Varanasi is the holiest of 7 holy Indian cities. It is the Hindu Mecca. It's Jerusalem and Rome. I can easily say that it is the craziest, wildest, holiest city I've ever seen.
It sits beside the Ganges, river of the gods. Wide and muddy, the river runs the length of the subcontinent, starting in the Himalayas and emptying into the Arabian Sea. Hindus come to Varanasi to cremate their dead, cure their ills and pray for hope. It is also here, on the banks of the river, where all of life's cycles play out in microcosm every day. And it is simultaneously frightening, wonderful and mesmerizing to watch.
Varanasi is a city of 3 million people and yet there is not a single traffic light. Imagine walking in what you think is a pedestrian mall when suddenly cars, motorcycles, rickshaws, cows, goats, dogs and taxis, come at you from all directions. There is no center line. There are no shoulders. Everyone on the "walkway" vies for the very limited space and maneuvers in circles just to move forward. No stop signs, no traffic cops. Nothing to bring some semblance of order to the chaos. Just crossing the street is a lesson in prayer: As soon as you spot a small gap it's every man
for himself, as you dart across, holding your breathe. Vehicles, bicycles, animals and people come at you from all directions. You wish you had eyes on all sides of your head and hope that the vehicles' drivers see you and have enough time and space to avoid hitting you. One crosses the street here, as in the other big Indian cities, on a wing and a prayer.
The narrow, crowded lanes of Varanasi's old city are packed with people, shops, and the ubiquitous dogs, one of which, in particular, had haunted my sleep for the 2 nights we were there. I had been acclimating to the culture shock that is Varanasi when I first met him.
We were sipping a pomegranite lassi in a dive with an open view of the street, when a funeral procession passed by on its way down to the river. The corpse was wrapped in a brightly colored ruby red and gold thread sari and was carried by 4 men on a simple stretcher over the heads of the crowds. Bodies are sprayed with I don't know what, and the odor was actually intoxicatingly sensual. Like many old cities throughout the world, the streets are only wide enough for 1 1/2 people to walk side by side. We had to physically press ourselves against the walls of the buildings in order to let funeral processions pass. Music blares from CD shops, Hindu chants echo from the Temples and tourists negotiate with shop keepers as dead bodies float overhead on beds of simple wooden rods and burlap.
Down by the river the scene is even more bizarre.
There is a 4-mile long "promenade" that runs along the river. But this is no French Rivieria or even Atlantic City. The promenade is littered with garbage, cow dung and dog poop, the homeless, the deformed, the beggars, the religious, merchant hawkers, incongruous tourists from Japan and elsewhere, and the pious from all parts of India who have pilgrimaged here to dip in the mystical waters of the Ganges; to cure an ill, to bring good luck, to bury a body. Every few hundred feet along this promenade is a "ghat," a wide opening in the walkway, with narrow steps running the length of the opening that lead down to the river. It is at these ghats where life comes out of the closet and is lived in full view, displaying both its glory and its revulsion. The religious perform rites while seated in semi-circles, lead by their Hindu leaders, chanting, praying and eating symbolic foods, surrounded by flowers and burning incense. Dogs, goats and cows relieve themselves and give birth here. Local residents bathe and perform their morning and evening hygiene routines, soaping up their bodies and head and brushing their teeth. Women clean themselves with their clothes on. Laundry is washed at the ghats, children run errands and men play cricket. Families picnic here. The women's saris bring bursts of color to the grey ghat stage- bright red with silver trim, sunflower yellow, magenta, turquoise and emerald. Copper, gold and silver bangles adorn every arm and ankle. Some of the more religious have painted their faces white, wear white cloth around their bodies, and, Ghandi-style, hold walking sticks as they move slowly forward, barefoot, in seemingly no predetermined direction.
When the sun goes down the ghats are lit up by funeral pyres which line the shore. Scores of pyres, - high plumes of fire, smoke and ash - can be seen all along the river bank as each family cremates the body of a loved one that they've hauled from the most distant of Indian villages and towns. At a cost of almost $ 1,000, (not including room, board or transportation), this is a hefty price for most Indians. Although a restricted area around each pyre is reserved for family only, we were able to get fairly close and wandered among the piles and piles of massive wood stacks that are burned each and every day and night. The dogs picked at the cooled down bones. Ashes are scattered in the river and both family members and tourists set small candles afloat in the water as an offering to the departed. No one cried.
The most disturbing part of Varanasi is what Leora and I called "The Walk of Shame." No cars are permitted within about 1/4 mile of the old city. Visitors and pilgrims alike walk through a true pedestrian walkway, divided in the center with metal rails. Along the entire distance from the car park to the old city's entry and back, are beggars, lepers, and families living on the street. Of course, dogs are plentiful and compete for scraps of food and a piece of cardboard to keep their bellies warm during the night when the temperatures dip very close to freezing. Kids in rags and no shoes, beg for coins as their parents keep a watchful eye on their effort. Amputees display their stumps and the dogs keep searching. Hawkers beg you to buy their trinkets of plastic toys, half-filled balloons and pens.
But of all the sights I saw in Varanasi it was one particular dog I kept thinking about all night, and obviously still today, 5 days later. He was a beautiful sand-colored mutt, curled up into himself on the side of the river, next to a few friends. The top of his head had a huge gash and the flesh of the skull was exposed to the cold night air. A man standing nearby told me that the mutt had been in a brawl with another dog. A vet, he said, would come, for a mere $40, and fix him up- dress the wound, give him some antibiotics and bandage the area. I didn't do it. All night, while I was warm in my bed, I thought of him and his open wound, with nothing between it and the wet, frigid and windy air. I actually prayed for the first time in decades for that dog. We left early the next morning so I didn't have time to help him. I hope someone kinder than me does.
If all of this sounds like its too much to take, you would be right. On the other hand, I came to view Varanasi as the truth. No sugar coatings here. Absolutely nothing hidden behind garden walls and fences. Humankind and the cosmos are exposed in all their wonder and dread.
I don't think I'll be returning anytime soon.
