Go India:There's no escaping the unmistakable smells and sounds of Varanasi, the city where Hindus believe that dying and having your remains cremated next to the Ganges releases the soul from the cycle of rebirth, writes EMMA SOMERS
EVEN IN A “government approved” taxi from Varanasi airport, we find ourselves dumped in the middle of chaos, the driver pointing to a warren of streets, too narrow for any car, that apparently lead to the river. In Varanasi, everything leads to the river, eventually.
Here, as in any busy Indian city, you take things one step at a time. It is 6pm – rush hour. And the first challenge is to navigate the goats, cattle, rickshaws, tuk-tuks, motorbikes and people thronging the road that stands between us and the relative calm of Varanasi’s “old town”. With our ears ringing from the din of livestock, car horns and the unmistakeable sound of paan making its way from gob to ground, we reach the other side. Relief.
Which way to the river? Friendly faces point the way and we take our next step, straight into a fresh cowpat.
And this, no matter what the yoga pilgrims tell you, is India at its best. And it is wonderful.
Varanasi made it onto our itinerary on the back of a friend’s recommendation, which went something along the lines of: “It’s crazy and it stinks of piss, but I loved it.” What her description lacked in eloquence it made up for in accuracy.
Firstly, Varanasi is crazy. By the time we reach our accommodation, we are giddy from the short journey that takes us there. Cows warming themselves by log fires in narrow lanes (it was cold). Goats in shirts (it was very cold). Motorbikes honking horns and manoeuvring through the mayhem, closely followed by the ringing of bicycle bells. And all the time the constant flow of people.
Secondly, Varanasi stinks. It stinks and it smells. The stench of urine or cow dung or uncollected rubbish jostles at any given time with the smell of spices and jasmine and incense. But always the waft of smoke, from the ghats and the impromptu fires lit along the street to keep warm (in winter at least), lingers in the air.
But I loved it.
Our room – our refuge – in the Ajay guesthouse is in the dome of an old palace on the river, which sounds far grander than it is. But with hot(ish) running water and spectacular views of the River Ganges, we can’t ask for much more. The balcony provides a birdseye view of the carry-on up and down the river, and across to the vast flood plain on the opposite bank.
EVEN NOW, after dark, the river is bustling, the usual city sounds of traffic and sirens replaced with temple music and barking dogs. And throughout the night this chorus persists until it is replaced at dawn by the cawing of crows and a host of curious harmonies heralding a new day.
Even in the early morning, the streets are abuzz, if with less intensity than the previous evening. It’s January and the north of India is in the middle of a cold snap that will claim more than 300 lives by the end of the month. And it’s easy to see why.
Huddled over breakfast in a newly-acquired Nepalese woollen blanket, the sight of children passing the open front of the restaurant in flip-flops and flimsy jumpers sends a shiver down the spine that has nothing to do with the temperature.
Walking through the streets afterwards, the homesteads dotted along the way, like the neighbouring shops, are built to keep out the heat, not to retain it. There are cows rummaging in plastic bags for leftover morsels, while dogs and their litters curl up in the dying embers of street fires for warmth.
But down by the river, the sun is doing its best to break through the fog and heat the chilled bones of pilgrim, trader and tourist alike. For Hindus, Ganga is sacred; bathing in its waters absolves them from their sins, and dying here in Varanasi and having your remains cremated next to the river is believed to release the soul from the cycle of rebirth.
As such, the city is constantly thronged with visitors making their pilgrimage, families cremating their dead, tourists from all over the world and – as with any holy place from Mecca to Medjugorje to our own Knock – hawkers.
Varanasi is essentially one big cremation ground. Throughout the city there are up to 100 ghats, steps leading down to the Ganges where pilgrims come to bathe in the river, worship certain deities or cremate their dead.
Walking towards Manikarnika, the city’s main cremation ghat, we pass men and women washing clothes in the river, children playing cricket with tennis balls, and any number of cows, water buffalo, goats and dogs. And vendors trying to sell their wares: boat trips, postcards, silk, massages, hash, even blessings.
Hawkers are persistent in any language, but in India they employ guerrilla tactics that can catch you out: a salutary handshake becomes a full-blown massage, 200 rupees please, sir; “I’m not a guide, no money, let me practice my English” becomes “Come to my silk shop: you can look, no buy”. It can be tiresome if you let it; a polite but firm refusal generally does the trick, after you’ve repeated it a few times.
THE CLOSER YOUget to either of Varanasi's burning ghats – Manikarnika, we are told ("I'm not a guide, no money") is for Hindus of a higher caste; its cousin, Harishchandra, a little further along the river, for those of a lower caste. On the open-air funeral pyres, which burn 24 hours a day, three wrapped bodies are laid out among the flames, again in order of their caste, the lowest closest to the river.
In the shops above and beyond the ghat are huge stacks of wood; the family of the deceased, according to their means, buys one of the funeral packages on offer, which includes a certain quantity of sandalwood, ghee and other ritualistic trappings, as well as the services of a holy man.
It all adds up to a strange sight, for western eyes at least. It’s hard to connect with the spirituality of these funerals. Perhaps it is the public spectacle, a family’s grief jostling for attention with the tourists and touts. Perhaps it is the smoke and the smell of sandalwood, jasmine, animals and urine. Perhaps it is the sight of a pale foot sticking out from the rubble of a smouldering pyre.
Women, our “no guide, no money” tells us, are forbidden to stand by the funeral pyres since one wife threw herself on the burning flames of her husband’s body more than a hundred years ago.
“Very calm, very serene” is how our taxi driver described Varanasi on the journey from the airport, while in the middle of an overtaking manoeuvre that brought us one step closer to God. And, in an odd way, it is both of these things, once you adjust to the pace of life and the patchy electricity, to the sight of laundry being beaten off rocks by the river, to the cows and goats and monkeys roaming the streets among the motorbikes and bicycles.
Varanasi is a city that challenges every sense and by the end of your time there you will be ready to leave. But India’s holiest city will stay with you and keep you smiling for a long while after.
Get there: Spice Jet (spicejet.com) flies from New Delhi to Varanasi. There are flights from all over India to Varanasi. From the airport, it is a taxi ride to the city. By train, the journey from New Delhi is about 13 hours. Sleeping compartments are available for overnight trains. Cleartrip.com is an excellent service for booking tickets online.
Varanasi where to . . .
In Varanasi, as in the rest of India, you can essentially spend as much as you want on accommodation and food, depending of the level of luxury you're after.
Our room in Ajay Guesthouse cost about €20 per night and was well worth it for the view alone. Particularly for a short trip, it is best to book accommodation along the river, but not too close to the burning ghats as the smoke can become offensive. Ajay is smack bang between the two, basic but clean.
For food, you can eat like a king for about €3 in any of the restaurants that line the laneways of Varanasi – follow your nose, stick to the delicious vegetarian fare and avoid ice-cubes and tap water. As for alcohol, it's hard to come by in holy cities such as Varanasi, but anyway, how anyone could navigate those streets after a few drinks is beyond me.
