come out choking or ill--perhaps the holiness of the river overcomes the filth allowed to pollute it. After years of studying Hinduism and hearing about the holy Ganges, Jeff decided to bathe in it one morning, joining a group of people ritualistically dunking themselves in the water as the sun rose behind the river. Afterwards we walked back along the ghats, watching the morning rituals of the pilgrims and Sadhus.

After about five days in Varanasi I began to get sick, eventually developing a fever, headache and aching muscles along with a headcold and stomach ache. After three days of not improving, and after reading and re-reading the medical section of our travel book that says in bold "if you develop a fever in a malarial area get tested immediately" I finally decided it was about time I get tested, just in case. Our hotel had an on-call doctor, who said he'd arrive in half an hour. After fifteen minutes he called back to say it would be an hour, but he's send a boy over right away with medicine to lower my fever. The boy showed up promptly with a fever medication and an energy drink mix. He took my blood pressure and checked my pulse, although when asked he informed me that this was a hobby only and although he was in school, he wasn't studying medicine or anything related. He told me the doctor might be another hour or so, and left me with my orange-flavored energy drink. The doctor in fact took another six hours to show up, finally arriving around 9 p.m. He spent a total of 30 seconds checking me over--a brief look at my throat and a momentary touch of my wrist--before declaring that I certainly didn't have malaria and diagnosing me with an upper respiratory tract infection. He then proceeded to perscribe a variety of medicines and remedies, scribbling the information on a notepad. I informed him of a drug allergy I have, and he turned to Jeff to verify it, as if my word weren't enough to be sure. When he went through his perscriptions he literally turned his back to me and spoke only to Jeff, which was a little shocking but I suppose pretty common practice here. (There have been a number of times when Jeff has been greeted and I ignored, although I do think women's situations are improving and I've seen a lot of organizations dedicated to the cause.) He left after a total of about three minutes, saying he'd send another boy over with the medicines. The boy was there so quickly I'm literally not sure how he did it, bringing the doctor's orders: a round of antibiotics, cough syrup, and overwhelmingly strong menthol-smelling tablets to break open and inhale. I decided to avoid the antibiotics and cough syrup, since I wasn't coughing and wasn't eager to destroy all the bacteria in my gut while in India, but the menthol tablets worked pretty well. Whether or not his diagnosis was exactly correct, I did begin to feel better after a few days.

On our last day in Varanasi we decided to visit Sarnath, a small town outside of Varanasi which is home to Deer Park, the place where the Buddha gave his first sermon. The park holds a number of ruins, a few Buddhist temples, and an enormous pagoda marking the spot where he spoke. Inside the main temple were beatiful golden Buddha statues surrounded by flowers and offerings, and the walls were painted with the Buddha's life story. In the adjacent courtyard is a Bodhi tree, grown from a sappling of the original Boddhi tree, under which the Buddha gained enlightenment. Jeff and I each took a leaf from the ground to press in a book and keep. We briefly visited a Jain temple that also stands on the grounds, and then walked through the ruins. A few deer are kept in the park, separated from visitors by a chainlink fence, and we fed them fruits and petted their velvety-soft antlers. A few other tourists wandered through the temples and ruins, but the place was mostly empty and quite peaceful. It was a good preface of our next stop: McLeod Ganj, home of the Dalai Lama in exile. We left Varanasi that evening, taking a train to Pathankot and a taxi from there up winding mountain roads to McLeod.

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Comments

[Claire]

Happy Buddha Enlightenment Day!
How appropriate that I should read your blog today of all days! After learning about India for years and seeing pictures youd think Id be used to the stunning imagery - but it still mezmorizes me! The colors and the beauty of the people! Love your blogs honey - I can visualize it in my head through your words... Hope alls welll - and quit getting sick! Thats no fun ........