The Washing-Away of Christopher's Sins.

---

"If there are three-hundred and sixty-five days in the year, then Hindus have three-hundred and ninety-five festivals." - Abbas, a Kashimiri Muslim

Chimes. Shouts. Rickshaw motors. Foot-stomps. Bells. Hand-claps. The screams of monkeys. These sounds fill the never-void night air. Over the ruckus of the Varanasi night, in ever-louder tones a chant rises. The Brahman mantra becomes a roar. The attendant crowd repeats the names of the parents, grandparents, children, and grandchildren of the dead. The rhythm of the chimes picks up and, if I listen carefully enough, I can hear the crackle and sizzle of burning sandalwood.

Shingria, our guest house, is spitting distance from the burning ghats and evening is the most popular cremation time (Though generally bodies come in at a rate of about one per three hours.) For our part, Marci and myself have retired early tonight. We spent the better part of the evening wander through the main bazaar fending off relentless offers—“Silk! Madame! Silk! Rickshaw! You want rickshaw? No? Romantic boatride! No? Silk?...” We did enjoy a brief respite, sitting quietly on the Dasaswamedh Ghat steps, our proximity to the sallow-faced, blue-clad tourist police warding off any would-be comers.

It wasn’t long before crowds of people began to pile in. The Ganga Aarti celebration consisted of a group of focused-looking young men keading a parade of worshippers down the ghat steps to a stage set up by the water. Music and chanting struck up and the boys lit sets of torches, candles, and oil lamps and waved them around their heads while the excited crowd of Indians, sprinkled decently with tourists, exhorted them on. As all this went on, people were bathing away their sins in the Ganges and lighting candle floats surrounded by marigolds and pushing them into the water. These floating prayers for good karma floated slowly in groups or alone, pushed along by the current of the river.

Circulating through the crowds were the dark-eyed sadhus. Sadhus are men who have abandoned their families and renounced their former lives in order to wander the countryside in perpetual states of worship. In Varanasi, they can usually be seen in the morning at the foot of the ghats, praying and immersing themselves in the water. They seem to scrounge enough money to live by taking donations in return for saying prayers for people, and because it’s considered good karma to give them money. At the Dasaswamedh ceremony we had two encounters with sadhus. The first was when a sadhu holding a candle and a tray of scarlet dust placed bindis (third eyes) on our unsuspecting foreheads while we watched the fire display.

The second encounter occurred after we had been whisked away by Poka and Dipa, two incredibly crafty and charming little girls. (Dipa followed the question, “Are you married?” with the non-sequitur, “Do you know Goldie Hawn?” After we assured her that we didn’t have a personal relationship with the star of the Bad News Bears she informed us that Ms. Hawn had visited Varanasi in 2002 and that the two of them were friends. Apparently, Goldie Hawn is a lovely person.) We ended up buying some marigolds from Dipa and Poka and they were very pleased by both the appreciated rate and the pack of Molson Canadian matches that I parted with. (I initially felt a twinge of concern about encouraging little girls to play with matches before I realized that they were both earning their own living and, not to mention, lighting all the marigolds they sold.) As we were preparing to light some floating wishes of our own, a sadhu showed up and offered to perform the marigold mantra for us. Marci was met with a look of shock and incredulity when, not wanting to spend any more of our hard-earned rupees, she said that she wanted Poka to say the mantras. Grunting, the sadhu shuffled off into the night to find some other takers.

As the ceremony wore on, we too decided it was time to shuffle. Weaving our way home through the maze-like bazaars and ghats of the old city, I made one fatal misstep, plopping a foot into the shit and garbage-filled shallows of the Ganges. Filthy as my foot was, I’m happy to announce that upon my arrival home my personal sin ledger-sheet will be as pure and unmarked as a virgin bride’s.

---

Photos

The Burning Ghats
The burning ghats from our guesthouse balcony.

Marigold Float
I prepare to light a karma boat.

Ganga Aarti
The fire ceremony kicks off.

Maharajah's Palace
The Varanasi Maharajah's Palace.

Comments

[shmuel]

I think you'll have to dip more than just the foot to wash away YOUR sins. Great blog, dude! keep it up!