Travelling in... India: Varanasi

The old town of Varanasi assaults you: walking back from the ATM through the corridor-like alleys that are damp with overflowing (or because of non-existent) drainage, past piles of household waste, a Sadhu poking a dead cat, saw a dead mouse and a kid lying in a puddle and a massive queue of pilgrims at the entrance to the Golden Temple that together with the wandering cows and buffaloes blocked the way, compounded by shopkeepers selling to the pilgrims alongside milk and lassi sellers who must take advantage of the presence of so many free-range livestock, before asking directions from a bullet-proof vested policeman posted to protect the neighbouring mosque from Hindu fundamentalists, and then photographing the hundreds of lingas and Ganeshs that are built in to corners, shelves and doorframes of the buildings, I accidentally kicked a huge piece of cow (or buffalo) shit. In any other circumstances, its water & sanitation conditions as well as crowding would lead it to being called a slum, but Varanasi is not like any other circumstances. Upon arrival, one of our party stayed in his hotel room for 36 hours before braving the chaos again.

Several times a day, whilst getting lost in the old town, wandering along the ghats or watching the cremations at night a man would ask if we would like to be given a tour so that we could understand what we were seeing. But it felt impossible to even consider trying as we were witnessing people living Hinduism, a religion that I cannot hope to grasp beyond the names of the best known gods, and especially as I have trouble as a lapsed Catholic understanding the Christian Holy Trinity (how can 1 + 1 + 1 = 1?).

Instead we literally just floated along watching a whole day take place in front of us. Waking up before sunrise to see families sleeping on their roofs, to watch people cleaning themselves during the sunrise ablutions in the (very, very dirty) Ganges, and ending with the cremations that apparently never stop. At sunset there are several ceremonies that take place on the bank of the river involving music (including a mechanical one-man-band), camphor flames and with varying numbers of devotees watching. I still have no real idea what the “Ganga Pujas” were about, but the point was that like everything else that seems to be going on in the town, it is something that happens every day, always has done and always will do. The one at Lalita Ghat where our hotel was based had noone watching and a group of kids disrupted it repeatedly with their wayward game of marbles. And all that is what is makes Varanasi seem so unique, as it exists absolutely through and around a religion, remaining alive (and even thrive) outside of history.

As for kicking the cow shit, I accepted it as a piece of good karma as Varanasi also is plagued by very small doors. Therefore I spent the first day repeatedly banging the top of my head until it had become quite tender which I took as a sign from God (Hindu or otherwise) to stop bantering young male taxi and CNG drivers about not being married which I felt I was doing very successfully but at their expense. And did I bang my head once after? Of course not.