This excerpt from the author’s book, ‘Lost and Found in Banaras’ paints the city as a breath-taking paradox that is incredibly diverse, chaotic, colourful, yet stark
Banaras is not just the past revisited. Its enigma hits you instantly and takes you back to the atavistic fulcrum which lends it, its bearings. This city traced back to 800 B.C. according to Mark Twain, does not care much about the past anymore, unless it is in dealing with death. There are very few places in the world as illustrative of Hindu mores and death, which is feared and dreaded in every part of the world, but is celebrated here like a long-awaited guest.
The oldest city in the world shrouded in a haze of ash and soot, the solemn river with its mud-lined banks, the worn stair flight leading to the burnished façade of temple steeples, ochre robes and an air dense with a rich repository of legends, myths and life so complacently settled with death is what is the essence of this city. At the outset, Banaras’s antiquity leaves an indelible relic on the mind, with its sepia-toned ‘present’ of an ageless past.
If you wander through the cobblestoned narrow bylanes of Banaras, you are bound to be overwhelmed by the surge of crowds spilling on to the streets from meandering alleyways, that are lined on either side with tiny shops. Music CDs, prasad made of puffed rice and cardamom balls set in a precariously shaped heap and vermillion powder set in faultless mounds, faux leopard skin mats, rudraksh, incense and neem sticks, idols of every deity Hinduism has known, shiny brass and copperware are ubiquitous in their presence in this city situated at the banks of the confluence of the Varuna and Assi rivers. It doesn’t take long for one to realise that religion was imposed upon the most mundane of routines here.
It’s the only city in the world with two cremation ghats right in the heart of the city, the Harishchandra ghat and the Manikarnika ghat. Yet Banaras manages to retain its mystical beauty. Where death is feared in other parts of the world, for Banaras, it is its currency. The dead are evaporated in dark swirls of smoke and their life stories are forever sedimented in the river’s womb. Entering into another world is everyday business here.
You can’t miss the fawning crowd of foreigners who squeal with delight at the ochre-robed sadhus with coarsely braided hair piled on their head, their body smeared with ash and strings of withered marigold around their neck, happily sharing amongst them a pot of marijuana. Some sit at the ghat staring blankly at the placid waters, their minds perhaps occupied with the attainment of nirvana from the pitiless continuum of rebirth, or following ceremonial accoutrements, buffered by Indian mythology.
The pilgrims sit on the banks of the Ganges, its waters thick with corpses and offerings, with a lingering doubt whether they will go back home ridden of the pain they had arrived with? To be able to recognise, accept and surrender to the truth of life is what pulls them to this ancient city.
And then there is the sea of white that lines the narrow alleyways that lead to the ghats. Barely covered in a single unstitched five yard white piece that has long lived past its use, they are shrunken, emaciated bodies with disillusioned faces. Shaven heads with a rosary around their neck and a long sandalwood tilak extending from their forehead to the bridge of their nose, decorated with all the taboos so as not to induce any carnal pleasure in men. With all yearnings consigned to formidable margins, they had surrendered to an unforgiving God, in a bid to assuage some grief of being uncared for and to constantly reiterate their motive to make themselves believe in their ill-fated destinies. They bang their pitted metal bowls on the ground, to attract the attention of the motley mix of passers-by, for alms. Some singing, some chanting in wheezy asthmatic breaths, some profusely begging for a mere one meal of the day, howsoever insipid.
We wonder how much of their utterances bear a meaning. Or perhaps their hearts were burning with secret yearnings, envying the dichotomy that divided them from society. A single drop of a coin raises a conundrum of sorts in the row, the ones ‘left out’ thrust their bowls forward and plead with peremptory urgency till one cannot tell the words apart. It makes you wonder what it must feel like to wear hopelessness upon one’s forgotten dreams day after day for these women with a sense of loss so eloquently visible; what is it like to be formally released from any sense of dignity? It would take anyone no more than a glance, to feel shamefully guilty of being more fortunate. It is almost frightening for the most honest doubt a man can have is about his own beliefs.
Manikarnika ghat, the famous cremation ghat is right in the heart of the city but there was never a quiet moment in the lanes that lead to the ghats. Be it the clinkering of sonorous bells from the temples, the crowd of people from all walks of life and wails from both the living or for the dead. But never a quiet moment!
Temples can be found everywhere in Banaras. Whether one is vying for a male child or a visa and yes also for winning a cricket match against Pakistan, there is no dearth of worshippers either. Prayers coupled with greasy brown paper bags full of boondi prasad always better your chance. Banaras made me believe that religion comes in many forms and colours and gods can be customised to fit your priorities. They humbly adjust themselves in tiled indents on the walls next to a film poster. Our lord is unmindful of the law, openly challenging the ‘No posters’ signage on the walls. It is an open challenge for aerated drinks, fairness creams, mobile recharge and worse still, eligible brides and grooms. After all ‘He’ is above it. He is god.
Dry, dirty, wrinkled hands, shrill cries of the destitute, rancid smell of unbathed human flesh lingers and seamlessly blends with the sweet flavour of Banarasi paan.
A breath-taking paradox, incredibly diverse and yes sometimes even inadvertently hilarious moments make a music called Banaras. That is our song….
Mona Verma is an award-winning author of seven works of fiction, including ‘A Bridge to Nowhere’, ‘God is a River’ and ‘Lost and Found in Banaras’. She is a regular at Literature Festivals across the country and participates in radio podcasts and CBL Storytelling panels.