The Subcontinental Part II: The universe and Varanasi

A young street sweep sleeps on the ground at the train station.

Washing water buffalo in the Ganges.

Pilgrims wade into the Ganges.

A 'floating soul.'

                               The funeral pyres.

Thousands of Indians gather every night by boat and on the steps of the ghat to watch a religious fire ceremony.

Hindu ceremony on the banks of the Ganges.

And special for Mr. Geoffrey, the fu. Note the Nehru-style Indian shirt, completing the Sub-continental look.

VARANASI, India – In the winding alleys of this holy city, the odors of life, death, dung, and freshly baking bread all compete for nostril space. Cows eat and excrete the trash that chokes the streets, scruffy red-faced monkeys steal food, charred bodies meander down the Ganges, and a man drops his pants to squat on a main walkway.

Varanasi is the filthiest city I have ever loved.

“There is the universe and then there is Varanasi,” was how hotel manager/philosopher Sanjay put it, but more on him later.

Death is never far away, and it is both shocking and refreshing.

Flower draped bodies make their way through the streets to the river, often carried by mourners, alongside traffic, school children on bicycles, and tourists.

Night is illuminated by the funeral pyres tended by men and boys with the unenviable task of pushing, protruding, stiffened limbs back into the fire. The fires burn 24 hours a day and the tenders are kept busy. When the body is sufficiently burned, it is sent into the river where crows, vultures, and fish pick at the remains. The local boatmen call them ‘floating souls.’

A deeply holy place for Hindus, pilgrims come from far away, the well-dressed, the bare-assed, and everyone in between, to pray, swim, and die, and while there are plenty of Western tourists, they are far outnumbered by the pilgrims. In the misty, sultry mornings, Indians walk down the ghats (concrete staircases leading to the river) in various states of undress to swim in and drink holy water deemed unfit for even a shower.

Crow-sized bats flit in and out of the river-side floodlights while thousands of devotees turn out to watch a religious fire ceremony that has been bombed several time by Islamic extremists. Walk 100 meters and you’re sure to run into a Hindu shrine if not a full-blown temple.

I’m still fuzzy on the details of Hinduism, but Sanjay made  a point of sitting down to tea with me to explain it and talk about everything else from Indian politics to Osama bin Laden (if you go to Varanasi, Sanjay’s place, The Eden Halt, is the place to stay – mainly to talk to Sanjay). Apparently there are more than 3 billion gods. So far I’ve memorized three.

Amid the spirituality, there’s a nastiness to Varanasi, deeper than the irritating hash slingers and touts: disfigured beggars, malnourished children, bloody, mange-ridden dogs, and, just away from the main ghat, a small colony of very sick, mostly young men, emaciated and too weak even to beg, awaiting their final float down the Ganges. In the world’s biggest democracy, it’s a reminder of the gap that sometimes exists between voting rights and prosperity and in Varanasi it’s not hidden away (nor does anyone seem to be doing anything about it).

As Sanjay puts it, “Everything is possible (in Varanasi) – both good and bad.”

Train Extra:

NOTE: We criss-crossed almost the length of India from west to east nearly entirely by train, so it seems a shame to ignore the experience. This is just something from my notes in the midst of what turned out to be a 13 hour delay. Unfortunately no one told us that. First they said five hours late, then each hour the staff added another hour to the delay until the sun came up. Our 6 p.m. train eventually left at 7 a.m.

We’re at hour eleven of our train delay and the metal bench gets harder with each passing hour. The station smells of urine and body odor – not unlike many American subways and bus stations but, of course, nothing like them at all.

A boy with a distended belly sleeps on the floor, crusty eyelids swarmed by flys; a stump-footed beggar makes his hobbled rounds; a poor woman beats her child.

As if they were expecting it (which they were) the Indian passengers roll out their blankets on the concrete floors and pass out.

Our spacious luxury sleeping berth. Actually, it wasn't so bad and, despite the vicious stare, our neighbor was very neighborly.