Varanasi — a city of death, bursting with life
Varanasi is not a place where you sleep in. I’m woken just before dawn by the unexpected sound of teeth against glass. A particularly brazen monkey is at my window, his fangs screeching down the barrier between him and me, his eyes fixed on the digestive biscuits on the table. I try to stare him out, knock at the window and shout but he barely flinches. I rile him up even more by eating his prize right before his eyes, until I think he might actually bite through the thin guesthouse window.
A monkey attempting to bite through glass is not something you often see, but in Varanasi strange and slightly unnerving sights is what it’s all about.
I decide to cut my losses sleep wise and pull on yesterday’s clothes for a stroll before dawn. The Ganges is calm and still, as it always is along this stretch of its endless journey. Its wide steady flow moves lazily as I hire a local boat and skipper and cast off into the stillness.
But despite the early hour, we are not alone. The sun is barely over the horizon and already thousands of people are making their way down to the bathing ghats, to pray and perform hasty morning ablutions before the day begins. Everyone is here is seems. From elderly men and women hobbling down slick stone steps to kids and their mothers in colourful saris, all of them jostling for a place, eager to wash away their sins in the sacred waters.
It’s hard to take in such a large scale spectacle that early in the morning. The crowds go on and on, the banks of the river completely concealed by people. The Ganges is both a place of sacred worship, and a sort of giant outdoor bathroom. People clean their teeth with old plastic bags, admirably trying to floss with them too, while others lather themselves with soap and dip shampooed heads into the murky depths. But there are many who stand waist deep and stock still, their faces turned upward to the rising sun in prayer, seemingly oblivious to everything else.
As remarkable as it looks, this morning is no different to any other. The river is the reason people come to Varanasi in the first place and this scene is a daily occurrence. Hindus believe that bathing in the Ganges, particularly here one of the most holy cities in India, will absolve you of all your sins. And if you’re lucky enough to die here and your ashes are cast into the river, your soul will be granted Moksha. Literally meaning ‘liberation’, achieving Moksha is to be released from the endless cycle of death and rebirth, and is the ultimate freedom. Varanasi is essentially the last stop on a very long tour.
As we move further along the river I catch my first glimpse of one of the city’s many funeral ghats, places where open air cremations continue all day and all night. My skipper keeps a respectful distance but I can see, and smell, smoke rising from burning pyres and watch as Brahmin priests clad in distinctive white robes recite ancient verse as mourners stand solemnly nearby. Stacks of fire wood are piled high and cows wander amongst it all, happily munching on flowers intended for the dead. Already a small queue has formed and bodies of the very recently departed, all shrouded in bright cloths of red and green and gold, lay waiting their turn on the steps.
We moor up at a muddy bank nearby and I’m back onshore, after carefully stepping over a couple of snoozing goats. I stop for a cup of steaming, sweet chai and spend the early morning hours wandering the pot holed, narrow streets of the city as it wakes.
Every turn uncovers crowds and cows but more often than not another beautiful temple (unsurprising considering there are more than 20,000 here) all of them thronging with worshippers. I particularly loved the tiny, almost unnoticeable shrines slotted into cracks in walls. Only the smell of burning incense and the flicker of a tiny candle give away their presence.
The holiness of this place is as palpable as its age. Crumbling buildings loom over cobbled alleyways where mules laden with everything from fresh spices to stacks of bricks are hurried along by stick wielding men.
I spend the day bartering and wandering and later, as I’m heading home, stumble into a raucous procession of dancing, singing revellers. There’s no telling what they’re celebrating but there is always something to celebrate here. Life, death and everything in between. Carriages pass by, each one occupied by a small child dressed as a Hindu God or Goddess. I struggle to keep up with them but one in particular catches my eye. A child like Lord Hanuman, the monkey god, peers curiously at me from his seat above the crowd, his face half boy and half monkey. I stare back and for a brief moment our eyes meet. Once again I am face with a monkey, but this time there is no barrier between us.
