Getting Lost in Varanasi

I am still not entirely sure what happened to me yesterday in
Varanasi, a mystical, ancient Indian city perched on the banks of the
Ganges River. Varanasi, previously known as Banaras and Kashi, is one
of the holiest places in India, where many Indians come for a dip in
the water of the Ganga, as it is said to wash away all sins, and many
Hindus come to die, as meeting your end here gets you a free pass out
of the cycle of reincarnation. From a boat in the river, one can look
up at the ghats, the steps that lead down into the water, and see men
and women bathing at any time of day; Indian sadhus (holy men)
chanting; toned yogis doing sun salutations; and foreigners taking it
all in. It is, altogether, a completely overwhelming and magical
place.

It's easy to get lost in Varanasi's Old City, where the streets wind
every which way, and most are only four or five feet wide. It seems
that when they built Varanasi, each person desired that his house to
be as close to the Ganges as possible, so they are stacked on top of
one another, back to back, and side to side, which creates a dizzying
effect for the visitor. At times, it seems that they should have just
built the entire city in the middle of the river…it probably would
have been simpler.

Usually, when I roam around a place like this, I put my headphones on
to avoid the touts and numerous men and children who approach me. In
Varanasi, I did the same, and with music blaring, I set off to get
lost in the congested, twisted walkways. It's the only way to truly
get a feel for things in Varanasi, and if you wandered around with a
map, you wouldn't do yourself much good anyway as nothing is
signposted. Somehow, in a span of 45 minutes, I managed to come back
to the same exact intersection three times, each time from a different
lane. By the third time, I was laughing out loud at the insanity of
the situation and shopkeepers were smiling at me with knowing looks.

I finally extracted myself from that part of the city and made my way
down the river to Manikarnika Ghat, the largest burning ghat in
Varanasi. As mentioned above, dying in Varanasi is the ultimate
end…the linchpin in the cycle of reincarnation that effectively frees
a person from the bonds of life and death. At Manikarnika Ghat,
bodies are cremated every day, first wrapped in bright red and gold
cloth, then carried into the Ganges to be bathed, and afterwards, put
on a pyre and burned. Foreigners can watch the process, but if you
do, touts constantly approach you, requesting money for the privilege
of watching the process unfold. Unfortunately, these touts have no
relation to the dead…they just want to make money off of clueless
foreigners.

So, for several reasons, I didn't remain at the burning ghat long. For
a foreigner it is something completely different and quite magnetic,
but each ceremony is, of course, not just for show. A family sits
watching their loved one turn to ash. It must be disconcerting for a
family to feel as if foreigners are always silently watching this
custom.

I left the burning ghat after a couple of minuets and perambulated
skinny streets lined with tiny shops selling packets of this and that,
looking for a main road. The shops are so small and the streets so
narrow that it gives the viewer an Alice in Wonderland effect. The
ceilings and walls are just inches away from the shopkeeper's head—you
wonder how they don't go crazy perched inside all day. In some spots
in the lanes, you can reach out and touch the walls of houses on
either side of you.

I never found a main road. I walked up steps, through covered
passageways, around shadowy corners, and down a lane where I was
suddenly confronted by eight armed police officers. They searched me
and my bag asking for a camera and looking at my mp3 player with
interest. Luckily, I hadn't brought my camera with me, and I explained
that the mp3 player was just a walkman. A couple of feet ahead I
noticed an ad hoc metal detector, and wondered what I had gotten
myself into. It seemed I had stumbled across a secure zone; but, I
didn't have the heart to indicate to the officers that I had no idea
where I was or what I was doing. After they had checked me out and
realized I was no one of interest, they waved me through.

There is a scene in the French film, Amelie, in which the title
character, played by Audrey Tatou, guides an old, blind man through
the streets of Paris. She notices him struggling, and decides to take
him by the arm and guide him to his destination. As she rushes him
through vegetable markets, past chickens, in between children playing
in the street, she narrates the scenes around them, so that he can
experience everything as if he has eyes to see. By the time Amelie
takes leave of him, the blind man is completely dumbfounded, not quite
sure what has just happened, but certain that for those brief moments,
an angel was sent down from above. An old man adopted me in the very
same way after I passed through the metal detector.

I had only wandered a couple of yards into the protected area, when a
hunched man with a short growth of grey beard, clucked at me and
motioned for me to join him. I am sure I looked lost; I was taking
everything in. There were several little makeshift shops selling
bangles and brass pots right when you entered the area, and behind
them, a tall chain-link fence rose twelve feet high, topped with
tumbleweeds of barbed wire. Behind this were thick trees and behind
them, the bluish spires of a mosque peeked out. Perhaps this
explained the tight security? I had no idea what the little man
wanted, but I walked to him and without pause he started chattering
away in broken English about my surroundings, starting with a statue
of a giant red cow.

We were only together for about three minutes, but in that time, I was
blessed twice, taken into the inner sanctum of a sacred Hindu temple,
paraded past more gunmen, and led through claustrophobic market shops
where bright flowers, sour yogurt, intoxicating betel nut, silk saris,
and golden fabrics were sold. I ended up in a completely different
place than I had begun, the old man disappeared without a word, and I
stood flabbergasted with orange and red powder on my forehead, and a
bright-colored string tied to my wrist. What had just happened?
Part of me didn't even want it explained. The chanting of the Hindu
worshipers I had witnessed inside the temple still rang in my ears,
and I still had no idea what all the security was for—I hadn't even
see the mosque!

I found the nearest exit, and walked past the guards back into the
narrow streets, having no idea where I was. Eventually, after an hour
or so, I wound back to a descending street with a huge black cow
lounging about, nearly blocking the lane. This was a signpost I
recognized; I had reached my hotel.

I learned later that non-Hindus are never allowed into Vishwanath, or
the Golden Temple, the most sacred Hindu temple in Varanasi. I
shouldn't have entered, the man shouldn't have blessed me, and I
probably had no right to be sporting the orange string around my
wrist. I should have paid the old man for the experience—but he was
aiding me in breaking rules I didn't even know about! I should have
known that the mosque is the second target in line for desecration by
the Hindu BJP party because of the tense situation here.

According to my guide book, the Vishwanath temple has been in Varanasi
since 1776, but there were once quite a few other Hindu temples in the
area. However, Muslim invaders routinely destroyed them on raids, and
the Alamgir Mosque erected there now is a site of contention for right
wing Hindus. The BJP would like to see it destroyed so that the Hindu
temples that were once there can be rebuilt; hence the high security.

I felt a bit sheepish after I read all this, and was quite furious
about the old man taking me unawares into the temple. But, the memory
of the experience, in retrospect, is like tasting alcohol for the
first time—you know it is forbidden, and the taste makes you cringe,
but in spite of this, you are thirsty for more, and the memory of the
taste makes your mouth wet.

I've talked to other foreigners since leaving Varanasi, and asked them
if they went into the area around the mosque or visited the Golden
Temple. Each gives me a blank look and a shake of the head, no. None
of them even saw the police officers who were crawling all over the
area. Sometimes I wonder if it was all a dream.