Arriving in Varanasi, we were met almost immediately with some resolute dishonesty from the rather informal airport taxi service operative. Staving off absurd extra charges, which we were previously assured would not be the case, quickly became sport for which my appetite grew immediately and passionately. At this point, I think it's important to recognise that many of my musings on interactions here seem shrouded in a mist of disillusionment and despondency, but I would like to sincerely implore that this is not the simple case. Although causes for contention arise thick and fast, I hope their mention does not do the injustice of colouring this experience with perennial negativity. More their existence is noteworthy in this collection of thoughts for the entertainment they have provided, and it is perhaps arrogant to prescribe to the idea that this treatment is reserved strictly for tourists as it seems almost more vehemently applied to fellow locals. For we have found that interactions between Indians themselves seem to also allude to an assailing ambiance, and are just as quickly alleviated as it nothing happened. It's this water off a duck's back nature that is a struggle to acclimatise to, and although the air of animosity is difficult to comprehend or even excuse, it is the way of the world here and to be taken with a pinch of salt. Thus, when an altercation arises I enjoy the ability to exercise some stress reduction in my staunch opposition and really just try to enjoy the ride, much to Jack's annoyance.
Anyway, driving through the countryside en route to Varanasi on a most misty and chillsome morning provided some beautifully enigmatic sights of run down country dwellings and sleepy towns waking up to light fires (of burning rubbish) and begin trading. This campestral introduction was perhaps what caused or at least increased the shock of touching down nearer the city. Hundreds upon hundreds of beings swarmed the streets, on some sort of Sunday pooja or offering or something, rendering them utterly impassable by car. So we donned our backpacks and awkwardly picked our way through the masses. Stares was plentiful and burning, but the sights were vibrant and colourful. The rose tinted hues of this initial blast of energy began to diffuse as we trundled on for several kilometers beelining for the infamous ghats, an expanse of miles of stone stairs lining the beloved and sacred Ganges river where pilgrimages of thousands of Indians arrive daily to pray, offer pooja and cremate their dead. As it happened our path was etched by a sombre procession carrying an adorned stretcher containing the body of a deceased loved one, which we saw turn from the main road and followed knowing it was heading for the river.
What followed was a thousand twists and turns down a labyrinthal tangle of unbelievably narrow streets bursting with a completely bewildering spectrum of shops and stalls and nooks and crannys, all billowing sweet and sour and downright disgusting stenches amidst puffs of smoke and whisps of mist. The heaving mass of people and bikes and cows and goats provided a constant clash of disorientating obstacles. The scene was perhaps reminiscent of 17th century London, awash with streams of untendered filth. We darted carefully over piles of rotting vegetables, sleeping dogs and pats of steaming excrement and arrived at aptly entitled Shanti homestay where we climbed the precarious and irregular almost vertical staircase into a desolate cell of a stone room and collapsed in a heap on the bed, gasping for air. Ascending to the top floor to check out the view we were struck speechless by the vast array of disorganised rooftops stretching far off into the distance and skirting the edges of a muddy looking river, barren on the far side. The sound of the landscape was symphony of horns and voices, but initially all this was drowned out and superseded by the incredibly delicate and serene sight of a thousand little rudimentary kites bobbing about at the ends of long flaying strings clasped lovingly in the hands of adults and children dotted all across the lively landscape. It was like a sort of twisted child's dream, alive with the sound of laughter and play in a panorama of desolation.
Excitedly we were immediately back on the ground, snaking once more into the fray. Every single inch of space in this incredibley densely populated city of never ending people was studiously utilised for some practical purpose. Men sat cross legged in dusty enclaves which can only be described as quite significantly smaller than most compact tea cupboards found in our home kitchens, which they had skillfully turned into little stalls selling tobacco leaves or repairing shoes. We wound our way what felt downwards and soon came up against a hazy and fragrant stockpile of chopped wood crawling with bodies frantically measuring and weighing planks on giant archaic bronze scales. Edging past, we found ourselves on the macabre Manikarnaka Ghat, one of the busiest epicentres of the traditional burning of Hindu bodies who have brought from the far flung edges of the country for blessing and cremation. It was a shock to the system feeling the heat from the fire and being submerged in the scent of incineration, and the openness of the act left you with a strange and immediate sense of guilt. We hurried past with our heads hung and made our way down a little further down the river to collect ourselves, briefly draw upon the several limbs we'd seen sticking our from the crackling flames before hurrying onto more redolent realms.
The day was spent ambling along observing the diverse and differing scenes of the ghats. Religious babas with painted faces urged you into dark corners for forced poojas from which you spun out confused with a gloopy bindi dripping between your eyes inevitably several rupees lighter. Touts pushed an array of touristic rubbish and every man and his dog had a route to a better view or a nicer hotel for you to sample. Our voices soon became hoarse from polite rejection, and occasionally we would play the part of exotic foreigners who understood none of the languages in which demands or promises or offers were made. The colours of the alternatively painted bright stairs and vibrant temples were a feast to the eyes shining out through the dank mist, and the billowing incense masked the stench of the busy streets which lay at the tops of the tottering stairs. India is often described as an assault on the senses, or a full blown nuclear arsenal as Jack decrees, and the souls who primarily described it this way must have been to Varanasi.
The river is used for all manner of things all visible in full frontal view at all hours of the day. Hundreds of hardy Indians stripped down to their dhotis to bathe in the waters and wash clothes by smashing their fraying fabric against rocks with ferocious force. The stay in our room was cold and damp, and we ventured a guess that the odoriferous blankets which had been provided had been washed in the waters and partially dried in the cool humidity. Although a breathtaking sight full of sound and sight and smells to intrigue for centuries, the ghats and their barren and muddy farside and teeming laden city side seemed anything but sacred and pure to us. Home to small islands of rubbish, the river also composed a commode for many of the locals. A rule quickly developed upon inspection of some undefined and ominous stain on Jack's knee: if it looks like poop, it's probably poop, and you must do all in your power to avoid touching it with your mouth.
The next day we wandered left out the lugubrious and deathly ghat at our doorstep and wandered aimlessly along, tailed by a growing rabble of children who initially asked us insolently for cash before becoming infuriated at our return requests and finally becoming intrigued with our approach. Our posse followed suit for several of Varanasi's one hundred ghats, as we clambered closer to what seemed like the quiter more reserved part of town. Smells lessened in their intensity as did the surge of sellers and we enjoyed a solitary stroll for some time. Several hours before we were set to depart afte three exhausting days of exploration we were sat somewhat deflated in the middle of a particularly busy ghat, the focus of a thousand inquisitive sometimes inauspicious stares. In a flash of brilliance we remembered a beautiful haveli which overlooked a quieter part of the river which we had pointed out a few days previously as a devilish jaunt of the luxurious. Feeling the burn of the days of toil, we hurried into the beautiful building with its pleasing air of antiquity and submitted to sinful colonialism sipping fresh lime sodas and munching on depthy burgers over a game of travel scrabble. The ambiance from this tower of opulence left a sapid taste in our mouths and we left Varanasi rejuvenated and enchanted.
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