If you took all the things everyone has ever said about India and gave them substance, Vananasi would probably spring forth. It is a real education being here if for only a few days and undoubtedly gives the archetypal India experience. The bustling mass of vehicles and people that create the congested mayhem; the cows that (mostly) wander around aimlessly; the myriad of wretched specimens barely recognisable as dogs that seek shade by day and howl at night; the monkeys sifting through rubbish; the hustlers; the hassle; the rubbish; the smells; noise; flies; chai. It's all here and more.
Our guest house was one of the first in a long line of interesting looking buildings that stretched along the seven or eight kilometre bend of the Ganges; an impressive river even in the dry season where it had shrunk to about half its post-monsoon size. Judging by the number of old palaces along this stretch of river it must have been a popular resort or getaway for the Maharajas, not so much now. All the buildings that overlook the river are buffered on one side by Ghats (steps that lead down to the river) and a labyrinth of narrow streets on the other.
A typical stroll along the Ganges took us past a burning Ghat, where dead bodies are continually being carried down to the river for a quick soak and then put on one of half a dozen pires. Wood is weighed at the top of the Ghat ready for the outcasts to transport it, on their head, unfeasibly large pile by unfeasibly large pile at a time, so that this ancient production line of outdoor cremations can continue.
A little bit further, a youthful cow-master yanks one down the steep steps using a cord tied around the unfortunate beast's neck. It doesn't want to go (not surprising, cows aren't made for stairs) and the calf next to it wants milk but can't get it while its mother is being hauled down. The cow can't resist forever, slips, corrects and jumps down to a platform (what was the fuss all about) where she's tied up; and the calf too in such a way as to prevent it from reaching the valuable milk. Cows aren't usually treated this way; I guess for them to be in this position (especially in India) they must have a lot of negative karma to exorcise.
Further down the Ganges, we decline hundreds of offers of "boat" (with special price), a dozen or so offers from children selling karma in the guise of floating candles and a few miscellaneous hawkers selling whatever (at 25% discount). We are perplexed by the requests by Indian tourists for us (and other western tourists) to be in their photos so accept a couple and decline the rest. Meanwhile, a few steps down other Indian tourists scoop some of the Ganges into plastic water containers, semi naked men bathe in ritualistic fashion and women in full sari gear dip their heads under and appear to drink it with a look of divine bliss. I suspect that this expression will change when the immune system succumbs to the septic and faecal ridden water.
Still further down the Ganges and we are nearly at the central Ghat, where bells are rung and holy men throw smoke and perform other rituals. A large crowd is evidence of the popularity of the ceremony but for us there are only so many prostrations and genuflections one can see in a day with brief interest until all the meaningless activities merge with the rest of the craziness. We head up the steps away from the river, stepping over a number of ashen faced Sadus begging piously, past some ten foot papier-mâché gods and thousands more people and cycle-rickshaws to reach our Holy Grail: A restaurant that has renewed our faith in Indian food.
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