Worlds Apart - PART 9

18th February 2004: Varanasi.

I should have known from the outset this was going to be a strange and tiring day. After a gruelling 3.45am start to get to the station on time, the train was two hours late in arriving. As our eleven and a half hour journey wore on, the heat became increasingly uncomfortable. The day mainly consisted of lying on our bunks, eating oranges (we’ve been advised to eat fruit you have to peel to avoid anyone getting any more squits), reading and sleeping. We couldn’t have a decent game of cards, so cramped were the conditions. It’s not the easiest game to play on three-tier bunk beds. I was just grateful I’d got to grips with the toilets although the heat had made them slightly more pungent than usual.

Sian, who has embraced the culture, the people, and is keen to absorb as much information as possible during her time here, began to tell me about something called the towers of silence. Apparently, these people known as Zoroastrians believe so strongly in the purity of the natural elements, they have a unique way of dealing with their dead. In their view, burial pollutes the earth, burning pollutes the air and disposal at sea or in rivers only pollutes the water. The corpses are therefore ecologically recycled by leaving them on top of these towers of silence. Here, the vultures pick the flesh from the bones. It was suggested a group of vultures could strip a body in minutes. Our carriage went quiet for a moment until James asked if anyone fancied an orange. Sian went on the explain, even if the vultures didn’t do their stuff, the dead body of an Indian decomposed much more rapidly than a person of the western world. She alleged this was due to the comparative levels of preservatives found in our respective foods. I tried to break the morose tension by pointing at a group of people larking about outside the train.

‘What on earth are those bunch of nutters doing?’ asked James as we trundled past them. One man was rolling over and over on his side, followed by several more who took it in turns to shuffle on their knees, kiss the ground and then stand up, waving their arms in the air. A couple of others seemed to be doing nothing more than carrying a rolled up carpet. All of them were covered in shit and mud.

‘What are they doing out here? We’re miles from anywhere,’ James mumbled, scanning the horizon, his mouth stuffed with fruit.

‘They seem to be enjoying themselves,’ I quipped. Sian flashed me a look of contempt.

‘They’re prostrating,’ she said severely.

‘Right,’ I nodded my head mockingly, ‘what’s that got to do with the glands in your neck?’

‘That’s prostate you idiot. These people are renouncing their ego.’ I was still none the wiser.

‘And your prostate isn’t in yer neck.’ James shook his head in dismay.

‘They’re probably heading to one of the sacred temples dedicated to Lord Shiva,’ the guide interjected, clocking my blank expression.

‘It’s the wedding anniversary of Shiva and Parvati. It’s a religious tradition in Hinduism and Buddhism to prostrate from your house to a very holy place in order to count how many bodies physically separate both places.’

I looked at James to see if he was taking any of this in.

‘I read that in Tibet, pilgrims can prostrate from their home towns to the holy city of Lhasa even if it sometimes means they’ll spend six months crossing high mountain passes covered in snow,’ said Sian with a knowing smug grin.

‘That’s right,’ the guide smiled.

‘Teacher’s pet,’ muttered James under his breath.

A few of our group started to check the guidebooks to see what Varanasi has in store. The summing up seems to suggest it’s the holiest of holies where public cremations are held. I’m not sure it sounds like much fun at all.

After the relatively short bus transfer of three hours, we arrived in Varanasi at 8.15pm, some sixteen and a half hours after leaving Khajuraho. After all the travelling none of us felt up to exploring the supposed oldest city in the world although I get the impression we’re in a very eerie place. We’ve all had dinner and come to bed. Another early start looms.

19th February 2004: Varanasi.

After hearing so much about Varanasi and the public cremations, I thought it was going to be a real test of nerve. As we headed down to the Ganges at 6am my fears all but vanished. There’s a real atmosphere about the place and for me, it’s the perfect way to finish off my trip to India. The low mist lay thick across the ghats as we boarded the rowing boats for our river trip. The only audible sounds were the distant chant of worshippers and the odd splash from people doing their washing in the Ganges. As the sun gently rose over the mist, we were each presented with a tea-light and a dried banana leaf. The idea was we lit the candle, made a wish and set it afloat in the hardened leaf. The sight or hundreds of candles floating in the half-light was positively humbling and amazingly mystical. Nobody divulged what they’d wished for although James intimated his was related to the condition of his bowels.

We’ve wandered around the town for the rest of the day and learnt a bit of history. Varanasi is supposed to be one of the holiest cities in India. Hindus come from all over the world to bathe in the holy waters of the Ganga. That’s the Indian name for the Ganges although its alleged purifying waters look more like gloopy chocolate. I saw two dead goats and what looked like a human limb float past whilst we were on the river.

If they’re not here to bathe, they generally come here to die. Hindus believe in reincarnation. When they have done enough ‘good’ in their previous lives they are able to attain moksha and break the cycle of rebirth. By being cremated in the streets of Varanasi, the resultant ashes/body parts are placed into the Ganges and their soul can finally reach Nirvana. If it’s particularly busy, up to five hundred public cremations can take place in a day. Before I got here, I’d imagined huge funeral pyres but the ones we’ve seen this evening have been no more than two-foot tall. I’d been expecting to retch at the sights and smells but I didn’t find it disturbing at all. It seemed almost magical, certainly not something you’re likely to see anywhere else in the world. Surprisingly, it didn’t seem as morbid as watching a western funeral. I suppose the difference is that in the west it’s considered ‘the end’ and a time for sorrow but for Hindus, it’s what they’ve aspired to all their lives … and the life before, and the life before that. I found the whole thing awe-inspiring and was full of questions. How do they know when they’re ready for Nirvana and have spread enough good? Apparently they just know, even from an early age. I trusted their judgement but couldn’t help feeling if we adopted this sort of policy in the western world people would just cheat. ‘Oh yeah, I’ve done enough good guv’nor … honest.’

The bodies, we were informed, are initially soaked in the Ganges before being covered with incense and ghee, to ensure a more rapid rate of burning. The actual cremation then takes place on small bonfires. Considering the size of Indian families, I wondered why there were so few people at the ceremony. Restrictions apparently apply due to instances where people have tried to throw themselves on the fire in an attempt to catch a lift to Nirvana. Distraught wives also have a penchant for throwing themselves on top of their dead husbands.

The only glitch on this fascinating day was being hassled by the locals. They said it was disrespectful to take photos of the proceedings. Although at times it seemed surreal and possibly an invasion of privacy to be so voyeuristic, we were a good hundred yards away from any of the bonfires and certainly weren’t taking any pictures. We tried to explain this until it suddenly became okay to use our cameras as long as we paid money. Other than that, it’s been a truly remarkable day.

We’ve had our final meal as a group this evening. Sian was almost overcome with emotion. She can’t believe our trip is nearly over. Surprisingly, I agree. There’ve been times when I thought it was never going to end but I have to admit my perceptions have changed dramatically since I arrived. My cynicism puts it down to the light at the end of the Indian tunnel shining ever brighter. She talked about the passion she had for the country and how it would always haunt her heart. She reflected on her growth over the last few days and looked to me for a response. Yeah, I agree India is certainly a unique place but without wanting to sound too melodramatic, the main positive for me has been getting this far alive.