VARANASI

There is nothing that prepares you for Varanasi. Except within either memory or imagination, neither of which is fully reliable, this city defies any conventional description. Formerly known as Benares, it is the holiest of the sacred cities in Hinduism, and serves as a major hub for religious belief. In the sacred Vedic Sanskrit hymns, the Rigveda, the city was called Kashi, "to shine"; The City of Light. Renowned as a place for learning, it is also thought to be where Buddha presented his first sermon (after enlightenment), in nearby Sarnath. Founded by Shiva, according to Hindu mythology, it is part of the Sapta Puri, one of the seven Holy cities that can give liberation. It is auspicious to die here, and many make arrangements to be cremated along the bank of the Ganges. Temples, shrines, mosques, and old palaces crumble together along the banks of the river, looming over, and entwining with the Ghats, which serve as gathering places for everyone. Only at the hottest time of day are they lightly populated, and even then, the beggars, chai sellers, tourists, cows, and dogs are in attendance. Varanasi never sleeps.

My arrival from Delhi on the new high speed train, mid afternoon, heat of the day, proved to be non problematic.  I realized right away that I was in a different station than last year, but I was not worried about getting to my hotel. I have come to rely on my faith and sense of well being, and sure enough, an older man came quietly up and asked if I needed a ride. I gave him a piece of paper on which I had written the name of the place I was staying, he nodded, said he knew it and would take me there. "How much?" "350 rupees" A fair price for a local, this wins my trust immediately. I followed him through the crush, the heat outside the station took on a dimension of its own, and the tuk tuk with plastic covered seats was like a sauna. Off we lurched into the cacophony, the energy that is unique to this city. Horns blaring, people yelling, loud music, all manner of vehicles competing for space to move in any direction. My driver yells at an old bicyclist, almost hits someone, loudly berates a clump of walking children. The ride is very rough, my butt bangs repeatedly on the seat, as I grip my camera bag, make sure my backpack does not go flying out of the doorway. Sensory overloaded in every way, the ride physically invasive, loud, visually chaotic, the smells overpowering, in an assault so complete and alive, I realize that I am incredibly happy. This is the India of my dreams.

Each morning at 5:30, I climb the unopened gate. It's too early for the proprietor. I tiptoe past his sleeping self, gently hoist myself up and over with almost no noise. The early coolness is refreshing to me, but the few locals are wrapped head to foot, swathed in heavy scarf. I pick my way through the most difficult section, avoiding moving objects, mounds of shit, garbage, burning piles of leaves. Men sit at a stand drinking chai, reading the paper, talking quietly. Dogs howl, chickens flap, a small child drags a goat by a rope. Bicycles and quiet motor bikes sneak up on me, sometimes barely avoiding a sideswipe. In my unsteady self, halting abruptly is an art, a necessity. My exterior awareness is demanded in a uniquely present flow of energy, like I have another as yet undiscovered sense, an ability to "see" 360 degrees. Not normal vision, more like prescience, intuition, my body takes on a weightless glide that keeps me from harm. Vendors shout from laden carts, children yell "hello!", and keep it up until I respond. One very small one gleefully reaches out to touch my hand, and laughs in excitement when I swipe fingers. A shrine is tended each morning by a group of small women who light incense and tiny lamps at the base of a large tree. Encroached by both road and building, it has somehow survived, limbs cut away from the trunk, holes for candles and flowers hacked into the side, a meager top still branching, still flowering in this time, another Spring. A cow mourns loudly, and often. The dust stirs in a wind that jumps over the wall along the river. Shadows are being born in yet another rising sun. Assi Ghat harbors the faithful in the morning ceremony that comes to a close just as the sun shows itself across the Ganges. The older people stand and pray, covering themselves with fire and smoke, go along their way. A gentle ritual, it is difficult to ignore, no matter who you are. Lemon chai sellers labor with cups and a giant kettle, set atop a brazier. I am offered a boat ride countless times. A hundred people spread out on carpets, participate in yoga breathing and asanas led by a Brahmin, onstage, through a microphone.  Music, a sitar and tabla, enfold the already dense atmosphere with sound that transports; I am in another century. I close my eyes, and breathe.

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