Travel Journal: Varanasi, India

Climbing off the tour bus I was amazed at how quiet the streets were. The noise of India had ravaged my ears for two days, and the astounding silence of Varanasi was unsettling. I waited expectantly for the sound of car horns, street vendors, or running children, but this morning was too dark to be loud. Our guide instructed us that the Ganges was very close, but we would have to walk the remaining distance. Overhead, stadium-style lights illuminated the street and gave the surrounding buildings an eerie glow. Earlier that morning my Semester at Sea group had been given an extensive briefing on our tour of the Ganges. Our guide told us that the river was the most spiritual place for Hindus and that some believers waited their entire lives to make the pilgrimage to Varanasi. Hindus believe that bathing in the Ganges will cleanse their hearts and souls. It's a beautiful thought, but hard to accept from a river of trash that stinks of sewage and shines like motor oil.

I looked at us, white and crisp standing against the black, and couldn't help but think that we resembled an invading foreign hoard. Western barbarians uniformed in blue jeans and armed with digital cameras. As my eyes adjusted to the darkness I began to see small movements everywhere. A white-haired man swept the dirt ground in front of his store and stared accusingly at our flashes. A few feet away, an old, hunched-back woman mumbled and shuffled into a doorway. And across the street, two ugly dogs fought over a scrap of cloth that looked like it was stained with blood. The road we were walking down seemed uneven beneath our feet, and it was hard to stay level. I think some of the buildings slanted left while other bent right, but none of them seemed to have a solid foundation.

We continued walking until the dirt road suddenly gave way to an embankment of stairs. As we waited, more people began to assemble at the edge of the river to bathe in the sacred water. I gazed, open-mouthed, as I watched men and women showering themselves next to mounds of trash and the occasional dead rat. The garbage was everywhere and ranged from candy bar wrappers to empty liter fluid cans. I was amazed that the Hindu people would allow their most sacred river to be spoiled by such common trash.

Our guide motioned for us to continue down the stairs to the bank of the river. The immense army of Semester at Sea students was divided into smaller groups and shuffled onto skiffs that had been waiting at the river's edge. As we pulled away from the makeshift harbor, our skiff captain presented some of the students with paper maiché prayer candles. Hindus believe that by lighting a candle and sending it down the Ganges, they will attract the attention of God and their prayer will be answered. One girl reached for a candle, but our guide notified the group that each prayer would cost one hundred rupees. Apparently, even faith can be purchased for a reasonable price. Many students found the price excessive and couldn't decide between salvation now and a souvenir later.

We drifted down the Ganges and tried to look at everything at once. Off our starboard bow, men beat laundry against rocks in the river. Our guide explained that washing clothes and bedding in the Ganges cleansed the fabric both literally and spiritually. I looked doubtfully over my shoulder at the makeshift Indian Laundromat, and imagined that soaking anything in the river would only contribute to any pre-wash filth.

A hundred yards down river from the laundry, a group of men bathed on a large stone terrace jutting out into the river. They were preoccupied with their prayers and paid little attention to our boat of intruders. A little further down, a cremation was taking place on the shore. Our guide explained that we were prohibited from taking pictures of the ceremony, but if we remained quiet we would be allowed to watch as the ashes were thrown into the river. As we grew closer to the funeral service we could hear the mourners praying for their dead relative. When a Hindu person dies, the closest male family member has the duty of depositing the remains in the Ganges. Our guide said that it was an act of reverence that must never be neglected. As we watched, a man dressed entirely in white, waded into the river and tossed a small white bag away from our boat. He chanted for several minutes, submerged twice, and then slowly turned back to the shore. The sun had not yet risen and I felt cold watching. I didn't want to move or speak. We drifted past the cremation and slowly turned around to start back in the opposite direction. Dawn had finally come and the darkness was shattering in the east. As the sun rose, the sky began to erupt into the most brilliant orange, red, and purple I have ever seen. The black and murky water absorbed every color of the sun and looked as radiant as the sky.

On our way back, we passed a group of Japanese people who were on a similar tourist trip. Their giant telephoto lenses made them appear formidable, but our mob still had them outnumbered. They laughed and pointed at the Americans and took as many pictures of us as they did of the Ganges. I was so absorbed by the sunrise and surroundings that I failed to notice the other boats that had encircled our skiff. Indian boys, no more than ten years old, butted into our skiff and tried to sell us souvenirs of every size and shape. In this ancient, holy place, I never anticipated a floating gift shop.

After several minutes we reached the shore and unloaded the skiffs. Gibbering vendors greeted us by offering deals on postcards, colored stencils, and necklaces. They were tenacious but seemed to know only one phrase. "Good deal, for you my friend. Hand made. I have good deal for you," they chanted over and over again. I purchased a handful of jewelry from a man who was missing most of his teeth. I paid too much for my necklaces, but I didn't really care. I felt a sudden wave of pity and sadness for the man. I assumed I would never see him again, but as I turned to look over my shoulder he was there again repeating his only pitch line. I jingled my necklaces and tried to show him that I had already bought enough. He didn't seem to care and continued to follow me through the narrow back alleys of Varanasi. I shook my head and tried to laugh to make myself more comfortable. I was walking money to these people and they didn't care if I already had necklaces. They knew I could buy a handful more.

I continued to walk quickly past heaps of trash and over piles of cow shit. The smell was severe in every alleyway we turned down. In the shadows, mold and methane seemed to combine into a concrete wall of smell. Several times I even stumbled across a cow eating trash that littered the ground. It was usually crawling with maggots and flies, but the cows didn't seem to notice or simply didn't care. By the time we made it back to the main street of Varanasi, I was completely exhausted from the violent mugging of my senses. The vendors had finally backed off, but I still felt smothered. The streets that had been so ghostly empty an hour ago were now overflowing with animals and people. The noise of car horns, merchants, and children, which I had lost this morning, were now too loud and oppressive.

As we hurried back to the bus, I almost toppled an old woman selling flowers on the street. I waited for her to yell and scream in disgust, but she only chuckled and handed me a flower. It was a vivid orange and looked just like the sunrise. I smiled at her and nodded my thanks for the new day.