Well…my nine-day work and play in India’s supposedly holiest city has left me craving for Dettol which would have turned into an Obsessive Compulsive Disorder had I stayed there for even a week more! My heart had already filled with misgivings the moment I had stepped on the platform which, incidentally turned out to be abnormally shorter than the length of the train, causing us to jump and tripping over our luggage which we had literally thrown down beside the track. This was followed by the usual hazards of finding the right kind of transport, and once it was eventually found, we were ushered into pandemonium as it were. Milton would have certainly found more epic similes appropriate to describe hell, had he ever experienced the Varanasi traffic. There were barely any signals, and almost no traffic police (the one we saw at a crossing was busy checking out clothes on the roadside stand), and what we witnessed on the streets was ten times less disciplined than the post-Tsunami chaos one encountered in the South Asian islands. Thankfully there were no buses; the smaller vehicles bumped into each other, rubbed against each other, shoved people (and the ubiquitous oxen) out of their way, yet, nobody complained, as if, chaos was the order! And I better not talk about the pedestrian! I found it difficult to apply even ‘downmarket’ to them; that was discovered to be a serious understatement. In fact, there are no adjectives in the English dictionary to sufficiently describe the crowd which famously or infamously resembled our Canning/Diamond Harbour counterpart. Arrrrrrrrrrrrrgh! What struck me in the midst of the chaos was that the city was terribly dirty! I doubt whether there is at all any sanitary system, or may be a different meaning of sanitation is in vogue there! By the time we reached our hotel, we were imagining dirt trickling down our bodies, which no ablution ceremony could purge.
The Dashwamedh Road, where we stayed, could even give our Chandni Chowk a run for its money, for a never-ending stream of humanity floated over it, as perennially as the Ganga herself. And this part of the city was a curious mixture of tradition and modernity! Signs of globalization existed side by side with the past which made itself heard rather stridently. Global travellers strolled on the streets taking in the chaotic oriental holiness, overwhelmed by the spirituality which was rather palpable. The Kashi Viswhanath Temple and the Annapurna Temple were only two of the several holy abodes that housed around 84 lakh gods and goddesses of the Hindu pantheon. Spirituality was literally in the air, but depressingly undercut by a feeling of nausea that never seemed to desert me. The only time, I felt sufficiently removed from the calamity that reigned was at the time of the Ganga-Aarti, a ritualistic performance with several props. Holy songs accompanied the dance-like movements of the priests (might not be priests, actually) who carefully performed the Aarti in remarkable harmony with each other in front of an awestruck audience. The scene appeared heavenly from the boat floating on the river.
The famous alleyways were remarkably adventurous, giving you the feel of getting lost in a maze, with old intimidating houses augmenting the feeling of claustrophobia with every step that was taken. You would be invariably reminded of Jatayu who had felt that every single house lining the alleyways was haunted. Yes, true enough! They were haunted by the past, overburdened by the histories they carried with them. In certain places, it seemed as if history was caught in a time-warp and had not been allowed to flow on. And as we took the boat-ride, we were taken back in time, for the scene on the shore appeared to belong to another era altogether. In the boatman’s narrative myth and history effortlessly slipped into each other: it was difficult to filter out myth from history. While it seemed that this journey had brought us closer to the mythological figures of Shiva, Parvati or such epic characters like Rama and Sita, we also seemed to be in dialogue with such recent historical figures like Munshi Premchand. The feeling that time had flown uninterrupted with the perennially flowing river made us feel a ripple flowing down the spine…! We too were an important part in the everlasting river of human history.
P.S: The cuisine: if you cannot do without non-veg, well, Varanasi is not a place for you. But, if you know how to spot the right eating-place, then, even veg dishes could be mouth-watering. We doted on Shree Café, behind the Dashwamedh Lodge, which we accidentally discovered for the restaurant recommended to us was closed. Punjabi, Chinese and Israeli dishes that comprised the menu were marvellous. My insatiable lust for flesh (read chicken, mutton, etc) was to a great extent appeased by the food Shree Café served. And then, there were traditional Varanasi items to taste. First, rabri and then, of course, a huge spectrum of sweets. Although, I am not too much of a sweet-person, I could not really resist the temptation of tasting a few. The rabri was awesome, and it’s a different experience to have it while it was being made. And not to forget the kauchoris and samosas! I believe Varanasi is perhaps most traditional here: the people are simply not bothered about calorie-gain! No matter how many global clothes the roadside stands that have gobbled up half the roads display, the food habit seems to have remained unchanged!
