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Published: January 8th 2010
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You really can’t get lost in the twisting maze of back alleys which make up the bazaar behind the ghats of Varanasi. Just wait for a few minutes and a procession will appear, a motley collection of pall bearers chanting ‘Ram naam satya hai’ as they shower the bier with red rose petals falling onto the golden yellow marigolds and the red and gold funeral cloth. The outline of the corpse is tightly bound, a shadowed human shape I had just about got used to seeing until glancing up at one passing behind me as we purchased some halwa from a small stall, I looked onto a dead woman’s face. I gasped and possibly turned paler than normal. She too was going where all the others were heading. Down to Manikarnika Ghat to the open cremation site on the bank of the Ganges. It was a strange sight to see the fires burning all day and all night, to see the wood being weighed and purchased by the family. Knots of men stood around on the steps, the untouchables setting fire to the pyres, women were not traditionally allowed as we were told they were too emotional and made too much
Classical dance
Dinner entertainment at Gang Fuji noise. The trudge up over the steps littered with turds from dogs and cows and probably people too, the competition with the litter, became a familiar walk from our hotel with its wistful view of the river at Man Mandir Ghat. They mystic Ganga at sunrise and sunset hid the sheer pollution of it all. Hindu pilgrims, unperturbed by the chemical and biological changes of Maha Ganga continued on with the rituals they have been following for hundreds if not thousands of years.
Every visitor takes the obligatory sunrise and sunset cruise. Splashing gently down the river we were boarded by a young girl, the boatman’s sister, selling us a small candle surrounded by flowers to gently place in the water. My first attempt sank, hopefully not condemning me to a lifetime of sin, the next was more successful. We watched people bathing in the chilly water, stripping off as we clutched our blankets and scarves in the early morning chill. We watched families performing the morning aarta, a ceremonial praise to the mother of all rivers with incense swinging and bell clanging; we watched a man making his morning chapattis on a rock using the water a mere
Playing cricket
One of the thousands of cricket shots Graeme wanted! immersion in which had recently caused a Polish tourist to die. We marvelled as the mists lifted and the dhobi wallahs spread out sheets, saris and clothes to dry in the weak morning sun. The giver of life and death, the provider of occupations and the end to all activity.
Sadhus abound and Graeme was approached by a wiry little customer offering a five minute neck massage. Once he had Graeme in his strong grip he succumbed to the offer of a bed on the ghat consisting of a dirty piece of sacking and a grubby pillow of his neck scarf. Luckily women do not get approached for these types of public manipulations. But G attested it was the best massage he had ever had and the probing fingers found knots he didn’t know he had.. . stress happens on holiday too you know.
Feeling enervated we investigated a yoga class and signed up for a two hour intermediate one the next day. Four days later we were still wondering what on earth was intermediate about it. The young instructor informed us that most of the postures were helping our ovaries and menstruation problems which we were pleased
Collecting water
Cooking, cleaning, bathing, to find out. The postures were testing our ageing muscles and our travel weary legs and hips and we hobbled out smiling and wondered if our breathing would enhance our youthfulness as she promised. One thing was sure; bathing in the Ganges wouldn’t.
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