The highs and sighs of Varanasi (Part 2)

Update on this post: The fire used for cremation in Varanasi comes from only one low-caste family guarding the funeral pyre that's been continuously burning for thousands of years. And women are not allowed at cremations because they tend to cry. Their tears are considered pollutants. (Sources: Documentary on India by Michael Wood and www.factsanddetails.com)


Highs

After dozing off for 2 hours in Hotel Haifa, Mike and I set off. We had lunch in Vaatika Pizzeria located at Tulsi Ghat, an outdoor restaurant famous for its pizza and apple pie baked in wood-fired oven. We ordered thin-crust epinard (spinach)pizza. It was bland for my taste but the generous amount of molten mozzarella filled my mouth and offered a delightful change from our usual vegetarian diet in Delhi. Mike, who has been here before wouldn't leave the place without having the apple pie. I am not a fan of apple pie but this one had the right amount of sweetness that blended well with my Cafe Americano. Vaatika instantly became our official favorite restaurant in Varanasi.
Once sated, we took a walk along the ghats. What I only used to see on television I witnessed live now, Hindus fully absorbed in their (spi)rituals. There were people on the bathing steps of the ghats, women clad in their saris while the men were almost naked; they showered themselves with water from the Ganges River.
But it was obvious the river's purpose was not simply to wash away sins. It was also a source for daily subsistence. There were boats that take pilgrims and tourists to a cruise to get a view of the ghats from the river for at least Rs50 an hour per person. Hook-and-line fishers sat on their moored boats fixing their fishing gears, and children with improvised fishing rods trying their luck. One would think they were doing this for fun as they boisterously chatted and laugh at one another, a girl selling floating lamps told me the children's catch were brought home, cooked and eaten with chapati. I bought two floating lamps from her, an offering I was going to make for my dad.


We walked further and reached Harish Chandra Ghat,better known as the burning ghat where bodies of dead Hindu are cremated beginning at dusk. From a viewing deck we could see several funeral pyres. In some, we could make out the head of the dead. There's a separate pyre exclusively for the high caste and that created the biggest fire. The shrouded corpse is bathed in the river then carried on bamboo stretcher and transferred on to the pyre.
I shifted my attention back to what was happening at the riverbank, a few men sat on their haunches while their heads were being shaved. These men were the eldest male in the families of the dead. Together with the brahmin priest and a few other male members of the family they went around the pyre where the body of the dead is laid. At this point i couldn't tell whether it was the brahmin or the eldest male who lit the pyre. The pyre started burning, the mourners stepped back, the eldest male on his mobile phone. I thought he might be reporting to the rest of the family that the dearly departed's soul was soon going to be liberated. I did not see anyone actually grieving, and there were very few women, and definitely no women took part in the burning ritual.

Up the ghat was completely the opposite, it was filled with vibrant people oblivious to the fire and smoke emanating from the funeral pyres. The ghats were turned into a plaza where boys and men played cricket, college girls and boys met up and chatted, smaller children running all over the place, boatmen inviting tourists to take a cruise in their tiny dinghies.

From where Mike and I stood we could see the temples built further back in time, the once illustrious buildings are now showing signs of dilapidation but could still impress anyone and wonder how much wealth and spiritual devotion were put into building these temples and ghats.

There's more than 100 ghats alongside the Ganga, we figured we could see one or two more before calling it a day. We reached the ghat where pilgrims swarmed around a Shiva lingam, pouring water on it, rubbing it, apparently part of a ritual before they immersed themselves in the Ganga river.
It was also the ghat were I saw lit clay lamps floating in the river. I decided this was where I would let the lamp for my dad start to sail away. My lamp was blocked by a piece of rope connected to a boat, I gave it a gentle push so it could sail further away but some Indians who watched me said I shouldn't, that I should let the lamp float away on its own.

We had enough for the day. We went back to the burning ghat and from there climbed the steps. At the end was the temple where the Brahmin priests probably did their rituals. Behind it is a warren of alleys where almost equally old buildings stood. As in many places in India, it was hard to tell whether we were in a marketplace or a residential area. After many left and right turns we reached the main road and found the Bread of Life bakeshop, we peeked through the glass door and saw they had bagels. We now found a place for breakfast.

In the main road, you don't need to see the result of the 2011 National Census to know that the state of Uttar Pradesh where Varanasi is, is the most populous place in India. The street was jam-packed with people on foot, people on bikes, people on mopeds, people on rickshaws and auto-rickshaws, people in the sidewalks, people in the shops...they are just e-verywhere. It was daunting.
Our trip to Varanasi was timed with a khumb mela that started some days before we arrived. We were told that in the Main Ghat there's a one hour puja, 7 to 8 pm every night, where thousands of pilgrims congregated. Tired from the trip to Sarnath where Buddha did his first sermon after receiving enlightenment, we took the cycle rickshaw to the Main Ghat.
At the Main Ghat were thousands of devotees, pilgrims and tourists from all over India(from all over the world actually, said one local resident to me). Some pilgrims came by boats and observed the rituals from the river. There were priests who roamed around holding a plate with incense and kumkum (powder used for religious marking) and rupee bills and coins. One approached me, applied kumkum in my forehead, blessed me, then asked me to put money in the brass plate. I thought I heard him curse me when I didn't give money.
I have heard of large religious gatherings in India that became chaotic and caused stampede. I was worried for a minute, but thinking it was held outdoors where people simply sat down or stood at the steps of the ghat I calmed down. The ghat smelled of human sweat, incense and whiff of air from the Ganga. There was a cacophony of bell chimes, continuous incantation of mantra and private conversations that were not so private.

Despite absence of belief in any religion seeing a demonstration of religious fervor made the hair in my arm stood. I wondered what each one prayed for, which of the millions of gods did they pray to, what offense did they commit that they wanted washed away, how difficult was life for them not to want to be reborn.

The puja was over in an hour, the huge crowd thinned as everyone started to leave. We walked down the ghats to catch a boat that would take us back nearest to our hotel. It was dark and quiet now. There were only the stars and the remaining embers from the funeral pyre that provided light. I saw silhouettes of few men silently bathing. All I could hear was the gentle splash as the boatman's oar touched the water and faint human voices from afar.

There are other places worth visiting in Varanasi but I was content just seeing the ghats and the customs and practices that intrigued me when I was younger. It's a place where life and death are juxtaposed. It's a place not only for photo-ops but the place allows one to understand more if not completely, the Hindu culture. One may even find enlightenment here.

There are locals who strike conversations with tourists, many of them take this opportunity to practice their English, but a good source of stories if you are curious enough. I've seen Varanasi, I'm ready to go back to my country now.

(photos are by Mike's except the pizza and the shiva lingam)

The highs and sighs of Varanasi (Part 1)

Varanasi is one of the oldest cities in the world, and one of the seven holy cities in India. It is situated on the banks of the Ganges River. There in that river Hindus bathe, wash their clothes, swim, catch fish. Hindus believed that the river has the power to wash away their sins. Many Hindus dream of dying in Varanasi, they believe that if they died there they will get their moksha, their liberation from cycle of birth and rebirth… it means they will not be reincarnated anymore. I learned there that the notion of second or third life is not their desired destiny, “life is tough, who would want to live again” said Gopal, a resident of Varanasi, son of a Brahmin priest. It is a place where many Hindus dream to get their bodies cremated, and while majority of them died dreaming, many still made it.

Sigh

The trip onwards was not uneventful. Michael and I were still on the train’s wait list when the final chart was released. As we were already at the train station and this trip having been planned months ago, we decided to get on the train anyhow. Michael wrote about this in his blog too.

On the way to one of the holiest places in India, we encountered the unholiest people. First there was a man (or woman?) who tried to scam us by asking for advance payment for a hotel reservation. Then on the train, when we were already on board and apparently without confirmed ticket, the Train Conductor (TD) was very rude to us. When I showed the piece of paper in my possession (our e-ticket) he brusquely waved the paper in my face and snarled, ‘this is not a ticket’. Almost 2 years in India, 6 months in New Delhi, I have learned that it is futile to raise your voice when dealing with those in “power.” Their rudeness can instantly diminish your self-respect and could reduce you to a lesser mortal, at the same time make them feel supreme. Only, I did not allow him that. As he snarled at me I patiently endured and then calmly took my turn in explaining my predicament. I admitted to our own ineptness (not reading the note in the ticket that said the e-ticket is voided if we’re waitlisted, thus we should not get on board or pay the amount with penalty) and massaged his ego a bit. It worked. Although we still ended up paying for new ticket plus penalty and did not get our own berths, at least I was able to pacify him. Trust me, getting these people in ‘power’ to shut up and listen to you is a major feat already. That said, Michael and I were able to position ourselves peacefully inside the train… between the cars, him laying down on the floor, and me on a corner seat just outside a coach door. The train crew looked at us with sympathetic eyes, and in his pity he offered the one bunk reserved for the TD to us… for Rs500. And for my tiny seat, he wanted Rs100. Power he had over us, and power he wielded. We did not succumb.



When everyone was getting ready to sleep, I asked for blankets for me and Mike (remember that we have legit tickets now) but the same guy demanded Rs100. It was late, I was exhausted and unlike the issue with the TD this one was corruption, albeit at micro scale, and galled me. I cussed. I sat on my corner seat with my shawl and tried to sleep. Few minutes later, same guy woke me up and offered me a blanket. I refused, told him he couldn’t extract money from me. He offered it anyway, for free. I said thank you. I wore my sunglasses to shade my eyes from the fluorescent light kept on all night then dozed off but woke up every half an hour during the entire 12+ hour journey. At about dawn, one of the passengers who the night before was very nice to us, poked my sunglasses thinking I was asleep. I told him off, he was defensive, glared at me and cussed. At that point I felt like crying, how could these people be so cruel? I wish I could tell them, “I am a volunteer, I do not receive salary, I am trying to do something which you should be doing, helping your people.” I found myself suppressing my tears, I realized the enormity of problems in India. It isn’t just about poverty and marginalization, a lot of it has something to do with the way people treat people.



Our train reached Varanasi at 9:30 a.m.. I felt a feeling of relief and enthusiasm though still exhausted and sleepy. First thing I wanted was a nap. At the platform we were greeted by an man unknown to us who zealously guided as to the exit all the way to the pre-paid auto stand. To get to our hotel would cost as Rs70, this zealous man offered to take us to there for only Rs50. I’ve been in India long enough to know that this generous offer comes with a catch. The man wanted to take us to another hotel, cautioned us that our hotel could be fully booked. If we agreed, he’d get commission from his preferred hotel. We told him we had a reservation in Hotel Haifa. He glared at us and walked away. We went back to the original plan of taking pre-paid auto.

a different kind of diya for diwali

Diwali is a five-day festival for Hindus, Jains and Sikhs, and each has their own story to tell how it began. But since my experience was limited I can only speak of the Hindu version.

Diwali is the time of the year when Hindus light diyas (clay lamps) and firecrackers. It's a tradition that was carried on from the day the mythical Lord Rama returned to Kosala kingdom, along with wife Sita and brother Lakshmani, after 14 years of banishment and having successfully defeated the demon-king Ravana. The people of Ayodha, the capital of Kosala, welcomed the trio with joyous celebration, they illuminated the kingdom with diyas and also burst firecrackers.

Diwali does not happen same time each year, the date is calculated according to the moon. This year it fell on November 5, the moon was not visible in the sky. That night we (Michael, fellow volunteer, and his visiting American friends) joined our landlord's family in their commemoration. After the traditional puja, rangolis, kumkum, incense, lighting of candles and all we went to another building the family owns, located a few blocks away. Amidst the explosions, we entered alleys to go to the building, skillfully evaded lit firecrackers and reached there with all our limbs still intact.

It wasn't just the firecrackers we tried to elude, in spite of diyas in every house we passed the streets were dark. We had to tread carefully, almost as if we were watching out for landmines. The landlord's daughter warned us about accidentally stepping on diyas laid on the streets. These are supposedly cursed diyas; people who believe in black magic and who have family members who have been sick, or been into series of unfortunate events go out on a moonless night to plant this trap. The belief is that the diya is placed there with an intent to pass on the illness or the misfortunes to any one who steps on it. Makes sense to me that they do this when the moon is out. Those people lit the diyas, the flame would eventually die but the curse remains. With the Diwali's raucous celebration you could easily ignore the ground you are walking on.

Along the way, we did pass by a 2 women boldly lighting a diya in the middle of the street. At the time, I thought it was very devout of them to spread whatever health and prosperity the diyas bring. Strange that people knew what evil it could bring to them but no one stopped the women.


Photos from top to bottom: 1) diyas, 2) rangoli, 3) landlord's family preparing for the puja, 4) landlord's daughter applying kumkum on mike's forehead, 5) fireworks, 6) cursed diyas. (Photos by Mike and Len)

Who said I couldn’t wear tank top

All I wanted on the eve of Diwali last year, was to be able to go out, get my groceries wearing comfy tank top. I expected that most shops would be closed the following day as Hindus celebrated the festival of lights and sweets (and firecrackers). If I couldn’t do my shopping I would starve by Sunday. I was not insecure about Diwali (Saturday) as I was invited to celebrate the festival with two families that took care of lunch and dinner.

It’s a protracted walk to and from my favored grocer’s shop on a humid day. I fought long and hard with myself before finally deciding to go out in tank top with a shawl wrapped around my shoulders. It was a compromise after internal debate whether to conform to Tamilian culture or assert my right to wear anything I wanted.

I wondered what could happen if I went out baring my shoulders. Light-skinned, I am obviously a foreigner here. I thought that Chennai, being a mixed of Tamilians, South Indians and few other nationalities, it would be more tolerant when it sees a foreign woman walking alone in the streets in tank top. But remembering that we have been advised to respect the culture, and that the erogenous zones for them were legs, shoulders and chest, a tank top could be perceived as an affront. Worse, create an image of loose morals.

Although most people I asked told me that Chennai’s culture has changed considerably through the years the conservatism is palpable through the clothes they wear. Majority of women wear sari. A sari is a colorful untailored fabric five or six yards long wound around the waist, the extra length is thrown over one shoulder, pinned to the blouse, goes all the way around to the waist, the end is tucked in at the left side of the front waist. It goes with short-sleeved, tight-fitting blouses enough to cover the upper trunk. The midriff is only partially hidden, but one need not peek through to see their bellies.

Many men wear lungi, by my estimate three for every ten men. A lungi is like a sarong, a fabric with two opposite ends sewn together, it’s draped around the waist pleated in front of the groin. Some lungis are folded twice and worn short, some four or five inches above the knee.
I often wondered what’s under a sari or a lungi. Once or twice I no longer inhibited myself and just begged female colleagues to lift the hems of their saris to show what they use as undergarment and saw that they wear long skirts. I couldn’t do that with men, but I was told they may have boxers. Yet during Diwali there was a man in lungi lying carelessly on a pavement, I accidentally (okay, maybe not accidentally) saw that there was nothing underneath. I am digressing.

With all due respect to their culture, if women can bare their bellies and men their legs, what is so wrong if I am fully clothed save for part of my shoulders? It may be an erogenous zone for them but my own sensibility tells me the bellies and legs are better unexposed.

Here in the compound where I live, my male neighbors wander about without shirts on, while women are covered down to their heels even inside their homes. This differentiation in manner of dressing alone already infuriates me. Much as I want to be sensitive and respectful of the culture it runs counter to my conviction to gender equality. I cannot go on here as volunteer without ever having to do something or anything about it. Certainly I cannot change their thinking and their values, but I can at the least assert my own right.

I asked colleagues in my organization if it’s really impossible for me to go out in tank top. They said not. Both male and female colleagues said I could do it at my own risk. Just be prepared for the consequences; probably be stared at more than usual. Perhaps they may even pardon me for being a foreigner.

Taking the risk was the least I could do so I don’t insult myself feeling powerless just over what I could wear or not. So then I resolved that I would dress up as decently comfortable as possible, just to desensitize the people around me and those I would meet in the streets. I took the risk and went to the grocery shop on that eve of Diwali in tank top and a scarf to cover my shoulder. As I wore the scarf loose it occasionally dropped and exposed my shoulders. Except for a young boy who looked intently, curious than anything, no one actually was insulted, offended or outraged (at least not overtly).

I also started going up my rooftop wearing shorts to hang my clothes. The first time I did it, a male neighbor who happened to be at his terrace called the other men to come out and ogled. I was finished hanging my clothes by the time I could make out what they were saying in Tamil. The succeeding times they got used to seeing me in shorts with a bucket full of clothes to dry and there was no more fuss.

Six months after that Diwali and after having explored larger parts of Chennai, I found that other Indian women (read: not Tamilian) do wear western clothes in a far more daring fashion. Roles are reversed as I am now the one who can’t help gazing at them, but in a deferential manner.

There are a lot of moral policing going on in India, not just in Chennai, too many restrictions especially for Indian women. It takes courage to challenge the cultural norms, shedding off the sari makes at least a good start, so does wearing a tank top.

(Note: I find sari one of the most elegant things a woman can wear. I even loved it when I wore one. It’s different when it is considered a symbol of women’s status in male-dominated society.)

photos by Francesca (me in sari) and Mike (men in lungi)