They said if we could see past the traffic and noise, we would surely love Varanasi.
After living in Mumbai for 2 months, I can’t say I was either surprised or put-off by the traffic. I don’t think I can even give an accurate comparison.
All I know is I loved Varanasi from the first moment.
We snaked down crowded narrow alleys, alleys that contained fruit stalls and cows and people and motorcycles and all the smells of India. I remember that this is what we did, but mostly I remember the destination. After all the winding and slinking and corner-turning, we came to the Ganges.
I had heard countless stories about this body of water over the years, some strange, some unbelievable (truly, not believable), but mostly, out of this world.
That first night, we arrived before sunset. A group of boys played cricket while a boat full of sari-clad women floated by in silence. We ambled along the river before boarding a boat of our own. We watched as wood was brought to the river in a continuous heartbeat, and smoke billowed up from the various pyres in a pulse of life and death.
Prayers were whispered, and blessings in the form of flowers and candles were relinquished to the water. The night beat on.
This is the river of everything, of life and of death. People sit and think, they converse with their friends. Some brush their teeth or soap up their entire bodies before diving in for a clean. Buffalo swim next to people, children attend swimming class, and groups of people beat clothing against rock slabs. Laundry. Many people meditate. Many people sip the water. Many people believe a dip (or a sip) in the Ganges will purify and heal. Many come here to die, many come here to say goodbye.
This is the river of everything.
The sky itself was anticlimactic and lacking in color as the sun fell over the buildings on the west side of the river. Only a moment of pink flared on the clouds.
Then we stopped our boat and inched in between a loosely formed wall of other boats and waited. A boy selling bindis skipped across the boats, followed by a man selling chai. He poured the hot, sweet liquid into little plastic cups from his piping teapot. A girl selling flowers and candles boarded, and our guide purchased one for each of us. Everyone approached this differently, some loud and boisterous and giddy, others in solemnity and seriousness. I took the organic cup holding my flower and candle and observed its delicateness and thought quietly about the wish, the prayer, the thoughts, I would send onto the water when I placed it in the water. As I slid my hand into the river, I noticed with satisfaction at how perfectly the container balanced and floated away, a stubborn light, among many others, bobbing and diminishing in the dark.
Wooden boats banged together with the gentle rocking of the river’s slow evening rhythm. And from where we sat, we observed. Priests on the shore stood surrounded by people. They waved bells and candles and incense and created an enchanting, enigmatic evening of words I didn’t understand, sounds that reverberated through the air and a calm that transported us all, that silenced us all, that brought us to a place of in-between, a place that forced us to ask, “When am I going to wake up?”
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Have you ever visited Varanasi? What was it like for you?
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Also… what comes after sunset??? Just the sunrise…
