Last stop in the City of the dead

Varanasi-An auspicious place to die if Hindus are to be believed; millions flock here every year to do just that (or rely on family members to bring their corpses to feed the eager flames of the huge funeral pyres).

Varanasi

The rickshaw pulled up at the entrance to one of the many maze-like alleyways that led down to the ghats. I grabbed my rucksack from the backseat. A funeral procession marched past carrying the body of a tiny old women. She was held high upon a makeshift bamboo stretcher. They placed her gently on the ground before the narrow alley entrance. The body was wrapped in orange and yellow cloth,its leathery brown face pointing hopefully up towards the heavens; I hoped she would make it there and, hopefully, not be reincarnated as a toilet attendant or bug.

I slung my bag over my shoulder and soon got swallowed up by the crazy backstreets of Varanasi. Without the rickshaw driver as a guide I would certainly not have found my hotel. The walls were close and the buildings high. The rain clouds could briefly be discerned through the balconies, shop fronts and temple tops that littered the skyline.

Due to the rain the cobbled pathway was a slop of muddy water, rubbish and manure. On every corner sat either a policeman with machine gun, a dog with one eye or an orange priest with a silver begging bowl. I normally have a good sense of direction but after five minutes navigating the maze I had no clue where I was. A left turn at a sweet shop, right past a cow with a deformed lump on it’s back, up the stairs next to a crumbling temple, right again at the hairdressers, past the bangle shop and down the alley opposite the paan stall. The huge yellow building that was ‘Shiva Guesthouse’ appeared out of nowhere,

I had arrived.

I had a quick breakfast in the very high roof top restaurant and took in the view. The city below from up there was intense. Thousands of crumbling, multicolured building were all tightly crammed in next to the impressively large river (swelled to five times the size from whence I last laid eyes on it in Haridwar). After a brief game of tug of war with an angry monkey who tried to swipe my menu, I thought I’d head down to check out the burning ghats (the smoke from which billowed up from the river’s edge twenty-four hours a day).

Piles of wood for pyres

Manikarnika ghat is the principle ghat where people bring their dead to be cremated. The surrounding streets were piled high with various types of wood used for the task (Giant scales are used to gauge the weight and thus charge the families accordingly, it’ an expensive business having a funeral here).

I made my way through the wood piles towards the fire. Underneath the huge cremation platform the street was littered with bodies waiting to be burnt. I wasnt allowed too close, the space being reserved for families, but could see the bodies crackling away in the flames. It takes three hours to burn the flesh off the body. Afterwards the bones are cast into the toxic river, where children bathe and women wash clothes.

At the river’s edge, underneath the pyre, a herd of water buffalo were bathing. I walked down to get a photo and came upon a different kind of funeral. A group of men were carrying the wrapped up body of a small child to the water’s edge (women are not allowed near the ghats, live ones at least). Children (and pregnant women) are considered too pure for the flames and must be laid to rest in the water. The river takes them and they generally end up washed ashore further down the river to be eaten by ravens, crows and large pigs.

The man gently laid his child on a rock at the river’s edge. His undid the cloth from around the childs face. The man then took one last photo of the departed infant on his mobile phone before breaking down in a heartbreaking fit of wails and tears. The family draped the child with a garland of orange marigolds and lit incense. They prayed and then floated the tiny body down the river. The heavens opened not long after and pounded the city with sheets of rain. I decided to head to Nepal the following day. It seemed fitting that Varanasi should be where I end my Indian adventure; a city that embodies the end of everything more than anywhere I’ve yet seen.

I found the way death is approached over here inspirational. Instead of shying away from it they embrace it. The families do everything from preparing the body to lighting the funeral pyre. In the western world we sweep it under the carpet. It’s as if by not looking death in the eye we will somehow escape our own inevitable doom. I think I prefer the Indian way.

Midnight riot on the train to varanasi

It was midnight and I was stood on a busy platform in Lucknow station, awaiting a sleeper train to Varanasi. As is usual in such situations I was being uncomfortably stared at by at least ten people at any given time. The occasional youth would shamelessly hold his mobile up in front of my face and happily snap away, as if I was some amusing looking exhibit in a zoo (much to my annoyance).

The platform was typical of every other I’ve thus far seen in India. An incredible amount of people cramped in; some families picnicking on blankets, some people curled up on newspapers using their luggage as pillows, beggars with limbs missing, children picking up rubbish off the flooded train tracks, businessmen loudly chatting on their fancy mobile phones and the usual sea of multicoloured saris.

I was laughing at a gigantic sandy coloured bull which, appearing out of nowhere, was barging commuters out of the way with its horns. It appeared it wanted to reach the rubbish bin so it could stick its massive head in it and munch away.

It wandered off chewing on a carrier bag just as I was approached by a smart-looking gentleman in a shirt and pressed trousers. “You are welcome to take my seat,” He told me, pointing to a space on a nearby bench.

“No thank you,” I replied. It was only another ten minutes till my train and I couldn’t be arsed moving my stuff.

“I noticed you were alone,” He said. “You are a guest in my country, this is why I offered you the seat.”

These random acts of kindness have not failed to surprise me still. I thanked him again for his hospitality and we continued chatting for the next half hour (the train was unsurprisingly delayed). I wished him all the best when I heard the distant whistle of the approaching train and, grabbing my luggage, ran alongside to pull myself onto sleeper carriage number 5.

As it was late the lights onboard were off and most of the passengers were sleeping soundly on their bunks. I pushed my luggage underneath a seat and climbed up onto the top bunk I’d reserved. Once the train started chuddering along I was soon fast asleep.

It was late when I was awoke by the sound of shouting. I sat up feeling groggy and peeped down the corridor in the direction of the noise. The corridor, which had been empty when I boarded, was now a seething mass of bodies. At first I thought people were fighting and, like in a school yard scrap, everyone was stood around watching. I soon realized that this wasn’t the case.

A few berths down the angry mob of men started indiscriminately dragging people from their beds, raining savage blows and kicks upon their heads. The mob was moving further down the train in my direction, all the while dragging people from their bunks and attacking anyone who offered resistance. It was looking pretty grim.

Having no clue as to what the cause of the trouble was I thought it best to lay down on my bunk and play the ‘ignorant foreigner’, hoping the trouble would pass me by.

It didn’t.

It wasnt long before the crowd was gathered around my bed. A furious man, crazy eyes bulging out of his sallow face, started screaming at me, slamming his fist upon the end of my bunk. I looked down shocked to see an old man, sleeping on a lower bunk opposite, get viciously dragged onto the floor by his legs, receiving a couple of wildly slung punches to his face and side.

It would have been foolish to hang around at this stage so I quickly jumped off my bed and lost myself in the crowd. I managed to duck down quickly and grab my bag from under one of the chairs and proceeded to barge my way towards the door at the end of the carriage. I glanced back and noticed more people joining in the fray, flailing arms and legs, faces contorted in rage. One man on a higher bunks was kicking his attacker in the face in an attempt to ward of his blows, whilst another man grabbed for his legs.

“What the fuck?” I thought to myself.

I put a carriage distance between the riot and myself and, unable to find another bed, sat in the corner near the toilets on my rucksack. The pungent aroma of urine was preferable to getting my head staved in by an angry mob. It was coming up to 3am when I glanced at my watch.

It wasn’t long before a conductor tried to tell me that I couldn’t sit there and would have to move. “Well im not sitting in there mate,” I told him, pointing down towards the opposite carriage, where I could still discern people pushing their way out of the crowd in a bit to escape the trouble. Having a quick look for himself the conductor was soon scurrying away to, presumably, get help. After a brief interlude he returned, three security guards marched promptly behind him. They wore matching green military uniforms and each had a large rifle slung over his back.

The train screeched to a halt.

Every five minutes I walked down to check on the situation. Although the violence had been curtailed a lot of people were still vehemently shouting and gesticulating. I decided to sit back down on my rucksack and try to rest, feeling slighty more confident that I wouldn’t be murdered.

The conductor returned after about twenty minutes and told me to return to my seat. “Are you sure?” I asked. “We’re good right?” I put up my thumb but got blankly stared at. Neither the conductor, nor the security guard with him, spoke enough English to furnish me with any explanation as to what the fuck had happened. They led me back towards my cabin. The corridor was still just as crowded but things seemed a little calmer as I pushed my way back through the mass of bodies.

When I arrived at my bed the man who had originally screamed at me was sat on the lower bunk (from where the old sleeping man had been dragged). He gave me an empty stare. I nodded at him and climbed back upon my bed. I must say that I didn’t feel particularly safe as I curled up and tried to fall back to sleep. The rest of the night passed without incident and I was more than pleased when the train pulled up at Varanasi junction train station.

Agraaaaaaaaa!!!!!

“Yes friend, taxi?”

“Yes friend, you want rickshaw?”

“Hello friend, money exchange?”

“You want room friend?”

Hello, you want look my shop?”

“You want water friend?”

“Hello, real marble. Very good price.”

“Come see my restaurant.”

“You like smoke friend?”

“Sari, you want buy sari?”

“Where to friend?”

“Cigarettes?”

“You like banana sir?”

“Very good price.”

“What country?”

“Hello friend.”

“Nice gift, come look.”

“Hello friend.”

“Hello friend.”

“Hello friend.”

“Friend………”

And that was just the two-minute walk around the corner to buy bogroll.

The Taj was nice though 😉

Haridwar

An old man wrapped in a dirty white dhoti slept on top of a wooden table in the far corner of the tent. A longer table ran parallel to it, where I sat with three other Indian gentlemen drinking warm chai. In front of the tent children happily splashed at the river’s edge, behind them a large statue of lord Shiva filled the skyline on the opposite bank. When I had finished my tea the old man stretched out his sinewy arms, sat up and maneuvered around on the table to face me. He spoke little English so his son translated the old mans questions for me.

“Your age?”, “what country?” etc…

He had a childish grin and a single tooth moved about on his lower gum when he spoke. Once the conversation had died down I gave the son some money to pay for the tea. The old man spoke to the son in Hindi and my money was returned.

“We don’t want money,” He told me. “You are a most welcome guest in our country,” his son translated for him. He gave me a toothless grin and I smiled back at the old man and, holding my hands together as if in prayer, bowed and told him “Dhanyabad” (Thank you).

The tea shop

The Ashram Blues

I find myself newly single (thank Christ!!), seeing out my days in self-imposed exile in an ashram (spiritual retreat) on the banks of the Ganges in Rishikesh (incidentally next door to the Mahareshi Mahesh Yoga Ashram of Beatles fame).

Three weeks ago Rach and I parted ways and I stormed off to ‘The Valley of Flowers’ aboard a rickety bus.

After three hours precariously maneuvering along a cliff edge mountain road the driver had to pull in behind a looooong queue of traffic. A massive landslide had blocked the way, spilling down from the steep hills to the left, across the road and falling into the deep valley below. We waited for just over two hours for it to be cleared and set off again. Four hours later we pulled in behind another huge queue of traffic. I got off the bus and noticed a landslide, bigger than the first, had blocked our path once again. We waited for hours. As the sun started to set I began to feel a little disheartened. Any attempt to clear the stone and loose dirt from the road resulted in more land sliding down the hill to block our route out of there.

Landslide baby!!!

As the sun set behind the mountainous hills, and the crickets began to hum, the bus driver decided to turn back. He gave me the option of waiting there, in the middle of nowhere, on a barren mountain road, or heading back to Rishikesh. I chose the latter option and jumped back onboard (although he only took me back as far as the last town and I had to flag down a bus full of sheik pilgrims to complete my journey back).

I made it back to Rishikesh at 11Pm, just in time to give Rachael a goodbye kiss in the pouring rain. I’d managed to catch her just before she jumped into a late taxi, taking her to Haridwar station (She would be getting a train to Delhi airport to catch a flight to Nepal where she’d begin her new teaching job). She drove out of my life that night.

I couldn’t help feeling that fate had brought me back to Rishikesh for a reason.

The next day I awoke feeling ill, and pissed off for numerous reasons (the bad sleep I’d just had didn’t help). A serious case of man flu was about to kick in. Instead of risking the dodgy road to ‘The Valley’ a second time I packed my bag and mooched off down the hill to find an ashram to spend the following 3 weeks.

An interminable row of ashrams line the east bank of the Ganga. I found one with a more than ample room that boasted a rock hard wooden bed, a lush green courtyard and twice daily yoga classes.

Upon arrival I locked away all my possessions in a cupboard and sat on the hard wooden bed staring at the Om sigh on the wall (which it appeared the last resident had written in his own blood). My first night sleep was awful. I spent the night curled up in a ball suffering an ague of icy cold chills and hot sweats. The next morning I conjectured that I had malaria; That, and the smiling faces of the seemingly enlightened residents only served to darken my mood all the more.

My head was pickling by the hour. I felt like I was in some sort of spiritual prison. I was down and weak from flu, morbidly depressed about my love life and the more I meditated, the more the voice in my head kept telling me what a twat I was.  I couldn’t turn it off.

As if I wasn’t suffering enough on the second day I found myself the victim of a rather bizarre theft. A large monkey took it upon himself to have away with my bananas. I was sat on the bed, blowing my nose into a snotty tissue, when all of a sudden monkey appeared in the doorway. “Hello mate.” He casually strutted into the room, giving me a sideways glance, the look in his eyes intimating that I was of no import. I decided to puff out my chest and growl, hoping to scare him off. He paid me no mind and walked over to the shelf, grabbing hold of the bag of bananas I had left there to ripen for breakfast tomorrow.

OM!

I stood there dumfounded as, swag in hand, he turned and walked out of the door, wiggling his huge red arse at me and throwing banana skins over his shoulder. I rushed out onto the porch only to see him nimbly climb up onto the roof and out of sight.

“I’ll get a stick,” I thought slightly feverish. “He wont think he’s so clever next time when I pull out a bloody massive stick.” Lost in a flurry of vindictive thought I turned around to find one of the enlightened guests giggling at me. I tried to change the look on my face from one of malevolent hatred to one of bliss and, spinning around, stomped back into my cell. “I’ll get you monkey, just you wait.” I locked the door, rubbed my temples, let out a pathetic cough and started to feel sorry for myself again.

Could I really lock myself away for over two weeks with nothing but the voice in my feverish mind for company? Could my confidence handle another mugging at the hands of my sinister simian nemesis? Would my negative attitude inevitably draw towards me more negative energy?

I decided I would stubbornly stick it out for the allotted time, determined to leave the ashram either at one with the universe or totally insane.

Ahh…It aint so bad