Luminous City of Lights

A day at the ghats of Varanasi. The holiest of Hindu cities, city of Lord Shiva, variably called Varanasi, Banaras and Kashi – luminous city of lights.

Rich and poor pilgrims from across India perform their puja and chant mantras. After performing puja at city shrines and dizzy from circumambulation a rainbow crowd of colourful saris head to the ghats. Barefooted pilgrims descend stone steps, gradually entering and breathing the holy water, elixir of life, they recite statements of intent, offer flowers and with ritualised splashing their whole beings are purified. Immersed with the power of Lord Shiva. In Hindu mythology Shiva has the Ganga in his head and when he smokes ganja he goes mental.  

 The pilgrims join bathers who are scrubbing dirt with dirt, brushing their teeth in the river – a murky green broth scattered with orange petal croutons, drizzled with creamy chemical effluence and spiced with sewage.

 

Laundrymen stake their place on the ghats. They fiercely beat clothes on wooden slabs before carefully laying out clean sheets on the dusty pink sloping walls. A patchwork of whites, creams and gold silks that have adorned the city walls forever.

  Meanwhile, groups of male relatives trot quickly through the narrow bustling lanes chanting an urgent mantra, carrying corpses wrapped in orange silk. Even the irritant motorbikes stop and the cows step aside respectfully. This funeral procession route has been followed by the mens' ancestors for hundreds of years on a mission to swiftly take their deceased relatives to the Ganga. They dash through the labyrinthine city, a city of folk who continue to observe the trade of their caste – catch fish and weave silk. To Manikarnika Ghat, seeped in mythological history, the most sacred of Hindu cremation grounds. On arrival the family engage in standard Indian negotiation, to procure wood, kerosene and pay Untouchable guardians to facilitate the cremation.

Among the blackened stone ground and temples of the burning ghats a million thoughts and prayers mingle in the smoky air and thicken in the heat of the funeral pyres and midday sun. Three long boats are awaiting to unload large loads of timber. I feel a forbidding mood and am uncomfortably aware of my fascination and voyeurism. It is a vision that takes time to comprehend, segments hover unrealistically in the air, in my mind. A ghostly pink face of a corpse is visible, orange silk shrouds the rest of her body. Her men wash her body for the last time on the shore, surrounded by piles of black ashes. It's an alien scene of a living ancient civilisation that continues to cremate their loved ones 24 hours a day in this sanctified location. For a scene of bereaved family members there is a curious absence of tears, perhaps overtaken by the ritual at hand and happy their relatives are being brought salvation and final release at the ultimately sacred place. The chosen male in the family dressed in a white dhoti leads the ritual cleansing and lighting of the pyre – he won't touch anyone now for ten days.

  Around the ghats touts vamporise tourists and even here amongst the cremation ceremonies I am sickened by their unashamed behaviour polluting the holy place. Irritated when a vampire attacks, asking me to donate money for the “wood of the pyres” I leave and slide my way further along the ghats. I navigate through the suction operation of monsoon debris and Ganga sludge, dodging stray dogs, cows, monkeys, chai wallahs, weasels and more vampires. Sinister motivations can belie charming faces in this city. Not long ago a group of tourists were deliberately given food poisoning so they needed to enter a fabricated hospital and pay extortionate medical fees – several people died.

Above the ghats there are great sandstone walls and intriguing buildings with an air of faded glory. Dusty read Maharajah temples now hospices and ashrams housing holy men who have devoted their lives to this holy place. I wander further to the end of the ghats and when I walk past four men excreting I realise I have entered a toilet area and return back towards the ceremony area.

  On the opposite shore of the great Ganga a large sandbank has formed in this dry season where I see a dreamy image that strangely seems to be from the Sahara. A great yellow tent with red flags flying high and men on horseback.

As darkness falls handsome Brahmin boys dressed in cream act out an ancient ritual, firm and proud, elegantly twirling hands, ringing bells and offering fiercely burning urns, an image of perfection. They write a smoky message to Ganga, sweet incense billowing through mosquito ravaged air. A gaggle of tall blonde Germans huddle in the sea of colour of faithful Hindus who happily mouth the words to the catchy religious music pumping out of large speakers. A powerful spirituality is palpable in the air and the atmosphere of positive energy is wonderful.

  I am struck by the draw of the Ganga, Varanasi and Lord Shiva, their powerful symbolism and the conviction of belief. The layers of myth and symbolism of the river and city are complex and intriguing. The whole city is in fact regarded as the great cremation ground for the entire corpse of the universe. I am energised by the spirituality of the city but also a little saddened by the faded glory of the architecture, overcrowded conditions, filth and pollution.