My Nan passed away a few weeks ago. I can't say I knew her that well having lived chunks of my adult life outside of Australia. I couldn't even tell you how old she was. I think I stopped counting when she turned 95. But I do remember fantastic summer holidays with her in her trailer park home in Wollongong. I remember her teaching me to knit. I remember her teaching me how to place a bet on a horse at the bookies. I remember her quiet observations in the background of family dramas, noting the repetition of history. So this story from Varanasi is for her. She would have hated the place but I think she would appreciate the sentiment that death is just transitory.
At first impressions Varanasi is not so much a holy town in north India as a very
dirty, crowded one; the accumulation of 3000 years of pilgrimage and industry. It is
famous as a centre of learning and for the rituals of death that
have been carried out here on the banks of the Ganges for much of that time. Flowing from
the hair of Shiva, the Ganges is holy, created in mythology as a sacred site to
which over a million people come each year seeking absolution, to bring the
ashes of loved ones to be released in the river, or to be cremated by the river
itself. To die and be
cremated in Varanasi
is said to end the cycles of rebirth and to set the soul free.
The river bank is lined with over 100 ghats, bathing areas with wide steps leading down to the water. One section is reserved for cremation, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, some 150 to 200 each day. The dead are first washed in the river to clean away the past, wrapped in a cloth that is colour coded depending on age and gender, and then placed on a pyre lit from a constantly burning eternal flame. The further a pyre from the water’s edge the wealthier you probably were. Cremation here is expensive by Indian standards according to my ten year old tour guide, Raj Kumar, mostly because of the price of wood. Behind the ghat are stacks of lumber and the constant sound of axe-men at work. Also behind the ghat are hostels for people who have come here to die.
The presence of the burning ghat has made for a voyeuristic tourism. Note the man with telephoto lens capturing the face of a dying woman as relatives remove the cloth to bring water from the festering river to her lips. It is strangely compelling, probably because the public nature of death here is so different from my English traditions that are marked by a fear of the end of time and a judging god.
My first viewing of a cremation South Asian style was in Kathmandu. On one pyre a tall man was being cremated; too tall for his pyre as it turned out. As a part of his leg burnt through and fell off, the caretaker of the fire hooked his second leg up and over to prevent it falling off the pyre as well. At another pyre, the flesh of small feet melted and burned through, to be swept further into the flames by the keeper. The coffins that brought bodies back on Qatar airways are stripped down and reused. The clothes of the dead, removed by mourners so that we leave the world as naked as we entered it, are gathered up by the urchins, the lucky one with the bag outracing the others who’d like a share. People washed, laundered, and played next to the pyres, that continued to burn as the ghats were repaired and the river dredged around them. The tourists with digicams captured posing Saddhus and a very good Hanuman lookalike; the going rate should get them to Nirvana, just around the corner I’m sure. Women weep and keen as an audio backdrop to the guides chatting up tourists before they know they’re being chatted up. Monkeys scavange, their red tumourous arses swaggering over the temple stone. And pervading it all is the smell of burning wood and rushes; the smell of oily BBQ. I have never thought of death or the human body in quite the same way since.
However, the burning ghats are just a fraction of Varanasi’s attractions. The old city itself is a series of narrow, crowded alleyways with the secular and divine piled on top of each other. There are temples of all persuasions, and the usual stalls selling the usual puja material - flowers, incense, candles, brightly coloured cloth - next to the tailors, haberdashers, sari, pots, pans and stationary shops. There are two ‘German’ bakeries run by young Nepalese migrants where the backpackers shelter from the heat of the day. There are the ubiquitous cows that have right of way and will none too gently shove you out of that way should you be in it. I’m pretty sure it was a puddle of cow pee I stood in after one such encounter but consoled myself that it was sacred.
Adding to the melee is the main Shiva temple. It sits next to a mosque that Hindu fundamentalists believe was built on top of the original temple, resulting in a constant heavy police presence to prevent communal trouble in the name of god. The temple itself is crowded, noisy and slippery thanks to the litres of milk presented to Shiva each day. There are so many lingams inside (stone phalluses representing the deity) that never have I left a religious place feeling quite so irreligious.
The Ganges is also a source of livelihood for local fishermen who launch their boats and nets in the evening to carry out their secular duties. Not that I would recommend eating anything that comes out of the Ganges. Despite its holy status, it’s not a clean place and I couldn’t bring myself to jump in like a good devotee should. I’m hoping that a dip of the hand is enough for my redemption. The Ganges has now made the World Wildlife Fund’s ten most endangered rivers list as a result of years of neglect. Over one million people live in Varanasi alone, a small city by Indian standards but now bursting at the seams. Both up and down stream there are innumerable other cities and villages that use the river as a source of water, food and waste disposal. There have been various schemes to clean it up, including the bits of bodies that don’t quite get the full cremation. Unfortunately, the flesh-eating turtles introduced to take care of the latter were soon eaten themselves. Cycles of life. Saddhus in the pilgrimage site of Rishikesh, upstream of Varanasi, have begun to lobby the government in earnest to take action before the river dies altogether.
It’s well worth visiting before that happens. Varanasi is a sound and life show; a place to just sit and watch the constant noise and busyness that surrounds the peacefulness of death and devotion. Pilgrims come to the banks at sunrise and sunset for puja that at the main ghat is marked by loudspeakers and crackling pre-recorded music. While some bathe to wash away their sins, others simply wash off the day’s dirt. Dobhis beat clothes to within an inch of their life expectancy next to the herds of buffalos also getting a wash. There are plenty of yoga schools for those wanting to brush up on postures, but note to the young woman who was trying out her asanas on the steps of the ghats: there are some positions that just shouldn’t be done in tiny hot pants in public. It’s guaranteed to get too much attention and I’m sure Parvati, Shiva's consort, would not approve.
All day and into
the night, Bollywood songs mix with Sanskrit chants, drums, dogs, bicycle bells
and honking geese. The dull sounds of building boats and pyres mixes with cows,
goats, touts, tourists, voyeurs and crowds of people seeking salvation. In all the rampaging cacophony it’s hard to
distinguish the divine from the profane, the holyman from the conman. I was
blessed so many times by saddhus seeking baksheesh in return that I’m sure I’ll
live forever along with my family and anyone else I could think of at the time.The river bank is lined with over 100 ghats, bathing areas with wide steps leading down to the water. One section is reserved for cremation, 24 hours a day, seven days a week, some 150 to 200 each day. The dead are first washed in the river to clean away the past, wrapped in a cloth that is colour coded depending on age and gender, and then placed on a pyre lit from a constantly burning eternal flame. The further a pyre from the water’s edge the wealthier you probably were. Cremation here is expensive by Indian standards according to my ten year old tour guide, Raj Kumar, mostly because of the price of wood. Behind the ghat are stacks of lumber and the constant sound of axe-men at work. Also behind the ghat are hostels for people who have come here to die.
The presence of the burning ghat has made for a voyeuristic tourism. Note the man with telephoto lens capturing the face of a dying woman as relatives remove the cloth to bring water from the festering river to her lips. It is strangely compelling, probably because the public nature of death here is so different from my English traditions that are marked by a fear of the end of time and a judging god.
My first viewing of a cremation South Asian style was in Kathmandu. On one pyre a tall man was being cremated; too tall for his pyre as it turned out. As a part of his leg burnt through and fell off, the caretaker of the fire hooked his second leg up and over to prevent it falling off the pyre as well. At another pyre, the flesh of small feet melted and burned through, to be swept further into the flames by the keeper. The coffins that brought bodies back on Qatar airways are stripped down and reused. The clothes of the dead, removed by mourners so that we leave the world as naked as we entered it, are gathered up by the urchins, the lucky one with the bag outracing the others who’d like a share. People washed, laundered, and played next to the pyres, that continued to burn as the ghats were repaired and the river dredged around them. The tourists with digicams captured posing Saddhus and a very good Hanuman lookalike; the going rate should get them to Nirvana, just around the corner I’m sure. Women weep and keen as an audio backdrop to the guides chatting up tourists before they know they’re being chatted up. Monkeys scavange, their red tumourous arses swaggering over the temple stone. And pervading it all is the smell of burning wood and rushes; the smell of oily BBQ. I have never thought of death or the human body in quite the same way since.
However, the burning ghats are just a fraction of Varanasi’s attractions. The old city itself is a series of narrow, crowded alleyways with the secular and divine piled on top of each other. There are temples of all persuasions, and the usual stalls selling the usual puja material - flowers, incense, candles, brightly coloured cloth - next to the tailors, haberdashers, sari, pots, pans and stationary shops. There are two ‘German’ bakeries run by young Nepalese migrants where the backpackers shelter from the heat of the day. There are the ubiquitous cows that have right of way and will none too gently shove you out of that way should you be in it. I’m pretty sure it was a puddle of cow pee I stood in after one such encounter but consoled myself that it was sacred.
Adding to the melee is the main Shiva temple. It sits next to a mosque that Hindu fundamentalists believe was built on top of the original temple, resulting in a constant heavy police presence to prevent communal trouble in the name of god. The temple itself is crowded, noisy and slippery thanks to the litres of milk presented to Shiva each day. There are so many lingams inside (stone phalluses representing the deity) that never have I left a religious place feeling quite so irreligious.
The Ganges is also a source of livelihood for local fishermen who launch their boats and nets in the evening to carry out their secular duties. Not that I would recommend eating anything that comes out of the Ganges. Despite its holy status, it’s not a clean place and I couldn’t bring myself to jump in like a good devotee should. I’m hoping that a dip of the hand is enough for my redemption. The Ganges has now made the World Wildlife Fund’s ten most endangered rivers list as a result of years of neglect. Over one million people live in Varanasi alone, a small city by Indian standards but now bursting at the seams. Both up and down stream there are innumerable other cities and villages that use the river as a source of water, food and waste disposal. There have been various schemes to clean it up, including the bits of bodies that don’t quite get the full cremation. Unfortunately, the flesh-eating turtles introduced to take care of the latter were soon eaten themselves. Cycles of life. Saddhus in the pilgrimage site of Rishikesh, upstream of Varanasi, have begun to lobby the government in earnest to take action before the river dies altogether.
It’s well worth visiting before that happens. Varanasi is a sound and life show; a place to just sit and watch the constant noise and busyness that surrounds the peacefulness of death and devotion. Pilgrims come to the banks at sunrise and sunset for puja that at the main ghat is marked by loudspeakers and crackling pre-recorded music. While some bathe to wash away their sins, others simply wash off the day’s dirt. Dobhis beat clothes to within an inch of their life expectancy next to the herds of buffalos also getting a wash. There are plenty of yoga schools for those wanting to brush up on postures, but note to the young woman who was trying out her asanas on the steps of the ghats: there are some positions that just shouldn’t be done in tiny hot pants in public. It’s guaranteed to get too much attention and I’m sure Parvati, Shiva's consort, would not approve.
But just as the noise seems incessant, move away from the ghats and there is no peace like that found by the river banks at dawn, where there are more rituals as the burning sun crawls out of the plains. Thousands dip their hands or their entire bodies into the water to thank which ever god they choose to believe in that they are alive another day. And there is no peace like an evening boat ride, even with a hundred other boats doing exactly the same thing, reflecting on the meaning of life and death. Tiny tea lights are placed in the river representing the prayers of hundreds wishing to let go of the past and have a brief respite of redemption before the cycle starts again. The lights are carried away down the river, taking our hopes, regrets and wishes with them. Nothing is possibly more representative of the Hindu philosophy of unity between the individual and the universe than to see my single tea light join hundreds of others to become part of a collective sea of souls, including my Nan's.
