Ground level, travelling with the locals, sleeper class on
the overnight train to Varanasi. Tight, cramped quarters with eight bunks,
somehow crowded with at least twelve people. I landed the top bunk, which I
considered lucky having the option to escape the crowded bunks of the bottom,
the bustle at every stop as people got on and off selling chai, cards and
snacks, being able to catch a few hours of shut eye with my feet hanging off
the edge into the aisle for all to smell. Striking up a conversation waiting
for the sticky heat inside the train to subside, led to meeting some of the friendliest
and courteous people, always interested in where I am from, what I think of
India and offering a taste of their dinner. Always prepared and loaded with
homemade vegetable curries, dal, rice and chapatti kept warm in their tiffin
carrier (lunch box). The cool night air began creeping in refreshing the
compact cabin as I climbed up to the top bunk to read until I clocked out.
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| Cycle Rickshaw |
Following
the normal routine of escaping the clutches of the touts right outside the
train station, posing to look helpful, preying on the unknowing that just down
the road a cheaper ride exists. Heading to the old city along the Ganga, I was
dropped off at the entrance to the alleys where the rickshaw could no longer
venture and given brief directions towards my hostel. Intensity began weighing
in on all the senses and it was only the tip of the iceberg. As I infiltrated
the dense, narrow passages, walls towering to either side, blocking out any
landmarks I could use, even the sky in spots and with it any sense of direction
I had. A maze filled with motionless cows except the slow grind of their teeth,
slowly chewing what they’ve combed through the abundant garbage for. Bikes
honking as they plowed through the hordes of slow moving people, many with bare
feet, somehow skillfully avoiding broken tiles, clay, glass and loaves of
steamy fresh cow shit right out of the oven.
Stained and grungy with a pungent
odour that lingers in the street making my nose cringe, I was envisioning
things to be different as I turned towards the river. I guess I was just hoping
for a fresh, clean, refreshing breeze coming up off the Ganga, even though I
knew it was nothing but a contaminated, disease ridden stretch of water. As I
walked up and stood at the top of the ghats overlooking from a distance kids playing
in the water, laundry being scrubbed, while others meditated by the edge, one
of the holiest places in the country, with at least a cool breeze regardless of
its other attributes, it seemed placid, harmonious, where life and death came
to meet.
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| The banks of the Ganga |
Then my stroll down the bank of
the river began and with it my opinion changed. A holy pilgrimage site, ancient
city with such a strong spiritual culture, sadly given over directly towards
tourism. What I thought of as a greeting, many men reach out to shake hands,
then begins molesting your hand in a death grip. Ripping it free with most of
its integrity, trying to walk away, he followed to clarify that I didn’t want a
massage. I thought it was obvious and no head massage either. Escaping one only
to walk into another, while being asked for boat rides in between. Drugs on
offer consistently, a handful of times within a half an hour walk, everything
from weed to ketamine to heroine. Then the burning ghats. It is believed that
if one dies and is cremated on the banks of the Ganga and their ashes spread,
they are reincarnated into their next life. Hindus travel from all over to live
out their last days to be close to the sacred river. People hail you in to
explain the details of the ceremony, being shown around the ghat, while
families mourn the death of a loved one. Trying not to gag on the acrid smell
of burning flesh, visibly able to see feet and head sticking out from the temple
of wood built around them. It was a morbid sight. After this the price of the
wood is explained claiming it at three hundred rupees a kilogram. Talking to
locals becoming informed that it’s a scam and it only costs twenty rupees and
the remainder of the donation is used to support habits of their own.
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| Banana Bhang Lassi |
The Blue
Lassi Shop was famous for a reason. Smashing fresh fruit and curd with a wooden
pestle in an urn to a creamy consistency with chunks of fruit throughout. Each
one served in a disposable clay cup with the time taken to garnish. Quietly
inquiring about the bhang lassi, I was brought to the corner bench away from
crowded little shop. I ordered up a banana bhang lassi, and it was covertly
made and sent my way. Bhang is a cannabis product generally baked into
delicious treats or blended into a lassi. Taking about one to two hours to feel
the effects, I sat outside the shop and patiently awaited the subtle side
effects. After an hour or so, my body became mellow, sinking a little deeper
into the chair.
I watched as funeral processions took place
walking right before me in the narrow lane heading directly to the burning
ghats. In such a short amount of time, five people were paraded down hoisted
over heads weaving through the obstacles of the street, as their family paid
tribute to their life. This continues almost all day and through the night. Not
being one who reads obituaries and in western society death is kept more
private, a family and close friend celebration of one’s life. This really put
into perspective how much constant death and suffering there is in this world
seeing it so openly in one mere city, just one corner of the map. It’s
disheartening to see a place such as this, thousands of years old, one of such
culture, ritual and tradition, being raped and pillaged by tourism and the
large number of people feeding off it. I was only there for a day and a half
before leaving, wishing I didn’t really take the advice of others on this city,
feeling as if I was merely adding to the exploitation of death and mourning of
others.
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