Out of the mist appeared a small wooden wagon, scarcely larger than the little red wagon I had as a child, pulled by a skeletal figure in rags, and inside the wagon lay a small, emaciated creature that scarcely seemed human, with twisted, thin, useless legs. A leprous woman in rags begged on my right; she had bloody bandaged stumps for hands. I felt a scream rising towards my throat, but I didn’t let it out. Instead I took several deep breaths and continued walking as if I hadn’t seen her. Another wagon containing a mangled human form rattled past on my left. Mostly I saw people in rags who were not incapacitated, though they were obviously very poor. Moving past them in the darkness and mist was like stepping into a nightmare or some sick and twisted idea for a Halloween celebration. It would be a fitting scene in a horror movie. But it was real, all too real.
We came to a flight of grey stone steps descending to the bank; by then the light was dark grey, and I’m not even sure by what light we saw, perhaps lanterns and candles, unless there are street lamps. Jagdish said not to take pictures of the naked saddhus, and as soon as he mentioned this, at a glance I saw to my left a crouching, longhaired and bearded naked man smeared with white ashes. A few others squatted or stood near him, just on the left of the top of the steps, or rather ghats. They seemed to have grayish blue skin, and I thought they were silently watching us, like alert and still cats, but I only briefly glanced at them.
We moved down the long steps and off to the right. Ubiquitous wallahs tagged along, with beads and incense and pink floral cardboard boxes. On the stone pavement a few feet from the ghats, while I waited for my turn to climb aboard the wooden boat, I spotted an intact bright yellow marigold, picked it up and sniffed at it, but it had no smell.
After each pilgrim climbed aboard the boat, Jagdish handed us each a saucer-size leaf plate on which marigolds circled a lighted tea candle. Following the example of others, I took my plate to the far end and leaned over the side of the boat. I slowly, delicately placed the plate on the surface of the river. I let go of it, and it floated like the other plates. The Gangaji offerings followed the current, slowly drifting together away from our boat, and I watched them till the candlelight was a group of tiny dots. I continued watching them gently floating away till they were no longer in sight. That’s a tradition I like; it was sweet and silent.
“Ghats are steps leading down to the Gangaji,” Shantum said. “Where we climbed on the boat was the original site of huge sacrifices. Hindus bathe in the sacred Ganga to get rid of generations of bad karma. This applies to Hinduism but not Buddhism. Ganges water has never been tested, but specific incidents indicate that it really has healing powers.”
Two skinny little guys rowed our boat, and throughout the boat ride we remained within sight of ghats and old buildings, many of which had domes and murals and were painted colors such as pink, yellow, and baby blue. One large structure was decorated with many colorful sculptures of Hindu deities, and my mouth hung open as we passed it. Groups of people bathed down on the bottom steps of some of the ghats.
I’ve read about saddhus, naked Hindu holy men. Shantum said, “Leaving society to them means abandoning clothes, haircuts, and money.” Naked saddhus did exercises higher up on the ghats; they reminded me of the ascetics with whom Siddhartha Gautama hung out before he sat under the Bodhi Tree.
“It is auspicious to die on the Ganga because Shiva whispers in your ear,” Shantum said. “Dying on the other side, however, means coming back as a donkey!” It seems to me like a deity whispering in your ear while you’re dying on the edge of a river would be a little creepy. Meanwhile, around us the atmosphere was surreal and somewhat misty even as the sun gradually came out and Shantum told us some local Hindu legends.
We passed a smoky piece of land that Jagdish described as cremation grounds, where men tended piles of burning dark wood. I did not, however, see anything that looked like a human corpse. Shantum said, “There are forty Sanskaras: these are the stages of life in Hinduism, starting before conception. The son is the only one to perform rites at death. Twice born means wearing the sacred thread; it goes diagonally across the naked chest and around back. Death is celebration: sometimes people dance and sing at cremation grounds.” I think that probably has to do with hope for a better incarnation next time.
During the boat ride, we glided past moored boats and floating boats, and once a guy swimming in the water. Our boat came close to a couple of guys in a boat with a television turned on, presumably running on batteries, and a travel video played on the TV. They were selling videos and giving this demo right there on the Gangaji. That was really weird. It was almost as weird as seeing a purple cow on a boat, but that didn’t happen. We didn’t even see a white or black cow on a boat.
Although we were not on land, we weren’t free from pushy salespeople. Some wallahs have boats, and their boats slowly glided toward ours till they gently knocked against the side. Shantum said, “The boat has a sensor that persuades other boats to stop or move away rather than wreck our boat.” However, it doesn’t prevent wallahs on boats from drifting right next to our boat. Eventually three boats at once surrounded ours, which made me laugh. John said that he had been glad to get in the boat, because we’d finally be somewhere free of wallahs. Oh, not so much.
We got off the boat at a different location and played follow-the-leader, climbing to the top of a ghat, and stepping around old stone domed shrines. I finally noticed, in the early morning sunlight, that Dean and Valerie wore white matching cotton kurtas with white cotton pants. I had to stop long enough to take pictures of what may have been goddess figures carved into the stone sides of a pale hexagonal structure, probably a centuries-old shrine.
We wandered through alleys: dingy, dirty alleys in which we avoided piles of cow shit. Every foot or two we came to a Hindu shrine or temple. These aesthetic manifestations of spirituality were so awe-inspiring and beautiful, even amid all the dirt, cow shit, dinginess and squalor, that I felt blissful and awed and smiled widely. I took a picture of at least one marigold-draped Shiva temple, a fine pair of dark wood double doors, and a shrine room with peacocks painted on bright green porcelain wall tiles. I raised my camera to take a picture of a Kali shrine, but then a woman in a green and red sari appeared, walking inside the little space behind the gate, so I shyly lowered my camera.
I found it painful passing rows of old women with begging bowls and trying not to look at them; maybe I should look at them when passing, even briefly, although I’m often too timid to look at people in general.
We passed people in faded, ragged clothing, buildings with cracked and chipped walls painted bright colors that hadn’t been repainted in a long time, and colorful Hindu murals. Painted good luck swastikas flanked a few wooden doors, and they didn’t remind me of Nazis; Nazi swastikas are at an angle, anyway. Finally we came to a section of the lane lined with little shops where people sold grains, spices, posters, beads, or statues. I saw on the stone pavement to my left a pile of discarded terra cotta bowls mixed with rubbish. I saw dogs and puppies with or without a skin disease.
My rubber-soled canvas sneakers slid occasionally on the slick stone pavement; so I walked carefully and watched my step, especially going up the few stone stairs, and somehow I managed to gawk the whole time, despite frequent glances at my feet. In the alley, scents that bombarded my nose included incense, spices, manure, burning trash, and sewage. Honking bikers and bell-ringing bicyclists came by as we neared a road big enough for vehicles, so in addition to cow turds we had to dodge bikes.
We made our egress out of an alley onto a bustling street crowded with rickshaws and bicycles and pedestrians and animals. A beautiful brown cow strolled through the center of the street, and I attempted to take a picture of the cow, but pedestrians and vehicles, especially rickshaws, kept blocking my view of the cow. I am cow. Hear me moo. Yes, the sacred cows wander around even in a metropolis like Varanasi. Since they’re sacred, they don’t have to worry too much about getting hit by a vehicle. The cow stands or wanders in traffic, perhaps thinking: “I am the It cow. I can block traffic all I want, because I am a Goddess.”
We returned to the hotel at about nine and had breakfast. It was bizarre to sit down at the table and realize how much we had already experienced. Like the White Queen of the Looking-Glass World, I could believe six impossible things before breakfast.
Next we headed for a contemporary art gallery called the Kiriti Gallery and dodged traffic across the busy street to arrive safely in front of the building. If it weren’t for Jagdish blocking traffic, I’m sure several of us, including me, would have gotten hit by now. Outdoors, looking at the art gallery, I had at first mistaken the white-washed building for a car dealer, but that’s because, like so many buildings in India, it has several doors that westerners only use as garage doors; by now I should be accustomed to that. A Ganesh plaque hung between two such doors.
Inside, we saw the exhibit called “Go Away Closer.” The artwork was all large black and white framed art photos by a young artist named Dayanita Singh. At least, I got the impression she was young, from something the art dealer said. She would have been there to meet us, but unfortunately she was sick with a cold.
After lunch at a south Indian restaurant, we returned to the gallery and had to wait for hired cars, because we would enter an area where large vehicles are not permitted. We waited for probably at least an hour in the gallery’s garden. I heard the constant swishing and rumbling and beeping of traffic and stared up at the weird nut tree and watched the mynah birds playing. In the garden I gazed up at the tree and the birds. I also closed my eyes to meditate, but Nandini interrupted to show me pictures; she was taking pictures of sangha members and showing them to us. Even her photos are good for a five-year-old. Ultimately I took out a book, Where the Buddha Walked.
Four cars finally appeared on the other side of the trees, and there was much cheering. They had been stuck in traffic all that time; that’s hardly surprising, given how much whizzing by and honking we witnessed during the wait. We had a choice among four cars that can each hold about seven people or more: two in front, three in the middle, and at least two in the very back, if you don’t mind sitting facing sideways. The wait had been so long that four people wanted to go back to the hotel and relax, so they all climbed into one car. The rest of us piled in to head for the ghats. I can’t pass up an adventure.
The cars stopped in a wide dirt path that might be construed as a parking lot, and we piled out to gawk at the big black cows next to our car; they were the kind of cows that have curled horns and big pretty black eyes. I didn’t think cows were beautiful until I came to India. We walked toward the beach and admired the Ganga, the boats, the animals, and the Hindu temples.
Three light-skinned young guys headed toward the water and glanced at us; they wore bright orange robes and sandals and had thick and curly shoulder-length hair. They reminded me of a Hippie guy I knew in college, who grew a beard and wore sarongs, but I could say he was trying to be what they really were. Perhaps they were a type of saddhu or Brahmin.
People gawked at us as much as we gawked at them, as usual. We heard music coming from a loudspeaker, and I said, “That sounds like Bollywood music.”
“It’s watered down Bollywood music,” Natalie explained.
Behind us, Shantum appeared in the parking lot, waving his arms at us: we had gone in the wrong direction! So we returned to the cars and cows. We followed Shantum down a road, past a shop selling colorful goodies like paper lanterns, embroidered bags, and metal statues of Buddhas and Hindu deities.
We came to a ghat, above which a beautiful and elaborate old building loomed, and down the steps came a pleasantly smiling and stout older man. We met up with him at the bottom of the steps. Shantum introduced us with, “This is my friend Rana Singh.” He may have said more, but I was distracted because the name sounded very familiar to me. I reached into my bag and pulled out Where the Buddha Walked: a Companion to the Buddhist Places of India by Rana P. B. Singh. Ann and I had talked about the book in the hotel lobby that morning, and she had looked through it, seen the many maps, and said, “What a wonderful book! It’s all the places we’ve been going to, and a few more.” On the ghat, she was standing next to me, so I gently nudged her and pointed to the author’s name on the book cover. She whispered an exclamation, and Rana and Shantum noticed. Rana said, “Ah, you have my book!” Ann suggested I get his autograph.
The sun was quickly getting lower as, led by Rana Singh, we took a walk through narrow alleys and past ancient buildings and shrines. It was truly dark out when we came to a strange old well with square walls and steps leading down to it on three sides. In the brick wall without steps, straight ahead of us, there was an extremely tall (and I might add phallic-shaped) alcove ending with an arch at the top. Far below, at the bottom of the well, was a square aperture with water in it, connected to the Ganges but cleaner than the river.
Rana Singh gave us a history and mythology lesson on Varanasi, concerning lingas and such. He explained that every linga has two purposes: power, and after the ninth century they became decorative, and that Ishvalla is another name for Shiva, dancing and controlling cosmos. I’ve seen numerous versions of this image, with Shiva dancing in a flaming ring; a small one sits in my front hall. Rana said, “Demons came here because of powers of gods. People come to this city to get their souls cleansed.”
“Ganga touches everyone on a spiritual level, as a Mother Goddess; it’s your mother you’re dealing with. Some people dismiss it because it’s polluted,” Shantum said.
“The well represents the sun god and the earth goddess coming together,” Rana said. That reminds me of Newgrange, the Neolithic temple in Ireland, where sunlight enters through the door on the morning of winter solstice each year. “The water and earth are goddess symbols. Traditionally, women took off old clothes and put on new to descend into the well and bathe in hope of fertility.”
From the well, we went to a nearby lively little Hindu temple that I had observed from a distance and where people kept coming in, ringing bells that hang overhead, and praying. A priest with a big grey beard, shaggy hair and Coke-bottle glasses, wearing a bright red robe, occupied a little room with windows and a centered linga. The walls and floor were white porcelain tile; the floor was dirty, but I slipped off my sandals and walked around barefoot inside the temple. My feet are washable. As for getting cold, that certainly wasn’t a problem, because Varanasi is the warmest place we’ve visited; it felt like it was in the eighties during the day, in January.
I didn’t ring any bells, but I did stand before the central shrine, press my palms together and bow. The most interesting thing in that shrine was on its floor: the yoni and linga symbols but with a snake (a fertility/ goddess symbol), specifically a cobra, wrapped around the linga, rearing its head and sticking out five tongues. Rana said, “Each tongue represents one of the ancient elements: earth, air, fire, water, and space.” Also, in the tubular part of the yoni was a baby cobra, looking something like sperm. This was all made from a dark metal.
Snakes and dragons are goddess symbols, according to various books I’ve read on goddesses and mythology. When you come across a myth in which some Mr. Butch invades and murders or chases away a dragon or serpents, that’s about rejecting the goddess and embracing misogyny, patriarchy, and patriarchal practices such as war. Examples are Patrick, St. George and the Dragon, and Apollo. Of course, such myths are smugly written from the goddess-rejecting, cootie-infested jerk perspective.
At the little Hindu temple, we also saw small shrines on the walls, representing death and a few deities. The Death figure was a black mother goddess with huge round eyes and crazy hair. Maybe Death has a thyroid problem. We stepped out of the little temple, thus getting out of worshipers’ way, and Rana showed us a shrine facing the outside of this temple and containing numerous yoni and linga sculptures draped with marigold leis and presented with marigold offerings on little leaf plates.
We walked away and could see people praying at other small temples or shrines close by, with their palms pressed together, and Ann delightedly commented, “They’re always praying!” A small stone ox, Nandi, the ox that Shiva rides, sat facing another temple; it is a common enough sculpture facing the front doors of Hindu temples. A few feet away we stopped to look at a shrine with steps down to a linga circled with marigolds and shiny porcelain tile.
Rana said the fertility stuff is from a pre-Aryan religion that “got confused with Shiva and Parvati.” The goddess Aditi is the Hindu variation on Mother Earth or Gaia, and I am certain that she predates Hinduism by a lot, simply because the original religion, across cultures, is centered on a mother goddess who represents the earth itself. Another aspect of Hinduism that I suspect predates the religion is how cows are sacred because they are goddess symbols; at least two Hindu goddesses are sometimes represented as cows.
We wandered out on a paved platform above a ghat Two goats were seated close together in a corner by a short flight of steps; one goat was black and the other white, and the smaller one was probably a baby. Near the patio was a small one-story building and also tall old buildings with elaborate facades and monkeys climbing around on them. I thought it would be odd to be aware of monkeys climbing around on the walls and balcony just outside your apartment.
We could hear chanting and drums and looked out in the direction of the Ganga. A long boat moved slowly in the water straight ahead of us, and since it was after dark, it looked as though the boat was floating in the sky. I had to look carefully to figure out where the black sky stopped and where the black water started; the main difference was the texture of the waves. To the right of the boat, down on the beach, stood a structure of some sort, I think a hut made of sticks and a thatched roof. We saw in front of it lights, a bonfire, and movement: this was where the celebration was taking place, and Rana explained that this ceremony is a tribute to the goddess Ganga and puts her to bed. It’s done every night. Sometimes even goddesses need someone nurturing to tuck them in.
To our left, I heard a horrible, squawking and shrieking noise, and I turned to see several monkeys running around on the white façade of a stone building with embroidery-like decoration. “It’s a monkey fight,” someone said. We watched as two of these monkeys came closer and got down on a roof to the one-story structure close to us, and Jennifer, who sat under the roof, moved away saying, “I’ve never had to move out of a monkey’s way before.”
We drifted on and descended steps till we stood straight in front of the festivities and could see the ceremony much better. When we showed up and sat down on the ghat, kids with baskets of flower offerings approached us to peddle their wares, and I told a girl we already did it from a boat. The offerings were just like the ones we’d had that morning: leaf bowls containing marigolds and candles.
I settled my attention on the shack and the group of chanters in front of it. Down below, in the ceremony, a row of people on the beach stood with their backs to us, and they clanged cymbals. There were other participants, but I couldn’t see them as clearly. The important thing was I could hear the repetitive music, which, although not gentle like the Tibetan chanting in Bodh Gaya, was nonetheless hypnotic. I gazed out at the water that melded in with the dark sky, while I listened.
The ceremony ended, and we headed back toward the cars. We took a short ride to a Mediterranean restaurant, where we sat down on cushions in front of low tables on a veranda. The roof was made of sticks, and wooden poles held up the front open end of the veranda. A guy from Palestine owned the restaurant, and Shantum introduced him to us. As he stood in front of our table, smiled and bowed, I smiled and bowed back while wondering if he felt homeless. Shantum ordered for us, a tasty meal consisting of rice, vegetables, baba ganoush, hummus, and pita bread. I asked for a banana-flavored laasi, a cool beverage made of yogurt; it turned out to be really yummy, tasting rather like a banana milk shake. While we waited for dinner, Rana continued giving us lessons.
Shantum, when he contrasted the British enthusiasm for history and archeology with the Indian enthusiasm for mythology, said that Indians take mythology quite seriously, even literally. They really think there’s a boy with an elephant’s head, and that some goddesses have six arms.
Rana Singh gave us a history and mythology lesson on Varanasi, concerning lingas and such. He explained that every linga has two purposes: power, and after the ninth century they became decorative, and that Ishvalla is another name for Shiva, dancing and controlling cosmos. I’ve seen numerous versions of this image, with Shiva dancing in a flaming ring; a small one sits in my front hall. Rana said, “Demons came here because of powers of gods. People come to this city to get their souls cleansed.”
“Ganga touches everyone on a spiritual level, as a Mother Goddess; it’s your mother you’re dealing with. Some people dismiss it because it’s polluted,” Shantum said.
“The well represents the sun god and the earth goddess coming together,” Rana said. That reminds me of Newgrange, the Neolithic temple in Ireland, where sunlight enters through the door on the morning of winter solstice each year. “The water and earth are goddess symbols. Traditionally, women took off old clothes and put on new to descend into the well and bathe in hope of fertility.”
From the well, we went to a nearby lively little Hindu temple that I had observed from a distance and where people kept coming in, ringing bells that hang overhead, and praying. A priest with a big grey beard, shaggy hair and Coke-bottle glasses, wearing a bright red robe, occupied a little room with windows and a centered linga. The walls and floor were white porcelain tile; the floor was dirty, but I slipped off my sandals and walked around barefoot inside the temple. My feet are washable. As for getting cold, that certainly wasn’t a problem, because Varanasi is the warmest place we’ve visited; it felt like it was in the eighties during the day, in January.
I didn’t ring any bells, but I did stand before the central shrine, press my palms together and bow. The most interesting thing in that shrine was on its floor: the yoni and linga symbols but with a snake (a fertility/ goddess symbol), specifically a cobra, wrapped around the linga, rearing its head and sticking out five tongues. Rana said, “Each tongue represents one of the ancient elements: earth, air, fire, water, and space.” Also, in the tubular part of the yoni was a baby cobra, looking something like sperm. This was all made from a dark metal.
Snakes and dragons are goddess symbols, according to various books I’ve read on goddesses and mythology. When you come across a myth in which some Mr. Butch invades and murders or chases away a dragon or serpents, that’s about rejecting the goddess and embracing misogyny, patriarchy, and patriarchal practices such as war. Examples are Patrick, St. George and the Dragon, and Apollo. Of course, such myths are smugly written from the goddess-rejecting, cootie-infested jerk perspective.
At the little Hindu temple, we also saw small shrines on the walls, representing death and a few deities. The Death figure was a black mother goddess with huge round eyes and crazy hair. Maybe Death has a thyroid problem. We stepped out of the little temple, thus getting out of worshipers’ way, and Rana showed us a shrine facing the outside of this temple and containing numerous yoni and linga sculptures draped with marigold leis and presented with marigold offerings on little leaf plates.
We walked away and could see people praying at other small temples or shrines close by, with their palms pressed together, and Ann delightedly commented, “They’re always praying!” A small stone ox, Nandi, the ox that Shiva rides, sat facing another temple; it is a common enough sculpture facing the front doors of Hindu temples. A few feet away we stopped to look at a shrine with steps down to a linga circled with marigolds and shiny porcelain tile.
Rana said the fertility stuff is from a pre-Aryan religion that “got confused with Shiva and Parvati.” The goddess Aditi is the Hindu variation on Mother Earth or Gaia, and I am certain that she predates Hinduism by a lot, simply because the original religion, across cultures, is centered on a mother goddess who represents the earth itself. Another aspect of Hinduism that I suspect predates the religion is how cows are sacred because they are goddess symbols; at least two Hindu goddesses are sometimes represented as cows.
We wandered out on a paved platform above a ghat Two goats were seated close together in a corner by a short flight of steps; one goat was black and the other white, and the smaller one was probably a baby. Near the patio was a small one-story building and also tall old buildings with elaborate facades and monkeys climbing around on them. I thought it would be odd to be aware of monkeys climbing around on the walls and balcony just outside your apartment.
We could hear chanting and drums and looked out in the direction of the Ganga. A long boat moved slowly in the water straight ahead of us, and since it was after dark, it looked as though the boat was floating in the sky. I had to look carefully to figure out where the black sky stopped and where the black water started; the main difference was the texture of the waves. To the right of the boat, down on the beach, stood a structure of some sort, I think a hut made of sticks and a thatched roof. We saw in front of it lights, a bonfire, and movement: this was where the celebration was taking place, and Rana explained that this ceremony is a tribute to the goddess Ganga and puts her to bed. It’s done every night. Sometimes even goddesses need someone nurturing to tuck them in.
To our left, I heard a horrible, squawking and shrieking noise, and I turned to see several monkeys running around on the white façade of a stone building with embroidery-like decoration. “It’s a monkey fight,” someone said. We watched as two of these monkeys came closer and got down on a roof to the one-story structure close to us, and Jennifer, who sat under the roof, moved away saying, “I’ve never had to move out of a monkey’s way before.”
We drifted on and descended steps till we stood straight in front of the festivities and could see the ceremony much better. When we showed up and sat down on the ghat, kids with baskets of flower offerings approached us to peddle their wares, and I told a girl we already did it from a boat. The offerings were just like the ones we’d had that morning: leaf bowls containing marigolds and candles.
I settled my attention on the shack and the group of chanters in front of it. Down below, in the ceremony, a row of people on the beach stood with their backs to us, and they clanged cymbals. There were other participants, but I couldn’t see them as clearly. The important thing was I could hear the repetitive music, which, although not gentle like the Tibetan chanting in Bodh Gaya, was nonetheless hypnotic. I gazed out at the water that melded in with the dark sky, while I listened.
The ceremony ended, and we headed back toward the cars. We took a short ride to a Mediterranean restaurant, where we sat down on cushions in front of low tables on a veranda. The roof was made of sticks, and wooden poles held up the front open end of the veranda. A guy from Palestine owned the restaurant, and Shantum introduced him to us. As he stood in front of our table, smiled and bowed, I smiled and bowed back while wondering if he felt homeless. Shantum ordered for us, a tasty meal consisting of rice, vegetables, baba ganoush, hummus, and pita bread. I asked for a banana-flavored laasi, a cool beverage made of yogurt; it turned out to be really yummy, tasting rather like a banana milk shake. While we waited for dinner, Rana continued giving us lessons.
Shantum, when he contrasted the British enthusiasm for history and archeology with the Indian enthusiasm for mythology, said that Indians take mythology quite seriously, even literally. They really think there’s a boy with an elephant’s head, and that some goddesses have six arms.
No comments:
Post a Comment