Life and death in Varanasi

Nov. 23, 2008

The fire in the darkness reflected in the water of the Ganges was a magnet for my companion and me. Out walking along the ghats of Varanasi our first night in the city, my new Swedish/Porteguese friend Billie and I were drawn to the flames. They glowed orange in the faces of a crowd of somber men looking on from the steps along the riverside. Not wanting to intrude on whatever ritual was taking place, we girls climbed up into a cement enclave to look over the fire.

Then I saw it, a human foot crackling in the flames, the toes curling in the intense heat. I nearly fell to my knees at the sight.

The funeral pyres are part of the whole experience of Varanasi, also known as Benares, the holy city of India, the city of lights and the city of learning. One of the oldest continually inhabited places in the world, it has been regarded by Hindus, Buddhists and Jains as a place of great religious importance. One-time Redding, Conn. resident Mark Twain wrote "Benares is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend, and looks twice as old as all of them put together."

Even without knowing of its historical significance, a walk on the ghats along the misty Ganges at night, listening to the chiming of bells and women singing in the temples, and watching the funeral pyres, one can't help but be moved by the place.

I met Billie on the train from Delhi to Varanasi earlier this week. We agreed to split a rickshaw and check out a guesthouse together near the Assi Ghat in the south part of town near the river. I quickly learned that my new friend has a fiery soul herself.

Billie, who has traveled to India three times before, received her name from a friend several years ago. In Hindi, Billie means cat, fitting because her birth name is Caterina or Katervina or something like that. She speaks in the deep way the Swedes have when they speak English. It is a quiet but powerful voice.

Before each meal, she lays her hands on either side of her plate, closes her eyes to bless her food with Reiki energy. She works now as a street performer doing fire dances with poi sticks and fans. She's hoping to get some gigs this winter in Goa.

Billie has intense brown eyes that are always wide open, sometimes chillingly so. They are the eyes of a newborn taking in everything for the first time. When she makes eye contact, it's hard to look away. A thought once flashed through my mind that if I broke our eye contact, Billie might whip a knife out of her sleeve and slash my throat.

Though she scares me a little, I like Billie. She's energetic and resourceful. She talked me into taking a Kathak dance class with her. Her hope was that the traditional dance would help influence her fire performances. I was just kind of curious and wanted to do something that might make me feel pretty.

The woman who taught us was beautiful and intense with dark circles under her dark eyes. Billie called them opium eyes. This young woman had such fluidity to her movements, like her fingers and arms and feet were made of melting wax.

For me though, instead of transforming into a beautiful flower, the experience left me feeling as stiff as oak. Kathak is a graceful dance. I'm not really a graceful person. (Sometimes, with a soccer ball, I feel beautiful, but otherwise I kind of just plod... but with exuberance!

That night, Billie and I took our walk along the ghats and saw the burning foot. A man attending the ghat took the opportunity to explain to us the significance of the ritual. People from all over India and beyond come to Varanasi to die. It is believed that those who die along the banks of the Ganges in this holy city achieve instant enlightenment. The burning of the bodies is a ritual of purification. Only men attend the burning because it is feared that women crying out in mourning would disturb the spirit on its way to enlightenment.

There are five types of people who do not require the ritual purification when they die, the man explained. These are the Sadus, or holy men of Varanasi, pregnant women, children under age eight, those with leprosy, those with small pox, and those who died by snake bite. All these people, he said, are already pure having suffered before death.

The snakebite one strikes me as quite interesting. The man explained that the cobra is one embodiment of Shiva, so the person is killed and blessed by god.

When they die, the bodies of these five types of people are taken out to the middle of the river, weighted with a stone and dropped into the murky, green depths.

Many who come to Varanasi find the place fascinating but filthy. Nothing is hidden in India, but especially in this city. Animals and people share every space, rubbing up against each other, pissing and defecating everywhere. Spirituality is an outward and passionate expression. Children run along the ghats offering visitors little palm leaf bowls filled with a few flower blossoms and a candle to light and set adrift in the river as prayers for the dead. Always, always there is the sound of bells clanging in the Hindu temples. People sell sweet, greasy pastries and spicy, greasy food on the streets. While walking the streets or taking a chai break in a little makeshift street cafe, sometimes one sees spontaneous parades of men carrying the body of dead man or woman down to the riverside.

It's all a big carnival in the city of light. Everything is a celebration of life and death. These two things are viewed simply as continuations of each other.