The Mark Twain quote in my Rough Guide described the river-side city as “older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together” (about 3000 years old). When I first emerged from the city station, Varanasi looked just like another Indian city: a sea of rickshaws and swarms of people. The only difference was, there was a whole lot of foreigners mixed in crowd. Especially Koreans, two of whom I befriended on the train.
Along with my new mates, I embarked on my very first bicycle rickshaw ride through the commercial roads of new city. Our driver was a very old man, and since there was hardly ever an opportunity to build up good momentum, he had to dismount the bike a few times and pull us through on his feet. Ironically, the seemingly weak fellow was barking ferociously at every person and vehicle within 5 meters of our rickshaw. I had an evil thought that he might have been exaggerating his weaknesses to win our sympathy and therefore some extra rupees. Regardless, we gave him a big tip when he dropped us off, a kilometer from the River Ganges.
During the kilometer walk to the one of the holiest places in India (regarded by the major religions in India), we were forced to aggressively weave through the overwhelming car, bike and pedestrian traffic while simultaneously dodging chai-wallas, hotel-wallas, boat-wallas, and every other possible sales-saavy walla you can think of. We probably didn't take the shortest way, but since all paths from the main road in Old City lead to the river, we got there eventually.
At the end of a narrow and muddy market lane, we came to the endless stretch of ghats, stepping down into the mucky waters of “Mother Ganga”. We were at the main ghat called Dashaswamedth Ghat where a wedding was going on at the top of the steps. Just a few levels down to the river, there was a huddle of young boys shaking their hips and wrists to a ghetto blaster. Faintly dotting the hazy river in the background, were the famous wooden boats of Varanasi, each of them carrying its maximum capacity's worth of camera-happy tourists. We stopped for a second to choose a direction in which to continue and four eager boatmen took the opportunity to pounce! One of them was actually yapping something at us in Korean! We batted them away like money-sucking mosquito, and headed south in search of a quiet guesthouse away from all the action.
With some incessant bargaining from me and two defeated rounds of arm wrestling with my buddy Soon, Mr. Yadav at the Leela Guesthouse gave us his best suite for half price! It came with a view too.
At 5pm sharp, the hotel-arranged boatman promptly arrived for our very own touristy sunset river ride.
The 2-hour Varanasi experience by water was quite the package. It included twenty Shiva temples, five trespasses by sneaky offering-wallas, three garbage-dumpings, one poo-dumping, two burning ghats with four scorched corpses, hundreds of tourists, thousands of worshipers, and about a billion mosquito.
At 5pm sharp, the hotel-arranged boatman promptly arrived for our very own touristy sunset river ride.
The 2-hour Varanasi experience by water was quite the package. It included twenty Shiva temples, five trespasses by sneaky offering-wallas, three garbage-dumpings, one poo-dumping, two burning ghats with four scorched corpses, hundreds of tourists, thousands of worshipers, and about a billion mosquito.
The big event of the evening (well, every evening) was the lengthy Puja ceremony which took place at the main ghat, transforming it into a stage. The ritualistic performance took place on platforms at the foot of the steps while the worshipers watched from the steps and us tourists watched from boats in the water. By the time the sky turned dark, all the individual details faded away and there was only the sounds, smells and lights.
From our drop off point, we then ventured out to find Raga Cafe, a restaurant praised in Jay's guidebook. It turned out this place was tucked deep in the the pitch-black, labyrinth of the Old City. My cellphone flashlight revealed just the edges of things: a garbage pile, some steps, piles of dung, and the odd cow. This was the epitome of rape-alley, not restaurant-lane. Just before we gave up on the whole thing, a white beam appeared around the corner belonging to fellow flash-light holders. They came close and suddenly burst into a stream of, how did I guess, Korean. I stood and watched as Jay and Soon leaped into an enthusiastic conversation with them. A pointing hand from one signified that they knew the whereabouts of the restaurant. In fact, they'd just come from Raga and it was just around the corner!
Words could not describe how amazed I was when we climbed up into the tiny Korean-owned third-storey restaurant. There were cutesy cartoons on the posters, menus scribbled in bubbly letters and the smell of pickled cabbage filled the room. With the exception of the Korean-speaking Indian waiter, I felt like I was transported back to Markham!
The next morning, I awoke to the banging sounds of laundry at 5am and reluctantly got up for the must-see sunrise. The ghats at this hour were calm and smelled of stale urine. The stray dogs were still half-asleep but the boatmen were ready for business.
Walking slowly in front of me, was a group of Indians heading towards the main ghat with bags of offerings slung across their back. I followed them and came to the Dashaswamedth Ghat for the third time since I arrived and it has once again transformed, this time into the sacred spot where timeless religious rituals unfold every single morning. I stood watching from a small stone slab at the edge of the water, all the while robotically refuting offers for a boat ride.
Bathing in the waters of the River Ganges is said to cleanse one's sins and it was obvious that the bathers wholehearted believed that. Despite the spewing sewage pipes, rotting garbage and tourist flashes, men and women of all ages seemed to pour in from all corners of the city to purify their just-wakened naked bodies in the brown holy water. It was as if they were locked in the past, or possessed, while the rest of the city churned around them.
Unlike the worshipers, I wasn't able to resist being distracted by my surroundings. There were clusters of women and families yapping and changing, a small film crew setting up their equipment to my left, and holy stalls set up with smiling priests sitting inside. One called out and lured me into his small temporary temple. Before I knew it, he was staining my forehead with a sloppy bindi, threw some rice on it and started singing. I quickly told him that I did not have any money started to get up. He insisted that I could juts give from my heart any amount I wanted and locked me down for a makeshift-prayer. I giggled through the messy improvisation and left 10 rupees in on his silver plate when he finished. Suddenly, the smile on the priest disappeared and he began to roar at me asking for American dollars, threatening the future health and happiness of my family! Ignoring his ridiculous bickering, I left the main ghat feeling furious.
I ventured back to Old City for something sweet to lighten my spirits and found the place completely resurrected from our search for Raga Cafe the evening prior. In daylight, this part of town was full of interesting details. It was inevitable for the visitor to get lost wandering the tight corridors that sliced through the ultra dense blocks of shops, homes, and hidden temples; stepping in fresh piles of cow dung was positively unavoidable.
Near the burning ghats, shops primarily sold bundles of fire wood and flower garlands of marigold and rose pedals. I came across one shop that specialized in corpse ornamentation; displayed out front was a poster portfolio of their best work. Unlike the rest of old city, these vendors were almost always open because there would be dead bodies burning 24/7. And since crossing over in Varanasi is like taking the VIP entrance to the heavens, business was always good for livelihoods linked to the death ceremonies, especially when the burning ghat is also a major attraction on the tourist route. It was all very twisted but intriguing. I took a few close-up peeks into the fire that morning, it was like catching a glimpse of another world, a movie or a dream, but a little too vivid.
I met with Jay and Soon later that day and we took a bicycle rickshaw (with a strong young driver this time) to the picturesque and surprisingly quiet campus of the Benares (same as Varanasi) Hindu University, which happened to be one of the best colleges in the country I was told. The 3-km semi-circular campus, with its wide curving roads and impressive facilities, radiated from the New Vishwanatha Temple, where people from all over the city, as well as the students of the school, gathered for their daily rituals. Unlike the hundreds of filthy archaic temples in the main city area, I did not squirm like a girl when I walked in on my bare feet.
After we left the campus, there was just enough time left for a scrumptious and robust lunch at the lovely Phulwar Restaurant and Sami Cafe.
We took a beautiful walk along the river before I had to check out of the guesthouse and catch the train back to Bhopal. And by that time, all the laundry that had been earlier scrubbed, bashed, and rinsed in the river was hung up and laid out for drying under the beaming sun. Oversized pajamas, rough-edged bed linens, and sparkling silks carpeted the city's riverside in a quilt of colour and texture. Young boys were playing cricket and flying kites, the boatmen were all out on the water, lazy cows were loitering the steps by Leela's, and I said goodbye to Jay and Soon.
This was my last impression of Varanasi after a 24-hour stay. Spirituality and necessity, life and death, old and new; this city simultaneously embodied an endless collection of opposing ideas. It was atrocious and beautiful, exploited and sacred, and constantly surprising. And that's just another Indian city for ya.
This was my last impression of Varanasi after a 24-hour stay. Spirituality and necessity, life and death, old and new; this city simultaneously embodied an endless collection of opposing ideas. It was atrocious and beautiful, exploited and sacred, and constantly surprising. And that's just another Indian city for ya.
The train left Varanasi at sunset, with the gorgeous rural landscape slowly rolling into view, and Lady Gaga's "Paparazzi" softly playing through my headphones as the closing soundtrack.
