We arrived into Varanasi around noon, after a 13-hour overnight train ride from Orchha. Men had just carried our suitcases up the stairs from the train platform, and now our bags were loaded onto a tuk-tuk for the quick ride to the hotel. However, our group of 12 plus Khush walked the two blocks to City Inn–together, in a wobbly blob. After the long night train ride, and the longer morning without coffee, we held on to each as we crossed the chaotic traffic-teeming streets of Varanasi.

Across Varanasi to meet the Mother River Ganges

After coffee, check-in, coffee, showers, coffee, and lunch, we gathered again in the lobby.  Wifi, then we divided into tuk-tuks for rides to the river where Khush had arranged for us to take a sunset cruise on the Ganges.

Eventually, our tuk-tuks dropped us off and we walked through a crowded market. Cows ambled along beside us. People looked at us. We saw vendors selling dolls and toys wrapped in plastic, and stacking fruit we couldn’t name. There were sari shops, one big bowl of green peas sitting nearly in the street, stalls of bronze bowls and bells, and shops draped in beads and colorful yarn. Hot pink cotton candy trees bobbed through the crowd, beggars sat with tired eyes, and black and white posters of people showed up on just about every wall–were they missing, or found dead? Bulls and dogs laid peacefully in streets–cleaving the traffic like it was the Red Sea. Eventually we came upon steps–lots and lots of steps–down to a wide, ash-blue river. This was the Mother River Ganges.

Varanasi’s Ghats

Varanasi’s 88 ghats and the river Ganges are the spiritual capital for Hindus worldwide. This was one of the busiest and most important: Dashashwamedh Ghat. We saw men on cell phones waiting, holy men praying, dogs sleeping, goats eating, monkeys screaming along the tops of the buildings, a cow sitting in smoking ashes, kids running, groups of women in colorful saris holding the hands of their grannies. People were jovial, joyful, festive. We came to a plateau where a dozen skeletons of umbrellas hung with flags, garlands and bells. And then down more steps down to the boats, and to the sacred water of the river Ganges.

Visual gluttony. A sugar-high for the eyes. A little dizzy, shaking and dazed, I followed our group down to the water, to a sunny wooden boat. A monk-orange cloth draped the seating ledges. Little bouquets of orange and magenta flowers with candles gathered on the table in the middle of the boat. Our pilot, an older gentleman with graying hair and a bright smile, took my hand as I stepped up and into the bow. A young man with an inquisitive expression assisted us down from the bow and over to seats. And then they pushed off with long poles into the current of the great river. First, we motored north, then east, over to the sandy beach across the river. All the while, Khush telling us the story of the Mother River Ganges.

 

“The Mother Ganga takes and gives.”

The Divine Mother, the River Ganges or Ganga, is sacred in Hinduism. Pilgrims come to pay homage–wading in to their waists, bathing, swimming, cupping the holy water in their hands, lifting it, and letting it fall back into the river, and drinking it. It is common to offer flowers and floating candles, and to take water home. The water is said to have healing properties, and to be self-purifying.

Many consider it safe to touch or drink, despite the fact that sewage empties into the Ganges. Also, people do laundry in this holy water, wash their dead loved ones in it before cremation on the banks, and bury people in it. Five types of bodies are not cremated, but instead are sunk in the River Ganges with stones: kids under age 5, pregnant women past the seventh month, snake bite victims, leprosy victims, and holy men.

 

Cremation on the banks of the River Ganges

Hindus believe cremation on the banks of the Ganges River frees the soul from the cycle of death and rebirth. It is said that those who are lucky enough to die in Varanasi, and are cremated on the banks of the Ganges, are granted instant salvation. The river absorbs the ashes, and forgives.

Only in Varanasi and Kathmandu can cremations take place 24 hours a day, every day. And here in Varanasi, there are two cremation ghats on the Ganges. As the sun went down, our little boat passed and then turned to pull close to one of them:  the Manikarnika Ghat. It was twilight, but still we saw smoke swirling up to the darkening sky from the many fires. Eleven cremation fires burned at once.

Slowly, we drifted way from the cremation site. Then, we lit our flowered candles, leaned over, and set the candle boats gently out onto the river with our wishes, prayers, and tidings to the dead. I touched my wet hand to my head and watched our flames float away, all together as if they were holding hands into the dark waters of the Mother Ganges.

 

Ganges River Aarti at Dashashwamedh Ghat

After watching our little flames drift away, the boat turned back the way we’d come. Our pilot motored up beside other boats back at the Dashashwamedh Ghat. The ghat now looked like it was ready for a carnival, brightly lit with throngs of people and boats waiting. Boats continued to come close, crowding in to “park”. A commotion ensued each time a boat pulled close, a scrapping sound, splashing water, admonishing and advising pilots, and a grabbing at lines to steady the boats.

Dashashwamedh Ghat is the main ghat in Varanasi on the Ganga River. Built in 1748, the evening ritual of Ganga aarti–offering prayer to the Ganges River–is held here everyday at dusk. Priests perform this ritual simultaneously under the lit skeleton umbrellas and flood lights. There is music and chanting, as the crowd swarms on the ghat and the boats bob in the water.

We sat there for about an hour. Watching as vendors walked across the water, boat-to-boat, selling candles, souvenir postcards, prayer beads, and brass trinkets. The chanting and music was accompanied by the sounds of wooden boats rubbing together, the Ganges lapping and splashing, cameras clicking, soft voices talking, and people slapping at the biting mosquitoes.

 

The Ganges at Sunrise

Before dawn the next morning, we were back with our little boat on the Ganges for sunrise. Like others, we soaked in the extraordinary meaning of this place.

 

Manikarnika Ghat

We returned to Manikarnika Ghat where many of the night’s fires still smoldered. One fire was blazing–newly lit. Only in Varanasi and Kathmandu can cremations happen 24-hours a day. In other places, bodies are burned only in daylight hours so they don’t turn into ghosts.

Our boat motored to steps near the cremation ghat and we got out to walk through the narrow alleys. A pile of cloth puddled at the lip of the river, the water lapping at the rainbow of colors and swirling ashes. Men walked waist deep in the water separating cloth from wood, and pulling water through big bowl strainers. Dogs and cows lay in the ashes to stay warm. The air was dusty. If there was a smell, I didn’t register it. Stacks of wood and large scales to measure the ~1.5 kg needed to cremate a body lined the narrow lanes.

We viewed the Manikarnika Ghat from above. One of the holiest ghats along the River Ganges, it is believed that an earring fell from Shiva here, making it especially sacred. Named in writings dating from the 5th Century, Hindus have long believed that a soul finds instant salvation when cremated here. The sick and elderly often come to spend their last days here, walking along the edges and absorbing the charisma of the ghat, pondering life and awaiting death.

 

Death Rituals in India

Khush explained that when someone dies, the body is taken home for cleaning and dressing by the women in the family. The men of the family then carry the body to the cremation site, while the women stay home to clean the house of negative energy. Sometimes dead bodies and their male relatives have to line up into the alleys, to await their turns for cremation. That morning, we watched as a body was unwrapped of her fine red cloth–down to a plain white muslin shroud–and placed on a pyre. Two men stacked wood on top, then balanced sandalwood and incense on top of that. A man began to circle the body clockwise, preparing to “give fire” with oil or butter. Out of respect for the dead and the living, we left before they lit the fire.

In India, death is considered a gateway to another life received as a result of our past actions, also known as Karma. A body takes about two hours to burn. Afterwards, the family collects some ashes in a terra cotta pot and mourns for 12 days, to give the soul enough time to reach heaven.

 

Contradictions

I read, “There are two types of people in the world — those who have been to India and those who haven’t.” At first, that seemed arrogant and exaggerated. Now, I get it. India is beyond incredible:  astounding, vivid, dirty, crowded, colorful, and conflicting. It overwhelms the senses. Every hour, every moment.

And India overwhelms the emotions. Incredible poverty. Humanity and the closeness to death. The sad state of the animals, the water, the air. We walked and walked that morning. By the time we saw the dead puppy on the ghat, I was in some state of stunned stupor. All I could think about was how we are nothing at all. A blip. A whiff. A thin trail of smoke. Vapor. A breeze. Dust. Why does anything matter? Why does EVERYTHING matter?

In Varanasi, life and death both seemed so close. The tuk-tuks helped with the craziest rides of all–thrills of a lifetime and frights like it was the end. One night, each set of our group entered the restaurant exclaiming a version of: “Oh my god, that tuk-tuk ride! I thought we were going to die!”

 

Walking out of India

On the day we left Varanasi, we were also leaving India. First, we had a 6-hour early morning train ride to Gorakhpur, then a 2-3 hour bus to the India-Nepal border.

As we got closer to the border, we saw gobs of the colorful Indian semi trucks lined up for miles and miles. Khush told us that they are often stuck waiting at the border for 24-48 hours. Our van crossed to the wrong side of the road to pass the line of semis, dodging oncoming mopeds and trucks with all horns blaring. Loud India.

Approaching the border, we got out of the van while our pilot and co-pilot packed our bags onto 2 rickshaws. We waited outside a small building as the officials stamped our passports for departure. Then we walked out of India, across the no-man’s land separating India and Nepal.

In India, it is said that “Everything is written.” We follow an inevitable path. I hope that path someday returns me to incredible India.

 

Thank you for reading

Select photos are available on Etsy.

Also, if you’ve been to India, please leave a comment about your favorite memories and places! One day I will go back and would love recommendations.

Finally, if you liked this post and would like to stay in touch, please…

 

Carol Fletcher is a traveling, dog-loving, coffee-addicted photographer and blogger living in Chicago. To see more photo essays and projects, please visit www.carolfletcher.com.