Varanasi — The Great Ghats Be

VARANASI, India — Each evening at sunset, a fire dance prayer takes place at Varanasi's Dasaswamedh Ghat (pronounced like 'cat'). Crowds gather on the holy steps leading down to the still waters of the Ganges River. Dusk's magenta blanket settles over the assembly huddling beneath an incessant tolling of bells at the ends of strings on tall candle posts. The kids orchestrating the tinny symphony mimic kite-flyers on a windless day.

“It's like a show,” I say to Dimitri, a lanky Muscovite whom I met
at my guesthouse. “Not if you believe the Ganges is holy, it isn't,” he notes. An hour later, the crowd stands. Skirting round the Hindu priest, hands press together and voices harmoniously set heavenly entreaty free, taking flight like doves at the opening of the Olympic Games. Dimitri steps ankle deep into the river, bends, scoops two palms full of holy water, wipes his brow, and ... gasp ... takes a few sips.

To drink from the Ganges, particularly if you are not from these parts, you really have to believe this river, this place, is holy. The water is, in a word, befouled.

The Eternal City, as Varanasi is affectionately called, magnetically draws millions of Hindu pilgrims to worship and thousands of foreign visitors to marvel at the town's chaos and colour. Hardly surprising, for it is one of India's seven holiest cities, melding these virtues into one untidy mass. But for the faithful, to die here is propitious since it ensures release from the cycle of reincarnation, instead sending the deceased directly to heaven.

For the tourist, there are three good reasons to come here: to see the mystical and holy; to observe and/or partake in religious activities; or to lose the self, literally and figuratively, in a labyrinth of back streets and sensory overload. I am here for all three.

My first glimpse of the Ganges came from the train at the end of
a 15- hour trip from Calcutta. Thrust into Varanasi's vitality at the deep end, I am absorbed by the rush of the train station. Just when I thought India couldn't be more in-my-face, my eyes are crammed with restless crowds, my windpipe is in the choke-hold of auto-rickshaw fumes, and my head is pierced by ear-splitting truck horns.

On arrival, I take refuge at the New International Hotel, then summon a ubiquitous cycle-rickshaw with a nod. Stepping up into the less-than-comfortable but more-than-practical three-wheeled conveya-nce, wonderment yields a sizeable grin to the sweet song of bicycle bells. I am drifting in a river of manpower, sliding ever so slowly down Chaitganj Marg, a main artery that bleeds a kaleidoscopic spin of people, hoards of people.

I alight two kilometres later between four bulls, two horses, and half a dozen dogs, all of which seem completely un-perturbed by the surreal swirl of life around them. I manoeuvre through a human slalom to Dasa-swamedh Ghat at the end of the road, stepping over a vivid carpet of fruits and vegetables, then slink down an upper staircase past a line of beggars squat before tin pans. I side-step a woman moving up the steps, hunched over, placing pinches of uncooked rice into each bowl.

Below, morning sun bounces off the Ganges into the stoic face of a bride donning a traditional red headdress with gold-trim. Hers is an arrang-ed union. She's being guided not unlike a blind person down the uneven steps to the water's edge, where her husband-in-wait awaits her hand in Western suit and tie. They squeeze into a wooden boat already dangerously over-loaded with friends and family for a pre-marital outing.

I move downstream, hopping from one ghat to the next. Each of the one hundred or so sets of steps has a name and a particular function. The Manikarnika Ghat is arguably the most sacred because it is the main cremation ghat. A constant funnel of smoke signals its place, beckoning the curious to the macabre scene.

At Rana Ghat, oblivious to a sheep's carcass drifting by, men sink into the water, splitting the surface and pools of muck, rising and dunking in rapid succession, bringing arms from side to front in a kind of backwards breaststroke manoeuvre. They make a splashy racket with their soapy ablutions, clasping hands together to summon their gods. Most of them are clad in loincloths, a few are naked. Three women huddle together on a step and chat as the old friends that they are. They shiver in the morning chill, the sun's golden ribbons not yet strong enough to warm them.

All life's activities seem put on along these steps. Mornings bring walkers and soapy laundry, yoga, photographers, and prayer. Afternoons yield to ritual bathers, group study sessions, boaters, and kite-flyers. Evenings invite more prayer, drug pushers, discussion, and candle sellers. But for me, the best activity of all is merely gazing upon it all in awe, for I could otherwise scarcely believe that these great ghats be. That people really do worship
a river named the Ganges. That filth and poverty could be so refulgent. That a place called Varanasi really does exist.

It has existed for over 2000 years. Mark Twain once commented that Varanasi “is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together.” As an important centre for commerce, culture, education, and, of course, religion, Varanasi is considered holy not only by Hindus, but by Jains and Muslims.

Luminaries and their followers apart, Varanasi is also an amazing maze of back lanes called galis, which lead to the nooks and crannies of life. First-timers are likely to be astonished by the endless silk trail of colour, the abundance of exotic handicrafts, and the nose infiltrating fragrances of incense. The narrowness of the alleyways is a claustrophobic yet wide experience, foreign yet intimate, unforgettable yet mind-numbing, soul-stirring
yet harrowing, ethereal yet redoubtable.

I wander uncharted through the Old Town with every intent on losing my direction, the quickest route to serendipity. I turn at random, stumbling upon hidden temples and mosques, hole-in-the-wall places to eat, and thumbnail-sized stores.

This area northeast of central is the city chowk, or market area. Aptly named, I think, for the streets are strangled with activity. The lanes here are at once frenetic but serene. Everywhere, I see scrums of chatting old men and kids attired in musty old school uniforms carrying the weight of homework in neat little book bags. Then I come across the sounds of a three-piece band practising what seems to be something straight out of New Orleans, completely unexpected cheer down an otherwise cheerless avenue.

Three hours later, lost, I find myself on the other side of town. With no clue where I am nor how I am to return, I point to my frayed map and set upon a 45-minute cycle-rickshaw ride back to the centre.
In the evening, senses exhausted, I perch myself in the rooftop restaurant of Sita Guest House and look upon the world unlike any other I have been privileged to visit. Below me, upon the black tongue of the Ganges, hundreds of candles are adrift in paper boats, released as they are each night by punters. They float by, flickering like incandescent stars in a cold, vast, forbidding firmament. I drift with them, becalmed by the simplicity of the moment, about the only moment of calm in all Varanasi.

Text & Photos: Jono David