Holy Varanasi

I’m not quite sure if Varanasi is a city of life or death. Maybe that’s the point.

I sat on the long steps overlooking the Ganges River. The chai guys are out, alive and well. “Chai? Chai?” a man comes over and asks me. This chai even had fresh lemons that the man would squeeze into the cup. He sat down a few feet away on the holy steps and poured himself some tea. A few minutes later a young boy came up to me and asked me if I wanted some of his chai. I declined. The boy then sat next to the older man—the elder chai guy—and sold him a biscuit. He even poured him some of his chai.

Like father and son. It was their livelihood. They sat drinking their chais together overlooking the Ganges. You know an Indian city is alive and well when the chai guys are out.

In front of all of us, little children ran around in scant clothes. Some children were even naked. Two young boys were teasing a goat, as the animal stuck out its tongue and snarled. Everybody laughed. Tourists walked by and nervously snapped photos. Beggars immediately swarmed them. A group of younger kids, not yet ten, took turns carrying a little baby, and passing her around like a hot potato. Her butt was showing. She pretended to smile. Nicole asked a little friend we met who the baby was. “That’s the beggar baby,” he responded without hesitating.

They had the routine down.

The city was surely alive. Breathing at least.

Earlier in the day, we passed a cremation taking place along the “burning ghats.” The family of one of the bodies watched nearby, playing drums, and chaotically waiting. There were three bodies burning at once.

The bodies burned visibly to all, placed in the middle of what looked like a campfire. Except that the feet were slightly hanging off the side. Men dripping with sweat controlled the fire as they would a bonfire at a block party. I sat on the steps overlooking the scene with Nicole, wondering if those were really bodies burning.

One of the men tended to the fire. All of a sudden he flipped the body, and I could see the whole thing, half burning but still their. His skull. And torso.

Burning.

I recently saw the movie Saw 3 and had a flashback. It felt like a horror movie. Maybe I didn’t want to be cremated after all.

The man rearranged the wood so it was back burning normally. Like nothing had happened. Because nothing did. Nothing out of the ordinary.

It was a holy cremation, the way it’s done. The way it’s been done for centuries.

The city bustled around. The family was still praying, and the market was hopping a few meters away.

Completely alive.

An ascetic with dreadlocks and a biblical beard calmly rocked back and forth with his staff on a nearby step. Men digging ashes dumped them into the Ganges, as if they worked on a production line. The cows poked their heads into a pile of garbage for their afternoon snack.

“Why is it that cities this holy have this much poverty?” Nicole asked confused. It reminded me of Jerusalem where the beggars line up in front of each temple, waiting for an answer. Or food. Or the Vatican, where the ornate architecture and gold drown out the nearby poverty. My mom once complained after visiting the Vatican, “With all of these millions of dollars spent on these buildings, we could feed the world.” Perhaps she was right.

I’m not quite sure where Varanasi, one of the holiest cities in Hinduism, fits into this debate. Except that it breathed a deathly liveliness. Or a lively death.

Nicole said it best, “This place is full of either holiness or holy-shitness.”

And the stench. Burned bodies, sweaty bodies, feces, urine, holiness, garbage, pollution, all filling the humid air. A lively smell that could put you to death.

As we sat on the steps, a severely deformed man came up to me and asked me for money. His torso extended out of his back, and he was hunched over so he barely reached 4 feet tall. “Please, please. To eat.” He sat down next to me and told me the story of how ten years ago he had an accident with a bull. He used to be a businessman and was proud of his travels around India. He kept telling me about visiting Goa. We talked for more than ten minutes and I asked him what he thought of Varanasi. He responded, “It is so holy. It is home.”

Yesterday, a boat capsized in the Ganges. A few tourists I met told us the story, and we were mortified. 10 people died, including women and children. They asked a local about the accident.

The local man shrugged and responded, “Karma.”

Such is life.

Or death.