There are countless reams and infinite rolls capturing Benaras, or Varanasi, or Kashi, so you may wonder what more can I say about this oldest living enigma that hasn’t been said before. But I think there are as many versions of a story as there are witnesses. And this is my story as witnessed through my eyes, felt by my heart, and absorbed by my soul.
Upon landing at the Varanasi airport, I was greeted with enthusiastic hollering by taxi drivers, each charging some extra than I expected or was ready to pay. But then I heard someone being fair. A sincere and decent man on whose reliability I accomplished much more in this adventure than I had anticipated. He dropped me off at the Sonarpur chowk because beyond it only two legs can traverse the maze of narrowest lanes embellished with opal turds. For my below-average navigation skills and a very confused Google map, the Lord personally sent his banda from nowhere, who overheard me asking directions to my hostel and informed me to follow right behind since he lived next door. In the first hour of my arrival, I understood it was time for me to relax and trust the universe to ferry me along the ghats of Ganga.
As I got down the steps of Chowki Ghat alone, into the lavender, reddish, velvety sky, a beautiful wintry breeze kissed my sun-drenched cheeks. I soaked in the air of mystery and mystique, my wandering gaze greedily taking in the sights of this most curious city. In the days that followed, Kashi lived up to and accentuated this first impression of eccentricity most dramatically. I sat down on the ghat with a plate of steaming momos, the sun departing ceremoniously and the lights twinkling under the watchful eyes of the moon. Tollies of sadhus and sanyasis, with their dhunis, dreadlocks, and chillums, had made home every few metres on the ghats. This was the Benaras I wanted to feel.
However, the wide range of ash smeared seekers quite took me by surprise. A young doctor from Telangana sat there clad in black with long, loose hair and ash on his face. A lady from Tamil Nadu, sporting tattooed hands, piled dreadlocks, and a string of rudraksh beads, intrigued tourists with her unique appearance. Westerners with SLR cameras filled the streets, and it was entertaining to see her eagerly pose for each one in her tantric avatar, complete with hand mudras and bulging eyes.
While it wasn’t surprising to see a narcissistic generation clicking themselves at every hour and every location, I wasn’t quite expecting to find mendicants so eager to be in camera frames. Honestly, it did make me wonder in the earnestness of their quest for the higher truth. Was the guise of a sadhu, sadhvi, or an aghori a gimmick played to deceive someone? A crowd like me or themselves? Or was it escapism for some? Or were they merely disenchanted with the bounds of society and trying out another path? I am not quite sure about the answer, though.
However, the evening Ganga aarti at Dashashwamedh Ghat was a sight of congregational faith. There is something quite stirring about the resounding echo of the conch, the haze of fragrant incense, and the flickering of a hundred flames with the rousing chant of Ganga Maiya ki Jai. When the crowd raised their arms, as did I, in a tribute of surrender, the booming chant of Har Har Mahadev inevitably uplifts and dissolves something in the core. Not once or twice, but always.
After that brief transcendental moment, I headed to Kashi Chaat at Pandey Ghat for a lip-smacking tomato chaat, quite unique to Varanasi. I watched the world go by in no rush. Traveling solo gives the luxury of stillness, silence, and solitude to get in touch with yourself. The ghats were bustling, but I wasn’t. I was just content to be living a grand wish, beholding the continuum of Shiva’s land in my aloneness.
A jaunty stroll took me to the famous Manikarnika Ghat, aglow with flames consuming flesh. Manikarnika Ghat and Harishchandra Ghat are the two cremation ghats, which see the burning of pyres all round the clock. I had never seen a real cremation until then because Hindu crematoriums typically do not allow women. But here I was, seeing several of them at once and more bodies lined up, while hordes of tourists thronged to witness the spectacle of death.
Legend has it that dying on the sacred land of Kashi grants liberation from the cycles of birth and death, leading to moksha. While this myth is unremarkable to me, I was struck by the matter-of-factly scene unfolding before me. Families and relatives carried the dead body on their shoulders, repeating Ram naam satya hai, while the crowd parted in darkness and filth. The male members of the deceased’s family shaved their heads and performed the last rites devoid of any emotion or grief on their faces. It was disconcerting for me because I imagined grieving families with steady streams of tears as they watched their loved ones turn to ash.
The insignificance of a man’s breath and the inevitability of his demise hit me hard. As did the delusion of considering ourselves indispensable or greatly memorable in anyone’s life. It underscored the naivety of my own words when I tell my children to miss me for a few days after I am gone but remember me always. In between the celebration of the divine at Dashashwamedh ghat and the display of death at Manikarnika, my story of Benaras is dotted with the kindest, strangest and most interesting characters who entered and exited the scenes most seamlessly and spontaneously.
One late evening I met an ardent Osho follower and a wanderer at heart, who laughed heartily every few minutes. The first few times I found it bizarre because we were certainly not exchanging jokes. But he later explained that when we laugh, we are totally in the moment, leaping out of the default mode of the mind. Over gratitude and small talk, we shared a katora of bhang lassi, resulting in my first unsettling psychedelic trance sleep. The following day I stepped into a dappled morning and sniffed my way to a hearty breakfast of hot aloo baingan ki subzi and kachori at Madhu Bahar, treating my taste buds to an explosion of flavours.
Brew Beans Benaras is a charming cafe by the Ganga where I met a young, accomplished scion of the Banaras Gharana, who unmistakably reminded me of the Bandish Bandits protagonist. Sitting across the ghat steps, we talked about sangeet, riyaz, and life as his mellifluous voice mirrored the river’s rhythm in that serene setting. He shared some very unheard-of legends about this ancient city, adding to its antiquated charm.
As evening sauntered in, the ghats got busier, and I found wonderful company in a well-read, well-travelled sadhu all the way from Jammu. Talking about akharas and sanyasis, rituals and sadhana, he came up with a profound verse, which I am quoting here:
“Awaaz di koyal ko, to roop cheen liya;
Aur roop diya mor ko, to ichcha cheen li,
Iccha di insaan ko, to santosh cheen liya;
Aur santosh diya sant ko, to sansaar cheen liya.”
Those four lines capture the existential crisis of all mankind. Pithy and wise, he gave much to dwell upon in those few words.
The next morning, I woke up to embrace the dawn of Varanasi and partook of the succor of devotion at Assi ghat. A soulful classical concert called Subah Banaras enraptured the listeners. It was surreal as the rising sun glowed in the quiet and sacred waters; a flock of terns took off midair, and the breeze caressed me with the sounds of tanpura and tabla.
As I was walking back with a kulhad of chai warming my palms, my eyes fell on two homeless men. I stopped to buy them tea and called out a tea seller who only served lemon tea. Doubting their fondness for it, I asked the destitute if they preferred regular milk tea. The tea seller was quick to reply, “Madam, they’ll drink anything you offer, even poison.” I raised my eyebrows. He continued, “Madam, they are so sick of their lives that they don’t mind the poison too.” Those words seemed like a glaring paradox of reality. Some wanted to be homeless wanderers to find life, and some homeless were waiting to find death. In between those two kinds was I, seeking some purpose in my capitalist, consumerist existence of surfeit. How removed we were from each other’s planes, only bound by the common thread of ‘search’ that ran through us all.
Later in the day, the ghats became overcrowded with a sudden influx of devotees. The queue at the Kashi Vishwanath temple ran a few hundred metres. So, I decided to visit the Kaal Bhairav Mandir instead. After disembarking the boat and navigating the loudest humdrum in the crampiest of lanes, I finally arrived to find a never-ending serpentine queue. The prospect of standing several hours in the queue without company was unendurable. While I was still speculating on my choices, a more riotous crowd poured in. I was about to depart without the darshan when I noticed a large group of gregarious friends further up in the queue.
I mustered up the courage to face some rebuke as well as my own shame to consider joining the queue midway while a whole crowd waited behind. I apologetically asked one of them in the group if I could join and stand along with them. I didn’t expect them to let me in, let alone with such kindness. In a matter of 45-50 minutes, we were at the threshold of the temple, and I bowed down in thankfulness. I owe my darshan to the large-heartedness of those vivacious and warm people. As do I owe my shayan aarti darshan at Kashi Vishwanath temple to the singer friend. I even owe my darshan at Sankat Mochan, Durga Maa, and Tridev temple to my rickshaw wallah because while I had set out only to visit Tulsi Manas Temple, he offered to take me to all the rest.
I also owe some very pleasant dinners at Monalisa Café to their ever-smiling and attentive staff. The dinners only got more flavourful with some great company that I found from across South Korea, Peru, and our own Kolkata. From light-hearted conversations about dal bhaat to deep discussions on the freedoms of non-committed lives, I realized that despite our differing life circumstances, we all value a personal space to align our emotions and thoughts.
Finally, but most significantly, I owe my shahi snan on the very first day of the Mahakumbh against all odds, against the chaos, commotion, and inconvenience to my very earnest taxi driver. Getting ash smeared by an aghori baba and receiving his blessings as he muttered mantras over me, I was thrilled simply to be part of it. Vain as it may sound, I felt like the chosen one.
However, it would be pretentious if I said that Varanasi doused me in a spiritual serenade. For whatever reasons, I hardly experienced any transcendental moment overcoming my corporeal body. But I experienced something else quite extraordinary. I found myself surrounded by compassionate, helpful, simple, and joyous people time and again, repeatedly as if upholding humanity and proclaiming mankind’s inherent beauty. I believe they didn’t cross my path randomly. They found me most serendipitously to cloak me in gratefulness, to remind me that between life and death, there is an often-neglected passage of grace and gratitude. My pilgrimage turned out to be so much richer and fuller by the people I met rather than the deities I visited.
~Radhika Mimani
PC: Photo by Rachel Claire: https://www.pexels.com/photo/waterfront-buildings-on-a-shore-at-dawn-8112547/