Of all the current nations in existence, it is perhaps India that has the best claim to an uninterrupted link to its ancient past. Both Egypt and Iran lost something of their origins in their conversion to Islam, as did Greece and Rome with Christianity. China certainly retains real connections with two millennia ago, in its written language and philosophies such as Confucianism for example, although communism did reject and try to suppress some of what its leaders saw as backward ideas. The Islamic Mughal rulers and later Britain can certainly be accused of damaging aspects of Indian culture but neither succeeded in cutting most people’s links to ancient times, preserved in the faiths of Hinduism, Buddhism and others. Taking a time machine back two thousand years we would see these faiths already well formed and widespread. One place that exemplifies this connection well is Varanasi, at least culturally, even if little in the way of its early structures remain.
Having seen the evident change brought about by Western tourism over the decades in places such as Goa and Kerela, I had feared that Varanasi might have been unduly influenced as well. It’s one of those names that most travellers mention as a must see, unlike many of the destinations I visited which elicited a, “where”? from all but the die-hard temple freaks. A morning stroll along the Ghats, the stepped river fronts on the banks of the Ganges, quickly put my fears to rest however. Taking away the foreign tourists would do little but erase the possibility of finding a half decent cappuccino and that requires a bit of effort as it is.
For Hindus the city is sacred: the abode of Lord Krishna, where the first rays of light after creation fell. Many of the Ghats here are immortalised in scripture and myth, where, beside the holy Ganges, the gods committed great acts that went on to help define the faith. There is much that the time travelling faithful of today would recognise if transported to the past. Many of the symbols, rituals and religious terms wouldn’t have evolved beyond recognition over the centuries.
At every dawn and dusk you will see rituals offering prayers and incense to the river and the gods, such as the Aarti at Dashashwamedh Ghat. Shrouded in incense fumes, the drones, chants and the clang of symbols summon both the devout and the visitor to those ancient times.
The holy waters, despite the inevitable, pungent perils ejected by millions of riverside inhabitants, remain a source of spiritual purification, as they no doubt were in the earliest of times. Everyday you’ll see eager pilgrims bathing in many areas especially sectioned off, often with changing rooms provided, although the ladies tend not to remove very much before getting in.
Steaming cups of sugar drenched masala chai and oil drenched, deep fried snacks are on offer to all, no doubt inviting after a chilly, early morning dip. There are even masseurs and barbers available among the services on offer. Quite where secular riverside life stops and religious activity starts is not always clear however. Bearded gurus dispense ancient wisdom and men in monkish robes direct yoga classes. Other open air lessons offer varieties of learning and well being classes whose spiritual content seems far less clear.
Ancient and modern come crashing together in the form of ash smeared sadhus dishing out blessings to the worthy, as two huge sound systems blast out the shuddering bass of Hindi rave tunes at bowel curdling volumes. Among the sadhus many accoutrements of mysticism sit two skulls decked out in mirrored shades. Quite what benefit they provided remained a mystery, perhaps as is only befitting of such esoteric practitioners.
Death as much as life plays a key role in the proceedings, as there are fewer locations more sacred for your mortal remains to make their final journey. To have your ashes scattered into the holy, if somewhat murky waters is the only way to go out in style.
A handful of men circumambulate a shrouded corpse atop a pyre, the wrinkled face staring vacantly up at the wispy morning clouds. Powders and potions are applied to bless the body on its way. The men’s motions seem almost perfunctory, in calm acceptance of the soul’s departure to a better place having left merely an empty shell. Only men in the family of the deceased are permitted to carry out these rites, for fear that women’s presence would only bring inappropriate, disruptive wailing and tears. Maybe the mens’ nonchalance is just a stoic affirmation of male propriety. The gods would surely look down in disdain upon unnecessary displays of emotion. Once the flames are sufficiently aroused to perform their purification, no ritual tasks remain and the group dissolve into quiet chats to await the transformation into ash. The youngest of the group, a boy, sits apart, his thoughts known only to the divine but his face passive, no sign of tears.
That one cremation was a solitary affair at a Ghat that could only cater for four simultaneously at the most but a little way upstream at Manikarnika Ghat the process is almost industrial in scale. When a cremation at Varanasi is a dead cert at bringing salvation to the departed soul, demand is high, with a lucrative side trade in extracting fees for foreigners wishing to take photos.
With a building housing one collection of cremation grates and the stepped space leading down to the river completely given over to the incendiary tasks, a few dozen bodies can be processed at a time. Huge stacks of firewood fill every bit of spare space and a diligent army of workers busy themselves with clearing and preparing each site for its next customer. This hive of activity displays little of the spirituality you’d expect of such a holy send off. Certainly, the numerous dogs contentedly munching tasty morsels from the warm barbequed bones weren’t complaining. I hesitantly sniffed the air, unsure if I really wanted to know the smell of death but was pleasantly surprised by its sweet tang.
Many indigenous people around the world retain concrete ties to their distant past, although this is coming under greater threat all the time, but to see it alive and well in a thriving city is rare indeed. Step on board the Varanasi time machine and see for yourself.
