As the tuk-tuk turned down yet another tiny alleyway, the
first glimpses of sunrise barely reaching its dark corners, I knew it was all
over. Our second day in India and we’d already been kidnapped. That worried
look people back home had made when I told them I was going to India flashed
into my mind, maybe this place wasn’t as safe as I had told myself? I was
looking out for landmarks so I could tell someone, who I don’t know, our
whereabouts. Just as I was envisioning a giant, barren factory, with one
flickering light bulb and the three of us girls with duct tape covering our
mouths, our tour group came into sight.
I jumped out of the tuk-tuk before it even stopped- both
furious with myself for panicking, and relieved we were alive and well. The
group, made up of old and young, experienced travellers and novices, the only
thing in common our tiredness from the 4.30 wake up call, walked slowly to our
final destination. As we rounded the corner, the last building faded away to
reveal it: The Ganges River. The Goddess Ganges, already bustling with boatmen
taking people out onto her wide waters.
The steps down to the shoreline were dotted with children
selling candles for people to set down in the river, homeless men still asleep
from the night before, sacred cows and their slightly less sacred dung. My eyes
were fixed on the open, flowing river, far bigger than I had imagined. Clouds
were obscuring the rising sun, which gave the river a slightly eerie blue glow.
Not eerie in a creepy way, but in a way that told you it was special, that it
was alive.
We gingerly climbed into out boat, falling in was not high
on any of our to-do lists, and slowly made our way. As the captain of our small
wooden boat steered us down the river, we passed many ghats, sets of steps that
lead down to the waters edge. All the ghats have names, and many are decorated
with images of Hindu gods or text. There are almost 90 leading to the Ganges in
the holy city of Varanasi. On one, a giant swastika had been painted in white.
I know the symbol has a different meaning here, that it stands for wealth and
good fortune, that it’s used in religious ceremonies and as a positive
religious symbol. Even the word has the key to its true meaning: it comes from
the Sanskrit word svastika, meaning a lucky or auspicious object. However,
my notions of the symbol are too well learned to forget, and a sense of sadness
came over me, that the symbol of the kind and loving Hindu people had been
majorly tainted. However, as our river journey continued, and I saw the Hindu
people and ceremonies in action, the swastika was forgotten, and our attention
was fixed on the people.
As we got closer to the Dashashwamedh ghat, one of the main
ones, the number of people bathing themselves grew. Hindu’s from all over the
country, the world even, were stripping off and stepping into the holy river.
They were all in various states of concentration and prayer, and the sense of
importance the river holds was indescribable. Men dressed in orange swamped the
rivers edge. We’d seen these men the day before while on our bus ride from
Nepal. They are the Hindu Kanwarias on a pilgrimage devoted to Lord Shiva, one
of the three main Hindu gods. Each year, men and boys walk from their villages
to the Ganges to collect holy water, and then walk all the way back again.
Rather than looks of exhaustion or tiredness, the men and boys all looked
elated at having reached their destination, and seemed to be thoroughly
enjoying their well deserved soak in the water.
We stepped off the boat onto the Dashashwamedh ghat, and saw
Hindu priests performing traditional ceremonies, worshippers dotted around
them. The priests are much more numerous in the evenings, but there were a few
on that morning. The area was noisy and busy, but at the same time had a deep
sense of calm. We traipsed through the crowds; we were outsiders but it didn’t
feel like we shouldn’t be there. We stared at the bathers and they stared back
at us. Jolly men rubbed there big bellies with soap, the suds covering their
whole body, groups of teenage boys splashed and hollered, an elderly woman
submerged herself quietly, a look of contentment on her face.
The Ganges draws thousands of Hindu’s to its banks every
day. The river is where a Hindu must come when they are born, when they get
married, and when they die. A dunk in the river will absolve a Hindu of their
sins. We saw cremation ceremonies along the banks. Bundles of wood with
wisps of smoke rising high, giving back to the earth the remains of a
person. Women are not allowed at these ceremonies, because, and I quote
our guide, “they get too emotional and would cry”. I was too busy staring in
wonder (and a bit of horror I admit) to be offended by this anti-feminist
statement, and secretly agree it’s probably true.
As we got back into the boat and made our way to our
starting point, the ‘near death’ tuk-tuk ride seemed an age ago. My assumption
that we were in danger seemed ridiculous now, having just witnessed the type of
people drawn to Varanasi. The noise of the engine was the only sound as we once
again saw the pure happiness on the faces of the people lying in the water. A
touch of jealousy came to me, someone without a religion or significant
beliefs, at the obvious enrichment this religion and this place has on people’s
lives. To have such a strong connection with a place must be a powerful and
comforting thing. But I was, at that moment, content enough to just watch, and
very grateful we would be returning at sunset to see it all again.
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| The Dashashwamedh Ghat |
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| Ganesh on a Ghat |
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| The Ganges |
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| The Kanwaria's at the end of their pilgrimage |
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| The boat at sunrise |
