Varanasi: Uttar serenity
WINDING through the narrow, dark alleys of the city of Varanasi, you have to give yourself over to being lost — you have no choice. Maps exist but are useless. In a way, that is the best way to approach the entire experience that is Varanasi, also known as Benares or Kashi (City of Life) in the state of Uttar Pradesh, India. It one of the world’s oldest inhabited cities and also one of the most intense. It is dominated by the Ganges. Now, as rivers go, the Ganges isn’t that impressive. But there is something about it that makes it inexplicably special. Perhaps it’s because you know that for so many people this is where all of life begins and ends, and to die here is to be liberated from the otherwise endless cycle of birth and death.
Varanasi, though, is all about the ghats — the 80 or so sets of stone steps that lead down to the river’s edge. The best way to spend your day is to perch high up on the steps or sip milky chai in one of the rooftop cafés and just sit and stare.
For all the activity, it’s surprisingly serene — if you’re not scrubbing sheets or exfoliating the hides of water buffalo that is. Bright green and yellow row boats sit in the shallow waters waiting to take passengers on the sunset boat ride. Women step over dogs prostrate in the sun and lay out their technicolour saris to dry on the steps. Skinny old men in traditional dhotis simply sit staring out over the river. Groups of boys play cricket with make-shift stumps buoyed up by the recent World Cup, and great kite-flying rivalries are played out in the heat of the afternoon. Girls hawk postcards to the tourists or are simply absent. A wedding party makes its way down to the water’s edge for a blessing.
Washing in the Ganges is both practical and spiritual. A man in his mid-50s with a smartly clipped white beard, pale chinos and terracotta shirt fastidiously swishes a piece of cloth across a patch of stone. Slowly taking off his clothes, he wraps a piece of cloth around his middle, ties a piece of rope from around his waist to a nearby rock and gingerly lowers himself into the river. He scrubs his face with soap and then, cupping water in his hands, raises them and recites what I can only assume is a prayer and quickly dunks himself in the water, gives a quick shake and gets out. It’s done with intention and vigour — in, out, clean and blessed.
A sunset ride down the Ganges is as splendid as it sounds. Kites swoop and eddy as the full moon lights up the navy sky. You can float a lit candle down the river to remember loved ones who have died. It is also the best vantage point to view the pageantry and ceremony that is the nightly prayer to the Ganges that is celebrated with fire and much synchronised petal throwing by the holy men.
Varanasi is the holiest of holy sites in India. Alan Ginsberg got stoned here in 1962 and the city has been attracting Western spiritual seekers ever since. Every corner offers classes in yoga and meditation and gurus of various persuasions are at the ready to minister to your needs — for a small donation of course. At night tourists hunker down beside fires with painted sadhus hoping for words of wisdom, or at least an opportunity to better understand the intricacies of the bewildering number of Hindu gods.
I attend an early morning yoga class. As a fair weather yoga friend, I fully expect to be out of my depth. I am not disappointed. I lift one leg up in the air, then the other and breathe calmly in through my nose and furiously out through my mouth and wonder if this is the equivalent of doing hoola hoops to cure cancer. The teacher, Sunil Kumar, is a smiley man but isn’t averse to letting out a roar if you’re doing it wrong. We didn’t seem to do a whole lot which made it easy not to do too much wrong. Alex from Australia was the only other student. If I could raise my leg to a 45 degree angle, she could do 90 and without a wince. In a class of two, I am slowing down the pace. “You think, no pain, no gain. That is not the yoga way. Yoga is meditation in action and it controls the fluctuations of the mind,” he tells me.
I emerge into the morning a tad more limber and try to negotiate the back streets to find breakfast. This may take some time. Every alley holds dozens of tiny shops flogging incense, chai, saris, water and toilet paper. A man squats in a dark hollow selling tin canisters of oil, a woman sifts through shallow baskets of rice, barefoot Sadhus in orange robes sit in miniature temples surrounded by petals. Cows amble past to nuzzle in the next heaped pile of rubbish. Their safe passage assured, yours, however, is not so when you hear the honking of the moped behind you — move, and fast.
Loose flagstones are bridged by splintering planks across a gully of stagnant luminous green liquid, three men sit hunched over a sewerage opening scooping out chunks of dark, oily mush. Not a place for the faint of heart or weak of stomach.
You cannot come here and not visit the burning ghats where bodies are cremated around the clock. Death here is a guarantee of release from the pain of living but it doesn’t come cheap. Depending on the type of wood used — sandalwood is the most expensive and auspicious — burnings can cost up to 4,000 rupees, a small fortune for many Indians.
To the outsider, it seems strangely without ceremony. Four men come down from the alleys carrying a body with the air of labourers carting a load onto the dock. A body wrapped in sparkly orange material like Christmas tinsel decorations is immersed once, twice, three times in the shallow edges of the Ganges and then laid on the ground. No one pays it particular attention. Men stand around chatting, like the men at home who stand at the back of the church during mass muttering about the match, much to the glares of women like my mother. But of course there are no women here.
Once the fire is lit, a man crouches down to record proceedings on his mobile phone. A boy of about 14 with a striped wool scarf pokes a stick around the edges of the body and manages the fire. An upper arm begins to blacken and the man’s shins and feet stick out over the end of the pyre with a certain lack of dignity. There are four fires going at the same time and another body waits seemingly abandoned in the middle of the ash and rubbish. When I ask about the lack of ceremony, I am told that once you are washed by the Ganges, the process is complete — the rest is just for form.
Walking through the dirt and squalor, I see a young man gently trickling water onto red petals which surround a stone statue in a temple carved into the wall. And that’s the thing about here, just when you’re ready to call it a day, admit defeat and hop on the next bus out, you see small reminders of Varanasi’s sacred nature that makes it so special. You have to take it as it is though — no frills, no niceties. It’s gritty and messy but also beautiful, and somehow profound.
Direct return flights from Dublin to Delhi return start at €750 with Etihad Airways (www.etihadairways.com). Flights with Trailfinders from London to New Delhi from €475 (www.trailfinders.ie). From there fly into the new Varanasi airport or get an overnight sleeper train from Delhi.
The bulk of accommodation is for budget backpackers — mid-range basic double rooms overlooking the river €10 per night. I stayed in Puja Guest House which was basic but more than adequate and beside the ghats (www.pujaguesthouse.com). For upmarket hotels Hotel Surya (www.hotelsuryavns.com) at €80 super deluxe double room.
A six-month tourist visa is available from the Indian Embassy in Dublin for €50. Log onto www.indianembassy.ie
Varanasi’s highlight is the city itself — the ghats, the cremation ceremonies and most especially the Ganges where all of India comes to bathe, pray and play. If you do want a break take a rickshaw 13km to Sarnath, a pilgrimage site and deer park where Buddha gave his first sermon upon attaining enlightenment.
There are many eateries doing excellent vegetarian Thalis and pasta dishes for the tourist market but Varanasi caters mainly for travellers on a budget and outside of the big hotels there are few restaurants for which you’ll feel the need to get gussied up. A good bet for quality, organic food with Ayurvedic menu and wi-fi is Om Café behind Assi Ghat.
Varanasi is famous for its silk and there are touts a plenty. Be smart and haggle hard.
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