The most efficient way to get from Chennai, near Maballipuram, to Varanasi in Uttar Pradesh is by a 40-hour train ride. We bought supplies and camped out in a comfortable second class coach with a friendly elderly couple from Tamil Nadu and enjoyed the scenery passing our window nonstop for almost two days. When we finally arrived at our destination, one of India’s holiest cities, it was early morning and we caught a rickshaw to the center of the action—the banks of the river Ganges.
Varanasi is a focal point for Hindus because of the river, which is believed to flow from the hair of Shiva. The best way to escape the cycle of life and death and access higher realms of consciousness and spiritual salvation is to be cremated at the edge of Mother Ganga. As a result, pilgrims flock to the City of Light and many older Indians come to retirement homes in hopes of passing away a convenient distance from their point of incineration. Some wealthy families transport the bodies of their recently deceased across the country in order to bring them there. Every night, extensive prayer ceremonies take place on the stone ghats leading down into the water, with Brahmins performing pujas to the gods and devotees singing along with songs played over loudspeakers. Orange-clad sadhus, the ubiquitous, wandering holy men of India, line the stone riverbank and exchange blessings for alms. The overall impression it leaves is of a holy but simultaneously dark place. Death rites take place in full view of passerby, much like at the ghats of Pashuputinath in Nepal. Bodies are placed on sandalwood pyres and engulfed in flames in a system of cremations that runs 24 hours a day in several locations. Around each one, massive stacks of logs are piled against every wall, ready to be weighed on large metal scales. To be cremated on the ghats is an incredibly expensive affair for the average Indian family, so the absolute minimum amount of fuel is generally bought. Ash-streaked Brahmins watch over the fires, pushing any loose pieces of wood or body deeper into the center as a pyre collapses, while ragged dogs and the controversial and disturbing aghora sadhus lurk in the shadows. Aghori cover themselves with human ashes and consume the flesh of cremated individuals in dark ceremonies intended to subvert social norms and demonstrate the depths to which man can sink before enlightening himself. The river itself, one of the holiest things in all of India, is a mess of garbage, sewage, and charred timbers, but this doesn’t stop locals and pilgrims from bathing, doing laundry, or even brushing their teeth downstream. The proximity of life and death’s realities, and the casual way in which these things occur, can be disarming. One need only see a human skull that until a few minutes before was clothed in a face get pushed deeper into a bonfire to start to understand that. Varanasi is indeed a difficult place to get a grasp on—its spiritual intensity is simply too much for many visitors.
We stayed in the city for several days, doing most of our activities in the early morning and late evening to avoid the oppressive heat. At sunrise, we took a boat upriver to watch the dawn ablutions and prayers of men and women in colorful clothes on the ghats. Laundry is laid out to dry on the stairs, while boys skipping school play cricket on the walkways between the flights. Boatmen paint and repair their colorful wooden craft or ferry loads of tourists past the daily rituals of life and religion. At night, we sat amongst the faithful and observed the complex ceremonies of lines of smoke-shrouded Brahmins as they blew conch shells, burned incense, waved braziers and candelabras, and threw flower petals in perfect unison. Afterwards, we bought bowls formed out of leaves and stuffed with flowers and a candle to float them down the river, offering our own prayers. Classical music performances occur nightly on one ghat, while appreciative listeners sit on the stairs above and the tabla and harmonium melodies filter downstream with the ceremonial debris. We wandered the dark, maze-like alleys of the old city, filled with shrines, henna artists, and lassi shops. One evening, fireworks erupted from one ghat to welcome wealthy guests arriving to their hotel via romantic rowboat, providing even the poorest beggar of the urine-stained, graffiti-covered platform with an impressive show. Only one event coaxed us from our comfortable guesthouse during the searing heat of midday—the filming of a Bollywood musical immediately outside. Assi Ghat, where we stayed for the entirety of our visit, is a famous spot and will be the focus of an upcoming movie. Flocks of star-struck Indians crowded around the set, while an irate director continually reminded them to get out of the shot and be as quiet as possible over a malfunctioning PA system. Varanasi is a much-celebrated city across the country, and it seemed only fitting for it to get the glitzy recognition that comes with a modern feature presentation.
On a far more personal note, I have some very unfortunate news to share. A dear family friend, Gary Morris, passed away at his home unexpectedly one week ago. Gary was an incredibly talented musician and a friend to many in the town where I grew up, and he and my mother were especially close partners in several ways. It’s weird to imagine my small town and community of friends and musicians without him, because he has been a fixture in it for so long. We’ve known him for the last 30 years or so; far longer than I’ve been around. He was my first trumpet teacher and first guitar teacher, among other things. His obituary, which appeared yesterday in our local paper, can be viewed here. For Montana people reading this, there will be a celebration of Gary’s life on June 23rd, and you can contact me for more information about it.
The Way and the Wayfarers 