Varanasi

Varanasi

A day on the Ganges River

Varanasi is a most ancient and holy city. It was known as Benares to Buddha 2,500 years ago. Over a century ago Mark Twain remarked that it is 'older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together'. Its location on the bank of the Ganges River in India makes it a holy pilgrimage site. Upon visiting some parts of the city, we believed it possible that the tempo of life has continued unchanged for centuries. Here are our impressions of the city.

Staying at a guesthouse on the river gave us the chance to experience life on the river firsthand. The day flows with the current of the river, activity starting before dawn. The first sounds are of the washer wallahs rhythmically pounding laundry against the stone stairs of the Ghats; splash, splat as they repeatedly raise garments high over their heads to come down loudly on the rocks. At 10 rupees a piece, they make a good living.

To one view, the Ganges is a polluted mess. Garbage floats by, and the water is so dark that you cannot see more than an inch or two into it. But somehow the spirit of the Ganges lives on. The Hindus believe that the river is sacred, and remains pure regardless of the pollution. Many believe that this makes the washer wallahs immune to the effects of the pollution in the water.

At 5:30 a melodious female voice is raised in praise at a Hindu temple, accompanied by drums. The loud barking of packs of dogs accompanies the high pitched cymbals and drums. At sunrise the Muslim call to prayer raises loudly from the mosques, each broadcasting different songs. We look expectantly out our window to the east to watch the sun rise over the river. Our hopes are dashed as light only reveals the cold mists which obscure the view.

We don our warmest clothes to enter the narrow, stone streets of the old city. At only 4-5 feet wide (1.5 meters) they are too narrow for traffic, barely wide enough for a person to squeeze by along side a wandering cow. The absence of traffic noise and congestion is welcome.

The cold, at zero Celsius, is a record all-time low. We see people, barefoot & dressed in summer weight clothing, huddled around woks full of burning charcoal. They are breaking up furniture and any found wood to build fires. Dogs and cows sit on the pavement warmed by a few coals. Later, we read sadly of all the deaths the cold has caused.

The day flows on....soon the vendors arrive to set up their stalls on the wide path connecting the Ghats. Calls of "Postcard", "massage", "boat ride", "come see my silk shop" torment us as we seek to experience the holiness of the river.

We take up one boatman's offer of a one hour tour of the river. As he rows the boat upstream, we feel its magic. It is quiet and peaceful here, far from the city streets.

We learn of his family. Like his father before him, he rows tourists up and down the river. After his father's early death, he became the head of the family. Now aged 24, he supports nine people on his earnings. He does not have a college education, but he has been able to get younger siblings into college, a remarkable feat. He is proud that he makes an honest living without cheating people or stealing from them.

We pass the Ghats: stone steps leading down into the river from the streets above. People flock there to bathe and purify themselves. We watch silently as we pass the main burning gnat where cremations are performed 24 hours a day. The bodies, wrapped in colorful cloths and decked with flowers, are carried into the water before being placed on the pyre. The smoke of a dozen fires burns our eyes as we float by. At the end of the ceremonies, we watch as mourners cleanse themselves in the river.

We pass by many mosques and Hindu temples. Later, we approached the Mosque, one of the largest in the north, but were stopped from entering. It has been named by Hindu extremists as a target for bombing. India is still torn with religious strife, whipped up by a Gujarat politician for his own gain a couple of years ago. Extremists on both sides threaten to bomb sacred sites, and have murdered each other.

The day on the river is completed with ceremonies performed at sunset. The ceremonies are a joyous celebration of life accompanied with song, drum and cymbals. Hindu priests stand on platforms and make offerings to the gods. At completion, people sail leaf boats with lit candles down the river. The blinking lights symbolize prayers of good fortune for loved ones.

Buying Silk

Varanasi is well known for the quality of the silk that is made there. The whirring of silk looms can be heard from the many factories in the old town. Everywhere are people selling silk scarves, pillow cases, saris, bolts of fabric. Fran could not resist the temptation of buying silk.

We walk into the small showroom in stocking feet, the floor covered with white cotton cloth. White boxes are stacked on shelves lining the walls. The only visible cloth is the bolts of fabric near one end. As we sit the parade of cloth begins. The merchant opens one box, asking what we would like to see. He pulls one scarf out and lays it in front of me. He then pulls box after box of silk open, tossing the contents into the air in rainbow streamers which land at our feet. By the time we have made our selection, we are both covered in silk. How luxurious!

The Grand Trunk Road

The Grand Trunk Road passes through Varanasi on its path across the subcontinent. It follows a route of historic importance, stretching 2600 miles from Afghanistan to Calcutta. It is spoken of in grand terms by many. Rudyard Kipling described it as "such a river of life as exists nowhere else in the world".

Our first experience with the road was much less than grand, though. If the nearby Ganges is where the devout go to die, the Grand Trunk road is where trucks go to die. We traveled a bone jarringly bumpy 17 km auto rickshaw ride along the route from the old town to the train station. Along the way we bypassed potholes capable of eating the rickshaw. Other unmarked bumps we took at full speed. The side of the road is littered with abandoned trucks...rusted, windowless, tireless shells of their former glory. Other vehicles, not so far gone, are receiving repairs before they continue their journey. Whole cities of vehicles 'rest' by the side of the road, vendors calling out their wares to the drivers. The cold of the day only adds to the dismal atmosphere.