Saturday, December 06, 2003, Varanasi, India

9:13 a.m.

The Ganges River. Ganga. A living god to whom all Hindus should one day come.

On any day at any time, the scene is the same: The wood is weighed and paid for, half is laid out. The procession carrying the body arrives, some chanting or singing, some silent. The body, wrapped in fine cloths and covered with beads and flowers, is placed on the woodpile. Family members sprinkle sandalwood dust and water from the river over it. The second half of the wood covers the body, hiding it. The holy man brings fire, and once the family buys the fire, the pile is lit. It will burn for up to five hours. At first it will burn bright with tall flames. Later, as the fire dies down some, and the top wood falls away, parts of the body can be seen. Some seem still human, some not quite; the skin is reduced to charred black strips, contrasting with the white of exposed bone. Eventually, it all becomes ashes and dust, to be spread into the river.

I saw a sign painted on a wall facing the river reading, “Ganga is the life-line of Indian culture.” I think this river does say a lot about Indian culture, though whomever the sign is quoting might not have meant it in the way that occurs to me. India is very much extremes, just like the river. It is beautiful beyond compare, and vile beyond belief. It is life and death. It is the water which nurtures all this life that pollutes and strangles it. They bathe in it for blessing and absolution of sin, and then climb the steps of the ghat, the stone bathing platform, and squat down at the top to urinate on the wall of a building. Waste from the crowed streets of the city slimes slowly down stone steps and into the river, while children step over it carrying candles and garlands of flowers which they will sell to the pilgrims on their way down stone steps and into the river. The old women doing laundry here everyday don’t mind the dead cows and the odd dead baby floating by – or maybe they don’t notice. Or maybe they just have nowhere else to do it.

Welcome to Varanasi, the city of Shiva, the god of death and destruction. Shiva’s not a bad guy, and death and destruction aren’t so bad either. Strangely, the city of Shiva reeks of life and construction. Most of the streets are at most a meter wide, and on them crowds fight to go up and down. Shopkeepers tout their wares along the bottom of narrow alleys between level upon level of buildings literally piled on top of one another. Multi-colored kites fly in a hazy blue sky over brightly colored buildings, with brightly colored people coming in and out. All the colors give up and mix into an increasingly uniform brown layer on the ground. The ubiquitous honking of every vehicle on every road, the cries of children, the street vendors trying to be heard, the chirping of birds barking of dogs bellowing of cows and screaming of verminous monkeys, and the chanting singing drums and bells of religion all echo between the brick and concrete confusion of city. Just as the sounds are trapped down, so is the air, and the smells of all Indian cities are concentrated to just about nose level. The smells aren’t always bad, but they are always strong. The bad ones you just have to get used to – of course some are too bad for that. The sandalwood dust is to make the smoke smell better, but there’s still a smell that a deep down and ancient olfactory synapse can’t help but identify as death. Varanasi is all the elements pushed hard and piled up against the Ganges River. It’s not strange at all then that the city of Shiva reeks as it does; it is sparked with life and death, construction and destruction. It’s in the earth, the air, the fire and the water.

There is at least some respite from the chaos; this is one of those cities where everyone goes up to get out, up on the roofs. On the roofs laundry dries, children play, kites fly, gardens grow, and white American tourists with shaved heads and a palm pilot and keyboard sit and finish writing.

1:38 p.m.

At one point in my wanderings and lost-gettings yesterday I saw some monkeys. I can’t see monkeys without getting excited, and if I get excited that means the camera is coming out. It turned out to be a rather large troupe of very active monkeys, so I got busy snapping away. It is my suspicion that monkeys find the narrow alleys of Varanasi with all the clothes lines and telephone wires and porches, etc., to be an excellent environment. They have adapted their speed and climbing skills to stalking around and stealing food out of homes – I’m guessing. Well, this pack was busy jumping back and forth between two tall buildings and seemed to me like the were pretty excited about something. To try and get a better shot at the action, I continued into the alleyway. Once I was about halfway down the alley, down drop three large monkeys, one of which is really big – the alpha male, I presume. Needless to say, he was hissing at my general direction and had very large teeth. I’m a lot bigger than a monkey, and if I had to I think I could’a took ‘im. But since I’m an animal lover and a pacifist, I figured me best option was to back away slowly. Looking behind me I saw that at the other end of the alleyway was another very large monkey with just as large teeth, as well looking unhappy about something. At least they were hissing at each other and not at me. I think. Imagine the scene. Tall white dude holding a camera, looking very confused, caught between rival gangs in a dangerous turf war. If you were a local you would come to my rescue, right? In fact, if you were the local that rescued me, then you are three girls, aged about 3, 4, and 5, and you fight monkeys with high-tech projectile rocks. My knights in shining armour! In return for their noble deed they asked that I but take some pictures of them. Jeez, that’s really asking a lot, but I guess I do owe you one.

It’s one scary world out there, I tells ya.

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