Maybe it was because we stayed there for a full three days. Maybe it was because the travel there (air flight included) went smoothly or because the train ride felt safer than the last one. Or perhaps it was because we were on waters edge, where the river flows from south to north, where all roads in the area lead. No matter what the variables, I loved Varanasi, despite the warnings of the dangerous train ride there, the dirty streets, shady people and overall quizzical looks I got from some native Indians when reporting I was heading there. The river is magical I guess, invigorating. A god to some. Bathed in, drunk from, a burial ground, a playground. To say it is worshipped is an understatement. For when you wake up at 5 in the morning to hop in a small row boat for a river tour and witness the swimming and bathing in the frigid waters, the dead bodies shrouded in cloth and flowers, being carried from the water to be burned for three hours, you begin to understand.
We were told by one rickshaw driver in Delhi that if he ever hit a cow with his carriage, he would have to travel to Varanasi to bathe away the sin. Some bathers we saw were visitors, hopped from ghat to ghat, being sure to stop at the important ones(those that have the most religious temples or shrines are the most popular, the most crowded), while to others, like our yoga instructor (another story all together) it is their daily bath tub.
My dad used to turn to Lake Tahoe for a bath when we went camping during the summers. Too cold for me, but he would always return invigorated, ready to cook up some eggs and spam on the Coleman. The campsite spigot showers never produced the same results it seemed. Further supporting the notion that there is something to be said for nature's bathtubs. And living in Japan, I can attest to the satisfaction that accompanies communal-bathing, especially when outdoors.
Needless to say, I myself did not bath in the River Ganga. Sarcastic warnings from my parents and the way I felt after getting sick from the train food solidified that decision. Too many nytimes.com articles on the toxicity levels were a factor too I suppose. Upon mentioning the high pollution levels that tests on the river have yielded, our guide leaned over the side of the boat and cupping his hands together to form a bowl, scooped a gulp-full of water into his mouth. Refreshed, he looked at us as if to call our bluff. None of us followed his lead, though his point was clearly taken. Maybe the water is toxic, technically, and most likely had I drunk the same amount, perhaps Varanasi would not have been such a good friend to me, but to those that live there, it breathes, flows, life. For those that praise it, it is quite the opposite of toxic.
And so, for the next two days, our lives revolved around the ganga. We ate meals with it in view, watched the light of the rising sun reflect upon its waters, watched the evening prayer ceremonies on its edge and roamed the streets surrounding.
The streets of Varanasi are narrow and maze-like, more like alleys really. Too narrow for cars, I often had to step out of the way so that a bull or herd of water buffalo could pass. This stop, step to the side, then pass ritual has become somewhat routine living in rural Japan, but it usually involves bicycles and motor vehicles. And though it is easy to lose your way, more often than not, you will eventually reach a ghat and from there navigating is simple. . These narrow corridors, teeming with shops, mimicking holes in the wall, selling Indian goods from jewelry and silk shawls to drums and bangles, were lively and I could have spent weeks getting tangled in the walk ways, stumbling upon the out of the way music shops, the yoga studios three stories up, the stand full of fisherman pants in every imaginable color and spending time with street vendors like Angela and her son Om. Smells of rich Indian foods, mixed with cow dung and incense dancing through the air all the while. In India, Chai tea is never far from arms reach and neither is a marble statue of Lord Ganesh, this is especially true in Varanasi.
With the guidance of R.S. Kumar, we, along with the morning boat ride, were able to see a days worth of temples and historical sights in Varanasi and Sarnath. Many of the temples I could never have found on my own, considering the layers of streets and stairways they were buried beneath. We could only look at the Gold Temple from a short distance, since we are not Hindu. Another, Durga Temple, we could only walk along the upper rim of for the same reason. The Monkey Temple, quite fittingly had many monkeys outside of it (beware when taking off your shoes) and another, Bharat Mata Temple, paid tribute to the land of India with a to-scale topographical map of India on its floor. Carnival-like automated scenes from the Ramayana are housed in the Rama temple, which also has the entire text written on its walls (hence it is two stories). Sarnath, which I did not know prior, is only about 20km from Varanasi. The stupa that Siddhartha visited is there. An Indian excavation site is there. And just like that, in a short car ride through dusty streets, we had gone from the Ganges River, to the birthplace of Buddhism.
The sheer number of temples and sites that we visited that day along with the depth, span of history and thought that they each represented and honored, left us exhausted and fulfilled. Temple day was worth it and the rest of our time in Varanasi was left to eat good food, cautiously, and watch the monkeys jungle gym around the hotel. A bumpy rickshaw ride to the train station two days after our arrival and a couple of hours of being surrounded and stared at by men (just when you forget how much you stand out), we boarded another overnighter back to Delhi for a final day in India before leaving.
Varanasi, Varanasi, you linger in the mind...
