Holiness

April 21, 2002-Sunrise
(Photos: Riverside barber,
our boat)

There is no picture, no movie, and there are no words that can convey the experience of going to the River Ganges in Varanasi at sunrise. We were picked up at the hotel at 5 AM and felt wide-awake with anticipation. The streets seemed empty as we left the hotel grounds, but soon the crush of traffic increased and surrounded us. Our car stopped about 4 blocks from the river and we closely followed our guide as he led us through a mire of people, stalls, vehicles, and animals. We trod carefully around garbage, temples, rubble, and gaping holes that revealed running sewage ditches. We were inexorably enveloped in the flow and became as one with it.
Vendors were selling everything from toothbrushes made from twigs to water containers so that people could bring water home from the river. Flower garlands were sold everywhere as offerings to the gods in the temples after immersion and purification. Music accompanied us all and we found ourselves striding to its rhythm. People have been coming for 7,000-9,000 years to wash away their sins, to seek salvation before dying, to show their devotion to the gods of sun, soil, and fire, bring the ashes of their dead from other areas, and to bring their dead. Houses along the riverbank are provided for those who are waiting to die in the holy City of Shiva, and palaces were erected so the wealthy could wait to die in the style to which they’d become accustomed.

As the sun rose, I could see a space clear in the crowd. It seemed as if the world fell away into emptiness. We’d reached the Ghat, the famous steps and platforms where ablutions are made. The name of the Ghat is Dashaswamedhghat and means, “ten horses were sacrificed here.” There was a festive atmosphere. It’s a sign of mourning to have a shaven head and no mustache. Barbers were set up to provide that service. Candlelight lamps were set sail for wishes to come true and glimmered in the dawn light. Brahman priests sat in saffron robes under umbrellas where they offered prayers for the soul and provided a white sandalwood paste to be spread on the forehead to aid in meditation. The number three with a tail, the symbol of “ohm,” was on everything even the two towers that were used to clean the water of the Ganges and return it to the river. Hindus believe that “ohm” was the first word spoken by Adam and that it’s the sound that bells make when rung. Our guide, Amman said the water is much improved and that fish and dolphin live in it now. I’m sure he has a bridge for sale in New York too. I cannot make fun of their confidence in the purity of the Ganges since I frequently put poison into my body in the form of artificial sweeteners.

The sights, the smells, the sounds, the colors were overwhelming…and the battery in our camera died. Without missing a beat, Amman called a boy over to us, showed him the kind of battery that was in the camera, and sent him off in search of our salvation. I don’t know how he did it, but he found us in the crowd and reappeared bearing the correct battery. We bought two and were back in business.

River View

We stepped into a rickety rowboat and hoped it was sea worthy. Despite what Amman said, the garbage was clearly visible as it floated past us and collected against the shore. The other side of the Ganges was empty in contrast to the side with the Ghats. The far bank isn’t in Varanasi and is not considered as holy by the Hindus. On the other hand, Buddhists go there to collect the sand where it’s said that Buddha walked. As we floated on the water, our perspective changed. We were far enough away to see the whole of it as one piece. It was a living fabric woven with strands from thousands of years ago. Each thread added to the tapestry and melded with another until all the separate pieces and parts became the drama that was on the stage in front of us. The once grand buildings on the hilltops that now housed hostels and houses of the dying bore watermarks where the monsoon rains caused the Ganges to rise to their foundations.


Saffron, a Hindu holy color, was blazing in the robes and marigolds, the white foreheads smeared with sandalwood paste, the red fabrics symbolizing the color of Durgah, the wife of Shiva mixed with the vivid saris and painted buildings as the sun broke through the clouds and illuminated it in an ethereal golden glow. Men and women bathed together, children swam and played, some struck out for the other bank, and several heads bobbed up to greet us. But all had come for one reason. Their concentration was complete as they welcomed the sun by pouring water from their hands or a pot so they could look at the sun indirectly as it reflected in the water and not hurt their eyes. Their faith was palpable. This was not a show; this is their life. It’s the depth of their being and who they are. It was truly awesome and wonderful in the literal sense of those words. I was envious of their ability to find such utter devotion and feeling. I was overwhelmed and couldn’t speak for a while. It was more powerful than the dead monument of the Taj Mahal. This was India. I had found the lotus in the mud.

As our boat changed direction, I became aware of other activities going on. Dhobi wallahs used clay to clean the clothes and pounded out the laundry on washboards made from inclining rocks. It was put out to dry in the sun and added a riot of color to the riverbank. Loudspeakers were shouting out mantras and warnings about pickpockets. Indians from the South were bathing and praying in their own area with their own priests who spoke the language of their region.

The crematoria loomed into view as we floated on. There is an electric one for those too poor to pay for the wood fire, but most prefer the traditional wood and will beg on the street if necessary to be able to pay for it. The wood fires consume 180 pounds of wood for each body. The crematoria are open twenty-four hours a day and process about 115 bodies/day. It takes almost three hours to burn the body. The body is wrapped in a shroud, carried on a wooden bier that resembles a ladder, is washed in the Ganges and placed on an open bonfire. Aromatic spices and sandalwood are added to the pyre and there is absolutely no odor. The skull is crushed with a stick to insure that it cannot be used in black magic. The hipbones of women and the chest bones of men are too heavy to burn and so are buried on the other side of the river. No living women are allowed at the crematoria. Husbands bring the bodies of their wives and sons bring their fathers. The ashes are given to the mourner to be thrown into the water. The mourner tosses the ashes over his head and never looks back. It’s all very official and death certificates are issued on the spot.

There’s no cremation of babies, pregnant women, or people who die from a cobra bite. Cremation is to return to nature the elements that compose the body: air, water, soil, fire, and space. In babies and pregnant women, the elements are not complete. A man who’s bitten by a cobra is said to have had his elements destroyed. Their bodies were weighted and sunk in the river to become fish food. Sometimes they would float to the surface, but this practice has been discontinued.

Interestingly, Brahman priests who must be from the upper caste, are forbidden from officiating at the pyres. Upper caste men wear a white thread across their chests under their clothes at all times and may work at any job they want. But only Brahmans may become priests. Brahman priests may marry and lead normal lives. The Doms of the lower castes do the cremations. There’s now upward mobility in society and the president of India is from a lower caste. Sadhu priests can come from any caste. They grow their hair and beards very long and live naked in the forests. They don’t marry and when they come to the city they stay in Ashrams where they teach and study.

Land Fall

We climbed gingerly out of the boat and thanked every conceivable god that we’d returned to dry land unsplashed by the holy water of the river. We were in a country where 90% of the population is devout practitioners of their religion and I began to think of America. We too have the dedicated faithful who rise at dawn, trudge off into the gloom, and perform their own ritual. They too pursue what they believe to be a noble goal. We call them joggers.

Our walk back to the car took us through the narrow streets and lanes of the old city. If we’d become separated from our guide we’d never emerge. He somehow led us through the maze while keeping a keen eye over his shoulder to be sure we were close. Stalls were on either side selling all the wares needed for cremating a loved one. A body on a bier passed us as we rounded a corner and Amman warned us that we were about to enter a very dirty alley where cows lived. I don’t know what we’d been slogging through up to now, but it was anything but clean. People were vainly trying to sweep the dirt, collect the garbage, and wash the street, but, like purifying the water of the Ganges, nothing could help. In the midst of it all, David stopped in his tracks and started mumbling to himself. I thought the spirit had gotten to him and the rest of my life would be spent married to a Hindu holy man. It couldn’t be farther from the truth. He was reading an advertisement on the side of a building. It was written in Hebrew, of all things, and told of Davids Silk Shop. I guess there really are a lot of Israelis who visit. Amman told us of an orthodox couple who walked from our hotel to the river yesterday because it was Shabbat. We met them in the elevator this morning. They were returning to the river by car this time.

Before we turned the next corner, Amman asked us for our camera and handed it off to a friend of his. The area we were about to enter was heavily guarded and no photos were permitted. Guides and tourists were searched for cameras before entering, but a local could get it through with no trouble. We retrieved it at the other end of the lane. In the days of the emperor who had built the Taj Mahal, Hindus erected the enormous golden domed Vishwanath Temple to Shiva in Varanasi. When the emperors son usurped the throne, he demolished most of it and erected a mosque. To this day, this is an area of conflict and tension between the two communities and is targeted by extremists on both sides. We entered an incense shop where the owner did his best to entice us to buy the fragrant oils. He applied samples to our arms and described each scent. As I sniffed, the only aroma I could detect was Off Insect Repellant.

We made our way past begging women squatting in squalor and refuse as my stomach started to rumble. Amman asked if we wanted to hurry back to the hotel for breakfast or if we wanted to tour some more. If the beggars didn’t know where their next meal was coming from, how could I not put off my breakfast feast for a while? We went on. We found the car, climbed in, and realized how filthy we were. The driver had covered his seats in toweling in anticipation of just how dirty we would be.

Toby