Varanasi, known as Kashi, the City of Life

It has been said that India is not a contradiction in terms, but sets the terms for all contradictions, and this is especially true in Varanasi. I give a few rupees to a beggar and an Indian man next to me says “good karma”. Later I read in the India Times that the American Bill Gates is urging Indian billionaires to be more charitable. Indeed in India there are many billionaires and countless living in poverty.

Just before arriving, on the perfectly smooth four-lane expressway cows wandered and not unexpectedly trucks and cars travel in the wrong lanes, as everywhere in India. At the city’s periphery there are gleaming modern Toyota and Ford car dealerships next the tent cities and mud dwellings and women making paddies from cow droppings and artfully arranging them by the road side. The pavement stops and suddenly it’s a mud track due to construction and traffic is at a standstill. Throughout the congested narrow lanes of Old Varanasi, where a cow can barely pass, one always needs to be on the look-out for speeding motorcycles.

But it’s along the Ganges, locally the Ganga, one of the most holy of rivers to Hindus, in this City of Life, where life and death stand in stand in dark contrast. Pilgrims come to pray and the sick and elderly come to die. By all accounts one of the most polluted rivers in the world yet by the thousands healthy-looking people pray at, swim in and drink the water of the Ganges along the dozens of ghats. There are colourful and very moving puja ceremonies before sunrise and at sunset. Amongst the ghats are several special “burning ghats” for cremation, bodies wrapped in white, placed on piles of wood, surrounded by family and ; most have their ashes scattered in the holy water. But even here there is a class divide: one ghat for the untouchables and the rest positioned such the wealthier are closest to the water. Unlike the healthy, in seeming contradiction most of the ill and dead animals are not cremated but are weighed down by stones and sent into the Ganges.

The celebrations of life and death seem almost equally serene as the prevailing belief is in reincarnation. The “puja”, meaning respect incorporate elements of most religious and folk art/dance traditions that I have seen. There is the constant chanting, ringing of bells, use of water, flowers, incense, candles and lights. The blowing of a conch sounding just like the shofar, the use of smoke and candles as in Eastern Orthodoxy and the delicate hand and body movements of the dancers of Thailand and Indonesia. All this in a setting where huge crowds gather; cows, goats, dogs roam freely. The crowd is mostly women in multi-coloured saris, men in their woollens, often covered with thick blankets to ward off the chill of the dawn or dusk, children selling small offerings of flower pedals with a candle to be floated down the river, holy men in pure white or deep orange robes and thankfully, not that many foreign tourists, who seem to arrive by the busload and head straight for larger boats to observe the ceremonies are far enough off shore such that only their ineffectual flashing cameras indicate their presence. Most independent travelers appear as mesmerized by the fusion of activities and only an occasional oriental stands out as he or she makes grotesque faces in contorted positions, for the benefit of the camera.

Beyond the river there is a maze of streets to wander in the old city, a number of temples, a vibrant university set along landscaped boulevards and several major arterials full of all the modern conveniences of a city of about two million. We have been here three days but decided to stay an extra night, having found several restaurants and street vendors to our liking, one special one being the Aum Café, run by a spiritual ex-Californian woman with simple, healthy food and she is proud of using only fresh ingredients and for not having a can opener, and free wi-fi is an additional bonus.

On Thursday night as we are strolling after dinner, the unmistakable figure of a man with a large black hat, black suit and white shirt, a Chabad Rabbi appears. He is putting up posters in Hebrew, having only arrived the day before that Chabad House is open and we will be having a Sabbath service and meal with him this evening.

What is the chance of such a Sangam, the confluence of events, in this case two tourists, who had planned to move on the day before, meeting a Rabbi, who had just arrived in town the day before, on aminor side street at the south end of Varanasi: only in India, the land of contradictions and conjunctions?

Namaste and Shabbat Shalom

andrew

chief explorer

andrew's bicycling tours

Life as it is, from Khujaraho to arriving in Varanasi

If it was not for this blog, the countless photos and the universal ritual of reviewing the daily tally of digital images which I imagine is similar to great white hunters of long ago, tallying their daily kills. In our case, we have two cameras and Alison in a humorous moment suggested saved our marriage, as such we can each focus on our own experiences. Without these reminders I would have difficulty recalling, where we have been, what we have seen and try to review it in some orderly manner. Beyond the daily kilometers covered, which now totals 1,200, soon at some level all the myriad of experiences start to meld into a gigantic pot full of everything India is well known for, compounded by the fact that we are experiencing it by being self-propelled on two wheels and at times internalizing all of the nuances, as we move from place to place, and by osmosis we become Indianized, a word not yet in the Google Dictionary.

From Khujaraho to Satna, we rode through pleasant country side and for the first time I became aware of the marking on the map, “Panna Hills” which by the standards of the Rockies or the Himalayas are mere random errors on the generally flat landscape, but they still engaged slightly different muscles groups and were a welcome variety and a taste of what’s to come as we head towards Nepal. It being Indian Independence day, we were regaled in every settlement by everyone heading to a school yard or other point of assembly carrying small flag and the speeches and singing followed us for most of the day. As luck would have it there was yet another wedding in the hotel we were staying, and after dinner we were “invited” to join the festivities and sample the fruits and sweets that were offered.

While I do a fair amount of planning for each trip, after Satna I was not sure which way we were going to ride towards Varanasi, the quality of the road surface and the promise of a place to stay being two key considerations. The two faint pink lines on my map, which I was told was a single lane road, and reassured that it was in good condition became our route to Chitrakoot, and what a great ride it turned out to be, with virtually no traffic and at least half the distance through rolling hills and forest with little or no habitation.

In Chitrakoot we spent the afternoon and evening wandering the narrow streets leading to Ram Ghat, one of the revered bathing places to mingle among the pilgrims and worshipers followed by a boat ride on the river, each river boat being saddled with an additional passenger: a pink eyed pure white rabbit.
Just as we were starting to have dinner, a couple from Australia arrived and perhaps like us, not having seen a foreign tourist for many days, and none on bicycles yet, they were eager to trade stories as like-minded people do. Each encounter is a quick recap of a life and we soon learned that the Ozzies had rented their home for five years and are thus “forced” to be on the road for the most part for the duration, needless to say, prompting us to give consideration to extending our own four month foray.

The ride to Allahabad promised to be challenging as the map indicated a distance of about 130 kms and in anticipation we had an early start and the tanks were filled with morning chais and parathas. What we did not count on were the abysmally rough road surfaces which constituted about the first 50 kms. Conscious of the need to keep a steady pace the pounding took its physical and mental toll, for in the early low angle of the sun, the road like a mirage shimmered perfectly smooth, and for very short periods indeed it was quite ride able, but for the most continued like an old rock and roll song, ‘’shake, rattle and roll’’. Slowly my mindset changed: rather than experiencing disappointment as the apparently smooth surface in the distance turned out to be otherwise, I gradually assumed that the road will be rough and took delight in the few smooth patches as they materialized. It brought to mind the slogan on a T shirt I had seen earlier “MBA Master of Bad Attitude” which could be interpreted in many ways but it became a mantra as I conquered my own attitude to the road and accept “Life as it is”.

Thankfully, the road did improve and by the 110 km mark as the sun was once again slowly sinking, to my horror I saw Alison lying motionless on the road about 25 feet behind. By the time I raced back a concerned crowed had already formed and traffic around here were rerouted and she was able to tell me that she did not see the rut in the road and had fallen off her bike. In a minute or so she regained composure and reflected on her scraped elbow, a large bump and we were directed to a nearby first aid station and her wounds were attended to and she soon recovered her composure. While only about 25 kms from our destination, we considered taking a bus but she made the heroic decision to ride the distance. We arrived at what later turned out to be the outskirts of Allahabad in near pitch darkness and it appeared nobody had heard, or understood, the direction to our planned place to stay.

As our map of the city only showed the core, we moved in the darkness, each with rear flashers but with no way for me to see Alison cycling behind, she kept singing “I am right behind you” until at one intersection a confident young man of about 18 was able to draw a small sketch, which to my horror indicated several turns and about four more kilometers to go. My lateral suggestion to hire a rickshaw and follow it to our destination was met by a firm directive from the local youth: “You will not hire a rickshaw; you will ride”. We followed instructions and we continued in the Saturday night traffic, moving at a snail’s pace towards our destination; a half hour later our guide who was on foot gave us an encouraging smile and a wave as we waited to make a turn at a particularly congested intersection.

Using the Catholic Cathedral as our landmark, which we discovered was beautifully lit at night; I pull up to our hotel, only to have my heart sink to be told that they were fully booked. More cycling and several “sorry no rooms” we finally arrived at Hotel Valentine, thankfully several notches above a “love hotel”. After 137 kms and riding, including one hour in the dark, I instantly loved the room but was still motivated to negotiate a 35% discount. And yet again, after a dinner were ‘’invited’’ to a very lavish wedding in the fancy hotel across the street, where we enjoyed the fireworks, the music, the chanting and the sweets; - After all, this is life as it is in India.

On Sunday morning we were inexplicably drawn to the huge Cathedral, where a moving service in English was in progress to commemorate International Leprosy day and was our way of reflecting on and giving thanks to our own good fortune. We then toured four majestic tombs from the 1600s but the highlight of the day turned out to be a visit to the “Sangam” meaning the auspicious confluence, in this case of two holy rivers, the Ganges and the Yamuna, which draws hordes of pilgrims, which every 12 years attracts a staggering 17 million. This year’s Magh Mela, a couple of days away, is a more minor celebration but judging by the sea of tents set up as far as the eye could see and the throngs of people everywhere, we quickly understood why there were no rooms to be had.

Next day we stayed at the Utter Pradesh Government run guest house at the foot of the bridge crossing the Ganges. Luckily they had a room for us, one of a few of several dozen that had been renovated, the rest being gutted and under construction. Once again, amongst the rubble we had a great stay and as the only guests, the full attention of staff with a delicious dinner and early breakfast as requested.

The smooth concrete road leading to the edge of Varanasi was a joy to behold only to be jolted into another reality as the main street leading to our destination was under construction, reminding us of the Ying and Yang of life. Once again, we found the hotels listed in tourist guides, especially with views of the Ganges, fully booked. Thankfully, there are no shortages of places to stay and a modest hotel, in a quiet location with a large balcony and a magnificent view of the rivers awaited us, a sharp contrast to the throngs at the main ghats, and the labyrinth of narrow streets that seem to attract speedy motorcycles. All is well as we accept life as it is.

Namaste