Searching for bodies during a morning boat cruise

Emele had heard about the bodies being dumped in the river. Having a slightly morbid sense of curiosity, it had been one of her main resasons for wainting to come to India. The long overnight train ride, which waqs supposed to arrive at 8:45 am, pulled into the station at close to 1:30. Getting out of a train station often feels like lambs being led to slaughter. Completely disoriented, weary from travel, you’re thrown into the clutches of rickshaw drivers and touts, each urging you to take their vehicles, however dilapidated. We consulted a passenger on the train prior to deboarding, who’d said it should cost about 40-60 Rs to town, we managed to settle on 70 but wound up giving him 100 for lack of change.

Visitors have been surprised by having their laundry washed in the Ganga.

Old Town is a series of small winding alleys. Our driver walks us directly to the hotel. Imagine, the hilly, uneven paths of Santorini, mixed with the dark backways of Venice, then throw in a whole smattering of cows, dogs, and paan shops and you’ll get just a taste of Varanasi’s Old Town section. The city’s name, like it geographical positioning is a convergence of 2 rivers. We’d befriended a lone female traveler who put it well wehen she described the city as one of such intermingled contrast between life and death. Our hotel or rather guest house is just a few steps away from Marnikarnaka Ghat, the place where Hindus come to cremate the dead, escaping the cycle of rebirth. The smoke from the fires can be seen ceaselessly, save for one hour at midnight, from the small dust covered window of our equally dusty room. It’s not much to look at, but at 550 rs per night you can’t expect much. The cement walls are covered with a peeling yellow paint. What was once a red carpet is more of a maroon brown, well-trodden and darkened from wear. But the sheets are clean and there’s a private bathroom, so all in all there’s not much to complain about.

Never a dull moment in Varanasi.

Our first night is spent marveling on the steps of the ghat at the Ganges, watching as the dons (untouchables) place wood onto several fires, preparing the heat that will release the spirits of those who have died natural deaths by incinerating the flesh of their bodies. There are 3 tiers, each devoted to a separate caste, but the ceremony is the same. The body is wrapped and placed on a stretcher to be brought to the river for a final cleansing. The husband/son or other male relative is dressed in a single white sari and his head is shaven. Once the body is burned, he’ll crack opent the skull of the departed, enabling the final release. All of this occurs around the clock, 365 days a year, but what’s most staggering is how this holy river survives at all because virtually any dead thing will find its way into the river – cows, dogs, bodies that aren’t burned (children, pregnant women, holy men, those bitten by cobras…) add to that the 30+ sewers that are emptied into it, the 60,000 daily bathers, and of course those doing their laundry and well it’s a marvel at all that everyone doesn’t drop dead just by proximity. And yet the river is home to dolphins and surprisingly has no foul odor. We even took a boat to the opposite bank and dipped our feet in.

Carefully arranged cow patties for sale along the Ganga River.