Today began long before most of my days begin. We woke at 5:00 in order to drive to the banks of the Ganges, where we hoped to watch the sun rise over the holy city from a boat on the river. In the Hindu religion, the Ganges is a place where pilgrims come to have all of their sins washed away. To die here, one can attain ‘moksha,’ or an escape to nirvana from the otherwise tenacious cycle of life and death. As my Lonely Planet guidebook wrote, “The Ganges River is so heavily polluted at Varanasi that the water is septic–no dissolved oxygen exists. Samples from the river show the water has 1.5 million faecal coliform bacteria per 100 mL of water. In water that is safe for bathing this figure should be less than 500.” Yet every day, over 50,000 people bathe, drink, and wash their clothes in this water.
The drive to the ghats took longer than we expected, but then again, a distance in kilometers safely takes at least twice as long in minutes to cover anywhere in India. We all piled out of the bus and followed our guide, Father Immanuel, through narrow streets paved with cement blocks, gutters on either side, cows eating, sleeping, and walking all along the way. At times we felt like we were in Spain, fleeing down the alleys as painted bulls chased behind us. The smell of sewage and the piles of garbage returned us to Varanasi, though. Shortly, after a brisk but cautious walk (to avoid the infinite number of cow-pies, which are eventually collected and dried to use as fuel), we emerged at the top of one of the many ghats lining the west bank of the river. At first sight, the river was completely still: no splashes, no waves, no nothing. Boats filled with tourists, 90% white, glided by incessantly, powered by men in most of the boats, by boys as young as 13 in others. The oars combed the river gently and quietly, covering the 7 km distance along the city. The sun had not yet risen, so we could only faintly see the outline of building and temples behind the thick fog. We descended the stairs and divided into two boats and pushed off from the shore. To our surprise, there was no smell rising from the waters, no pungent odor to deter us. But a glimpse of into the water stirred by the oars only aggravated the garbage, flowers, and lamps that are placed in the river every day. After a bit the sun rose over the empty East bank (it is auspicious for buildings to face the rising sun, so the East bank is completely devoid of any buildings), but I came to understand that there is a mystical haze that veils this city at all times, never to de dispelled even by the compelling forces of the sun. In that short ride, many of us saw things that we had never seen and may never see in our entire lives. We passed along the burning ghats, where bodies are cremated every day before their ashes are tossed into the holy river. We saw priests sitting along the banks, performing their morning rituals. We saw men, women, children; young, old; able, and crippled, offering flowers to the gods, drinking the water to purify their souls. We shuddered when water from the oars accidentally splashed upon our skin, thinking only of the filth of the water and its immediate effect on our skin. Yet I was amazed that people make pilgrimages to bathe in this river, and that those lucky enough to live in Varanasi bathed there every day. We even saw corpses in the river, making their final journey to nirvana. Not even this could prevent a Hindu from stepping into the water, for its healing powers are thought to be greater than any physical ailment. Varanasi is unlike any other city in the world. It pre-dates history. And even today, the daily rituals at the water’s edge go beyond comprehension, and spirituality surpasses the dangers of this world.