A City of Death

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  Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India
Friday, January 23, 2009

My train arrived promptly at the Varanasi Junction Station at 12.30pm. Although I had told the German girls from yesterday that I would meet her on the platform, I couldn't find her. Instead, I met a young British plumber named Jaime. We walked into the foreigners ticket booking office together.

There was a long line. When it was my turn, the gentleman with a different colored ring on each of his right hand fingers told me that I was number 256 on the waiting list, for the train to Kota. This train was once a week and there was no other train stopping by somewhere close to Bundi. So, I went to the tourist info office and asked about buses. The only bus they had was going back to Agra at a bad time. The bus system was so underdeveloped, compared to Syria's for example. The knowledgeable Mr. Umashankar told me to pay $3 extra and get an emergency (TATKAL) ticket. So, I bought a ticket to Kota, for tomorrow night, for 655 rupees.

The whole process took a couple hours. As a result, Jaime couldn't wait for me any longer. I had to take a tuc tuc on my own. Hate drivers... They are the scum of the earth. I agreed to pay 50 for the ride. As soon as 2 drivers jumped on to the tuc tuc, I asked why there were two of them. One of them mumbled an unsatisfactory answer. Then I told him to stop the ancient vehicle. Got off and created a whole seen. We were now surrounded by dozens of drivers. Once I got assurance form their leader that only one guy would take me to the Shanti Guest House and that I would not pay until I saw the sign, I hopped back on. Little stressful...

Bumped into Jaime at Shanti. Decided to share a jail-cell-room with him. It was only $1 a night. You can't really ask for much for that price. The sheets were full of stains of various colors. The communal bathroom was revolting as well. However, there was a cool roof-top restaurant with a beautiful Ganges view and free sunset boat tours.

Got lost in the claustrophobic streets of Varanasi. They reminded me of the pathways in Mardin, Turkey where only men and donkeys were allowed to enter. However, these streets had a lot more people and motorcycles, making them impenetrable.

Varanasi was a "lovely" town of death. At some of the Ghats (river-side areas of worship), especially at Manikarnika, corpses were being burnt throughout the day. The bodies were first being dipped into the Ganges and then being left by the fire to dry up. Finally, they were being cremated. Neither crying nor women were acceptable.

The burning ceremonies took place on a hill with a slight slant. Lowest castes were burnt at the bottom. Your social standing got elevated as your dead body moved higher up the hill. Holy men, children below the age of 10, people who died of cobra-bite and pregnant women weren't cremated. Their corpses were left to float in the Ganges. Some Hindus were left on the opposite bank of the river for vultures to eat.

Attended the daily ganga aarti ceremony at the Dasaswamedh Ghat. I wasn't moved by it. The young Brahmans who were facing the river were spinning incense, flowers, feathers and fire around. Traditional Indian music and chant could be heard at the background.

Returning to the guest house after the ceremony was nightmarish, to say the least. It was dark. Cows, dogs with rabies and half-naked Hindu holy men were everywhere. Surprisingly, the side streets were deserted at this hour. In addition, the slimy massage boys weren't leaving me alone. One of them even went as far as squeezing my shoulders despite my firm rejection. As if all of this wasn't enough, once again I was lost.

After chatting with a 30-year-old builder from Montana, I went to sleep in my sleeping bag. I could never imagine that my step brother's bag would come in so handy...

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