Travelling Around Britain and the World

Wednesday 20 February 2013

Allahabad and the Kumbh Mela: Uttar Pradesh Part 3

After a long campaign, Allahabad was officially renamed Prayagraj in October 2018. The new name is controversial, and not all new names catch on. As the city was called Allahabad at the time of our visit, it remains Allahabad in this post.

A Field of Tents, a Fortuitous Meeting, the Kumbh Mela and the Nehru Family Homes

Varanasi to Allahabad


India
Uttar Pradesh
The Kumbh Mela, the great Hindu pilgrimage, is held at 4 different sites, each visited once every 12 years. This year’s event, at Allahabad, was a special Maha Kumbh – a onc in 144-years happening. The Kumbh, which lasts a month, is often described as the greatest gathering of humanity on the planet and on auspicious days as many as 80 million people come to the Ganges to bathe. Our visit was in a lull between peak bathing days - we would be joining only a few million pilgrims.

Our Uttar Pradesh journey took us from Varanasi to Allahabad, Lucknow and Agra

Varanasi to Allahabad is 120km, but Indian roads do not make for fast travelling and the journey took some three hours. We made a leisurely start – at least by the standards of the last few days…

Varanasi

…and fought our way through the bicycles and tuk-tuks of the morning rush hour.

The bicycles and tuk-tuks of the morning rush hour, Varanasi

Uttar Pradesh has 200 million people crammed together at a density of 820 per km² (c.f. England 407, California 93) so whether we were in a town....

On the road from Varanasi to Allahabad

....a village....

Village stall between Varanasi and Allahabad

....or in the country, the roadside was lined with shops and dwellings.

Rural activity between Varanasi and Allahabad

Arriving at the Ashram, Near Allahabad

Nearing Allahabad we left the main highway and after some wandering on country lanes and several requests for directions, our driver left the tarmac and bumped across a field. On the far side was an empty car park and beyond that, a hundred or so tents.

He helped carry our bags up to check-in and then left. Apart from the receptionist we seemed to be entirely alone in a field of tents.

We were shown to our home for the next three days. The ‘Swiss Cottage’ was introduced into India by the British army in the 19th century and named by someone who, presumably, had never visited Switzerland. Our two room tent had two comfortable beds, electricity, which worked some of the time, running water, which worked most of the time, and a flush toilet.

Lynne outside our 'Swiss Cottage' the following morning. Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

We walked round the deserted site. ‘For the next three days,’ our itinerary had said, ‘you will follow the programme at the ashram.’ There was no programme. There was a sign offering ashram tours but when we asked at reception we were treated to a quizzical look followed by a waved arm which said ‘This is the ashram.’ To us 'ashram' suggested a religious community, while this was just a campsite. There was a small shrine, but there was no one there either. Behind it a path passed through a tear in the canvas wall and we followed it down to the Holy Ganges. The river was only 100m away, but wherever the Kumbh Mela was, it was not here.

The shrine at a rare moment when it was not completely deserted, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

Encountering Seema

The canteen, the receptionist had told us, would open at 1.15 but when we arrived there was no food, just a tent full of empty tables and a lad standing by what was presumably the entrance to the kitchen. There were two other people there, a woman and a younger man. The woman had a brief conversation with the kitchen boy, then turned to us and said, ‘He says they’ll be serving food at 1.30.’ Her switch from Hindi to English was so natural that she was clearly equally at home in either language.

We went away for 15 minutes and spent it wondering what we were going to do for the next three days.

We returned to find a vegetarian buffet had been laid out. The food was adequate if a touch dull – and would vary little in the time we spent there. Apart from the staff there were only the two people we met previously, so we asked if we could join them. We needed to talk to somebody, preferably someone who could answer questions like ‘where is the Kumbh Mela?’

Our new friend introduced herself as Seema and her companion as her son Biku. She was, she said, a journalist on the Indian Express, an English language national newspaper we had encountered before (and it as a much more informative and reliable journal that its lamentable British namesake). Biku was a press photographer – his seriously impressive camera lay on the table as we talked. I asked Seema if she was there to work but she said she had come as an interested non-believer, maybe she would write something, maybe not. [She did write something - A Sceptic on the Bank.]

To the Kumbh Mela with Seema

We asked how to get to the Kumbh and she was amazed that our Delhi tour company had booked us a tent but no transport. She and Biku were going that afternoon and there was space in the car if we wanted to join them. We accepted gratefully.

Seema and Biku, Our benefactors at the Kumbh Mela

After lunch their driver bumped the four of us back over the field and turned left towards the river. We had not gone far when we encountered a roadblock. This was not the way the authorities wanted pilgrims to approach the Kumbh and neither Biku nor Seema had their press cards which might have justified special treatment. ‘Never mind,’ said Seema, getting out of the car. She approached the policeman, had a brief chat and two minutes later he pulled back the hurdle blocking the road and waved us through.

We soon reached the river but our right turn was again blocked. A formidable looking sergeant barred our way, a man with a huge moustache and even bigger lathi. The driver stopped and Seema again got out. A few minutes later the sergeant’s craggy face was wreathed in smiles and he saluted as he waved us through.

There was no real entrance to the Kumbh. The dirt road was surrounded first by tents,….

Approaching the Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

then by tents and stalls…..

Roadside stall, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

…… and then there were more and more people - and even an elephant.

And even an elephant, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

Eventually further progress by car became impossible so we parked and walked across the long floating footbridge to a sandbank in the river. This point is particularly sacred as it the confluence of three holy rivers, the Ganges, the Yamuna and the Saraswati, (this last is a spiritual rather than physical river but, for the devout at least, no less real for that).

Across the floating bridge, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

Bathing in the Ganges

Picking an uncrowded spot Seema ventured carefully into the water.

Seema ventures carefully into the Ganges

Not to be outdone, I ventured in too. Wikipedia, indulging the American obsession to rank anything that can be ranked, considers the Ganges the world’s fifth most polluted river with both sewage and industry making substantial contributions. The clean-up, the ‘Ganga Action Plan’ has, according to Wikipedia, ‘been a major failure thus far, due to corruption, lack of technical expertise, lack of good environmental planning, and lack of support from religious authorities.’

Up to my knees in the Holy Ganges, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

As can be seen from the picture I was only blessed up to my knees, but I was happy to emerge from the water and find neither of my legs had dissolved. Having considered the picture carefully I am confident there is no similarity between me and Mr Gumby.

'I want a tax on anyone standing in water'

Lynne was more circumspect in her 'bathing', blessing only the soles of her feet. Around us were many who immersed themselves completely – I suspect most will survive.

A minimal blessing, Lynne at the Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

Other Ways to Obtain a Blessing

A little further along we encountered these two ladies cooking puris to offer to Mother Ganga. While admiring their devotion, I fail to understand what a river wants with fried bread products - but maybe that was the wrong sort of thinking to bring to the Kumbh.

Frying puris for Mother Ganga, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

[Seema writes* 'Fifty-year-old Nirmala, who makes small puris on a fire by the bank ...is singularly disinterested in anyone else’s reasons for being here. She focusses on her own special ritual.']

This girl was nearby, but I have no idea what was going on here, but the blue colour is usual associated with Vishnu.

Blue girl, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

The nearer we came to the confluence the more crowded it became.

Nearer the confluence, Kumbh Mela, Allahabad

Spotting a seller of blessings, Seema decided this was just what she needed

The man used a GPS device to tell the deity exactly where the supplicant was. I would have thought that any deity with the power to improve your life would know where you were without being told. Wrong sort of thinking again?

Other People at the Kumbh

As can be heard on the video the blessing was carried out against the background of a relentless public address system. Most calls were for the inevitably separated families and lost children. [Seema writes* 'Countless announcements blare from the public address system. A young girl’s heartbreaking wail rents the air as she asks the control tower to find her parents. A pilgrim from Andhra Pradesh tries to speak to his “missing” Telugu-speaking wife over the PA system.'] We like to think of India as a society that respects its elders, but there is a persistent story that families bring the aged and infirm to the Kumbh and dump them in the belief that they will be looked after by someone - or die in a sacred place. Whether this is a regular occurrence or has happened only once or is merely an urban myth I do not know, but it chimes perfectly with that sector of society – as prevalent in India as in England – that is convinced that everything is always getting worse.

Several times we were approached by groups of people wanting to say hello, and have their photograph taken with us. Seema and Biku found this surprising, but we have often encountered it in places where foreign faces are few. Generally conversation is limited, ‘Hello’ being their only word of English, while our Hindi is limited to 'biryani', 'sag aloo' and the like, which have their uses, but do not make for much of a conversation. Occasionally more communication is possible, as with the two lads below, students from Allahabad University and mathematics students to boot, so we had something in common (probably the wrong sort of thinking).

Me with two students from Allahabad University

As afternoon threatened to tip into evening, which happens early in these latitudes, it became time to leave the Kumbh. It had been a breathtaking swirl of sounds, colours and smells (the less said about some of them the the better). Even as we turned to walk over the floating bridge I had to glance behind me to check it had all been real. It had been a privilege to be the smallest possible part of it.

Leaving the Kumbh, Allahabad

The Nehru family Homes, Allahabad

‘Have you been into Allahabad?’ Seema asked before suggesting we should visit the Nehru house.

The Kumbh was on the southeastern edge of Allahabad, a city of some 1.5 million. It is known as the ‘City of Prime Ministers’ as 7 of India’s 13 prime ministers were either born there, studied at Allahabad University or represented the city in Parliament. 3 of those 7 were from the remarkable Nehru dynasty

Motilal Nehru (1861-1931), a lawyer and leading light in the independence movement was the family patriarch. His son, Jawaharlal Nehru (1889-1964) was the first prime minister of independent India. His daughter Indira Ghandi (no relation of the Mahatma Ghandi) was prime minister from 1966 to 1977 and again from 1980 until her assassination in 1984. She was succeeded by her son Rajiv Ghandi who was prime minister until he too was assassinated in 1989. His widow Sonia Ghandi, though Italian by birth, wields considerable power as president of the Congress Party. Other, younger, members of the family wait in the wings.

Anand Bhavan, the Birthplace of Indira Ghandi

After fighting our way through dense traffic we arrived at the Nehru house, or rather houses, just before closing time. Indira Ghandi was born in Anand Bhavan and we started there, walking round the balcony and staring into the rooms on display. It was a grand house, but nowhere near as grand as Swaraj Bhavan next door.

Anand Bhavan, Allahabad

Swaraj Bhavanraj, the Former Home of Jawaharlal Nehru, First Prime Ministre of an Independent India

Before we reached Swaraj Bhavant one of the attendants found the courage to tell Seema that we needed tickets. When she bought four 10 rupee (12p) tickets I took out my wallet, pointing out that 10 Rupees was the price for Indian nationals and that Lynne and I needed 100 Rupee foreigners' tickets. Seema waved my wallet away. ‘Your British,' she said, 'you didn’t leave us very long ago, and anyway we’ve forgiven you,’ and that settled that.

The guardian was locking up as we arrived and for a moment I thought we might be unlucky, but after a word or two from Seema he decided to accompany us round the house, giving us a guided tour and shutting off the lights behind us we moved from room to room.

Swaraj Bhavan, Allahabad

Motilal Nehru bought the house in 1900. On his frequent visits to Europe he bought furniture and china with the intention of turning the mansion into ‘an elaborate replica of an English country estate … bifurcated between East and West’ (Wikipedia). He was outstandingly successful.

There are many pictures of the Nehru family, dressed formally and informally in European and Indian style. These were people who could move so effortlessly from one culture to another and operate at such a high level in each that I felt sorry for the British officials who had to deal with them; even the viceroys were out of their depth.

The house was donated to the Congress Party in 1930 and Anand Bhavan was built next door as a more practically sized, though still substantial, family house.

Holy Trinity, Allahabad

On the way back to camp we dropped in at Holy Trinity Church, a Colonial-Gothic pile built in 1839 and modelled on St Martin-in-the-Fields, London. If it was not for the blue (though rapidly darkening) sky this picture could be of St Martin’s.

Holy Trinity, Allahabad

As darkness fell we crossed the bridge over the Kumbh Mela site and returned to our campsite.

The Kumbh Mela site at night

Despite encouraging texts from India Telecom, Lynne’s phone could not be persuaded to connect with anybody, so we borrowed reception’s laptop and emailed our man Mohammed in Delhi and told him we needed transport.

There were more people in the canteen that evening, mostly Indian pilgrims, but with a smattering of curious westerners. We dined with Biku and Seema and enjoyed an interesting and wide ranging discussion. Seema had worked for the BBC World Service in London and was formidably well informed on British current affairs and we knew far more about Indian issues by the time the meal was over.

[Update: what Seema did not tell us. The day’s events had persuaded us that she was perhaps more important and influential than she had let on. She had described herself as an ‘associate editor’ of the Indian Express, a vague term that can cover anybody from tea boy to managing director. At home, ten minutes Googling established that she is actually a very well-known journalist in India. Her husband’s Wikipedia entry describes her as ‘former Delhi editor of BBC Hindi Service and presently Resident Editor of the Indian Express’. And her husband (whom we did not meet) represents West Bengal in the Rayja Sabha (India’s Upper House) where he leads the Communist Party of India (Marxist)]

As we made our way back to our tent the man from reception approached to say that someone called Mohammed had phoned and a car would be waiting for us in the morning.

It had been a remarkable day, at one time looking like a disaster, but turning into a triumph, thanks to Seema and Biku. We owe a big ‘thank you’ to Seema, particularly, for her kindness, for the refreshing modesty with which she displayed her erudition, and for her spectacular ability to bend people to her will and leave them thinking she had done them a favour.

*A Sceptic on the Bank by Seema Chishti, The Indian Express 02/03/13


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Location: Prayagraj, Uttar Pradesh, India

Tuesday 19 February 2013

Varanasi: Uttar Pradesh Part 2

18-Feb-2013

India
Uttar Pradesh
The return journey from Sarnath was as long-winded and tedious as the outward trip. In addition to bicycles, tuk-tuks and rickshaws there were now Saraswatis complicating the traffic flow. Saraswati is the goddess of knowledge, music, arts and science, and as it was her festival groups of students were pushing, dragging or driving Saraswatis down to the Ganges on more or less elaborate carts. Every so often they would stop, regardless of the traffic, bang their drums, blow their whistles and chant. When moving, a sound system would belt out whatever that group fancied, anything from sacred music to hip hop.

Varanasi was founded around 1200 BC and claims to be one of the oldest continually inhabited cities in the world. For most of the last three thousand years its citizens have been busy not improving the infrastructure, so getting back into the centre from

At one point we were stationary beside a 4x4 full of mourners heading for the cremation ghat. The deceased lay on the roof-rack wrapped in an orange cloth.

Ajay surveys the traffic jam, Varanasi

Somewhere near what may have been the centre of the sprawling city we left the car and continued on foot. Darkness fell as, following Ajay, we fought our way towards the river. A premier league crowd could have been no bigger, though it would probably have been quieter.

We were now in a pedestrianised area, but the Saraswatis continued to drum and hip hop, motor scooters and tuk-tuks pushed past, some drivers repeatedly thumbing the horn, others just holding the button down. It is not always the largest vehicles that have the loudest horns. Cycle rickshaws slipped more quietly through the crowd. A bell rings and a front wheel appears at your elbow, then the handlebars. What follows is four times wider, so a wise walker shoves swiftly sideways into the crowd.

Following a Saraswati into the pedestrianised area
Varanasi

We reached the river between the Arti ceremony platform and the cremation ghat. Part of the crowd jostled for position to watch the ceremony from the land, while boatman touted their services to those wishing to watch from the river. Ajay hired a boat, we bought offerings for Mother Ganga from a small girl, and then the three of us clambered aboard. As we pushed off the noise and glare were temporally swallowed up by the quiet darkness of the river.

The boatman was small, skinny and elderly and I felt guilty about letting him do the rowing. We slid almost silently across the water before turning to face the ghat where the funeral pyres burned, their orange flames lighting up the darkness.

Our aged boatman and the cremation ghats, Varanasi
We attempted to launch our gifts for Mother Ganga, palm leaf bowls holding a twist of saffron coloured flowers and a candle. We could see the twinkling lights of other people’s offerings floating downstream, but the boat was high sided and as we leaned over the candles tumbled off and were promptly extinguished.

The Arti ceremony was now in full swing, the ghat thronged with people. We were rowed across to join the flotilla of small boats bobbing just offshore. Seven young priests in loose shirts and baggy trousers lit their Arti lamps, cupped their hands over the flames and then raised them to their foreheads passing a blessing from the deity to the priest. Incense is burned, the smoke passing over the flames and enveloping the whole gathering in the divine form. The ceremony, performed every evening, is a piece of theatre as well as a religious act. 

Art ceremony, Varanasi
A boat filled with young men and with Saraswati standing upright in the stern bumped gently into the crowd. Tradition demands that the image is offered to the river, but I was surprised by the how casually she was shoved overboard.

Saraswati about to be unceremoniously dumped in the river
Varanasi
As the Arti came to its conclusion we returned to the shore and watch the final moments from the landward side.

The arti ceremony comes to its close, Varanasi

I do not know if there really is a god for them to communicate with, but as the music, incense and lights worked their magic, the temporary suspension of disbelief was simple. 

The other boats come ashore behind us, Varanasi

We walked back to the car through quieter streets and drove to our hotel in relative tranquillity.

Our hotel was at the opposite end of the ghats where the steps take a right angle turn away from the river. Perched on top, between the Ganges View Hotel and the river is a restaurant, and that was where we went for dinner. Varanasi is a stop on what was once called the ‘hippie trail’, and we had seen a few ‘unusual’ westerners about town. This restaurant turned out to be where they gather. The food was cheap, vegetarian and wholesome enough but bland, not just by the standards of India, but by any standard.

As we retired to bed the last of the Saraswatis was making her way past, with agonising slowness and a regrettable taste in overloud music. Eventually the sound of rappers faded into the night and we slept.

19-Feb-2013

Ajay arrived early next morning and at 6 o’clock we set out to retrace our steps back to the centre.

Throught the quieter morning streets, Varanasi
The chilly morning was quiet, almost peaceful, at least until we reached the ghats which were almost as busy as the night before.

Lynne arrives at the river, Varanasi
The boatmen were still busily looking for custom while fortune tellers’ stalls now filled the Arti platform.

Fortune teller on the Arti paltform

We bought more offerings for the river, in the hope of a more successful launch and joined four or five other passengers on a boat with an outboard.

We chugged past the ghats at a leisurely pace, each one with a set of steps leading up to a large, ornate building. Almost every ruler in northern India had at some time built himself a palace by the banks of the holy river. The Manmandir Ghat was built in 1770 by Maharajah Jai Singh II of Jaipur. [We visited Jaipur and his Palace in 2018]

The Manmandir Ghat, Varanasi

Beyond the Arti platform people were bathing, some performing a swift ritual dunk, others swimming among the boats. We watched a late middle aged couple inching gingerly into the water, she gripping hard onto his arm for support, both physical and moral. Lynne shivered in sympathy, unimpressed by Ajay’s assertion that the water temperature was actually higher than the air temperature. He offered no comforting words on the cleanliness of the water. Above the bathers a black and white kingfisher hovered with its back arched and beak pointing downwards, then it spotted a fish and dived like an arrow.

A naked man holding a brass bowl strode out into the water….

A naked man strides into the Ganges
….. he stooped to fill the bowl then poured the holy water over his head.

...and pours the holy water of the Ganges over his head
At one ghat we watched monkeys chasing round the palace roof. Then we passed the second, smaller cremation ghat, used for the funerals of non-Brahmins. Beside it were two naked sadhus smeared in ashes. They looked cold. The tall, thin one stood hunched with his palms turned outwards and the shorter one, his hair tied in a bun on the top of his head started running round in circles. Sometimes being a holy man is a form of community care.

Bathing ghat, Varanasi 
In the midst of all that is sacred is a dhobi ghat, the dhobi wallahs standing calf deep in the water slapping clothes onto horizontal stone slabs propped up in makeshift fashion. The laundry was laid out to dry on the steps above.

Dhobi ghat, Varanasi
The boat turned and puttered into midstream and we made a semi-successful attempt to launch our offerings, though mine capsized as it touched the water.

Lynne makes her offerring to the Holy Ganges
The south bank is a mud flat, bare except for a tent or two. A skiff pushed off and headed towards us, rendezvousing fifty metres from the southern shore. A couple transferred to it from our boat, a process fraught with difficulty for a large middle aged woman. After a minor drama they were transported off towards the mud flat. We returned along the waterfront....

The waterfront, Varanasi
.... to the main cremation ghat.

Ajay and the cremation ghat, Varanasi
We walked up through the narrow lanes past piles of logs. Wood is expensive, particularly the fragrant sandalwood, and 350Kg are needed to cremate a body. Bodies are sometimes cremated together to reduce the cost.

Into the lanes behind the cremation ghat, Varanasi
This is the oldest part of the city and every house in the maze of narrow lanes either has a shrine outside or a personal temple inside. In the midst of this ancient and exotic world, a metal door opened and a teenage boy dressed in a British-style school uniform - grey trousers, blue blazer, white shirt, striped tie - wheeled out his bike and set off for school.

Private shrine, old town, Varanasi
Since sectarian bombings in 2006 and 2010 the area round the Kashi Vishwanath Temple has been tightly controlled. For a small fee, we deposited our cameras and personal effects with a local shopkeeper, keeping only our passports. We passed through a metal detector at the entrance to an alley, were searched and had our passports examined. After that we thought we would enter the temple, but it is closed to non-Hindus. We were merely permitted to stand on a step and look at the top of the buildings over a high wall, an experience not worth the hassle.

Outside, the queues to do puja at the temple are controlled behind heavy wooden barriers. At peak times, Ajay said, devotees can queue for as much as six hours. The puja then takes six seconds.

Queue for puja, Kashi Vishwanath Temple, Varanasi
It was breakfast time, but as the as the traffic was still light we decided to hop across town to the Bharat Mata Temple first. When a man has made his pile it is customary to build a temple to give thanks for his fortune. Two such men in the 1930s observed that Varanasi already had a superabundance of Vishnu Temples and, being nationalists, decided to build a temple to Bharat Mata (Mother India) who had emerged as a personification of India, if not quite a goddess, during the first stirrings of the independence movement in the late 19th century. Opened by Ghandi, the temple features a carved marble relief map of India. The map is precisely to scale – though using different vertical and horizontal scales – but, being pre-partition, includes Pakistan and Bangladesh as parts of India. For many the independence struggle was sacred as well as political, but it is difficult to maintain such fervour 65 years after that struggle ended and Bharat Mata feels more like a museum than a temple.

Relief map of India, Bharat Mata Temple, Varanasi

Back at our hotel a gentle vegetable curry with fried puris, lime pickle with some crunchy bites of something, followed by a cake soaked in syrup made a pleasing breakfast.

We barely had time for a shower (there had been no hot water earlier) before Ajay returned for the next instalment.

We drove round the campus of Benaras Hindu University. Founded in 1916 by Pandit Madan Malviya, who earned the title ‘India’s Biggest Beggar’ for his fundraising activities, it is one of India’s leading universities and has over 20,000 students. BHU was Ajay’s alma mater and he stressed that Hindus have always been admitted regardless of caste - although admission is by no means limited to Hindus.

Nearby is the Durga Kund Temple, and this time we were allowed in, though photographs were not permitted.  Durga is the many-armed warrior aspect of the Divine Mother. She habitually rides a lion and her temple is painted red as a symbol of creative energy - or blood depending on your preference.

Durga Kund Temple, Varanasi - from the outside
Puja was being performed and a crowd was half queuing, half jostling to be the next to present their offering. Traditionally this involved sacrificing a chicken, but as this is no longer permitted they have to make do with a coconut. A priest sits behind a low wall and each devotee offers him a coconut cradled in a nest of flowers. Slipping the donation hiding among the flowers into a strongbox, the priest casually flings the petals onto a heap, smashes the coconut on a device like a boot scraper and hands the pieces back. The priest looked bored, his expression and body language suggesting he had nothing but contempt for the worshippers and their offerings. The people, though, brimmed with sincerity, many coming round the side later just to touch the pile of discarded flowers.

We returned to our hotel, said goodbye to Ajay and set out in search of lunch. There were, we found, few restaurants in our corner of town. The traffic was light, much of it schoolchildren going home for lunch and we particularly liked this cycle-rickshaw-bus.

Cycle-rickshaw-school bus, Varanasi
I sent the picture to the transport manager at SGS (our former place of employment). As their new prep school is beginning to admit children of this age, I thought he might be grateful for the suggestion. He said he was satisfied with his fleet of minibuses. Stick-in-the-mud.

Cycle-rickshaw-bus, Varanasi
At home we like to nibble Bombay Mix. India offers many variations on this theme, though none (as far as I know) called Bombay Mix. We bought one variation at this stall. Why it is also advertising men’s underwear is a mystery.

Buying 'Bombay Mix', Varanasi
We found a vegetarian restaurant (there seemed no other sort) in the basement of a small hotel. It was dark and empty and we were just leaving thinking it was closed when an enthusiastic young man appeared waving a menu. We ordered a biryani, vegetable curry and a nan. The kitchen, behind a glass screen, had been empty, but immediately an old man appeared and started rolling out dough, and a younger man set about chopping vegetables. Our food may not have been very interesting, but it was fresh and cooked to order.

We were not alone for long, being soon joined by a middle aged Indian couple and then a worried looking Japanese girl. In halting English she explained she had been to a hostel to visit a friend who, she discovered, was out, had gone for a walk, become lost and could no longer find the hostel. She did not know its name, but could describe it. The waiter and the other diners made suggestions in equally halting English. We speak fluent English but sadly had no suggestions to make. Half way through her lunch her friend phoned and all was well.

In the afternoon we walked along the ghats from out hotel.

A walk along the ghats, Varanasi
We paused by a pile of Saraswati skeletons fished from the river after the previous evening. Litter is the curse of India, but at least this lot had been collected up. Whether anyone was going to move them from here was another matter.

The tangled remains of the Saraswatis, Varanasi
At various places cattle had come down to drink or wallow. This one had delegated parasite control to the capable beak of a myna bird.

Myna bird pest control, Varanasi
A boy of ten or so approached, offering us postcards. He was full of smiles and charm, and haggled so artlessly that he managed to charge us twice the going rate for twice as many postcards as we wanted.

As we passed the smaller cremation ghat, the guardian grabbed us and led us to a view point. ‘No pictures,’ he said. ‘Respect the dead.’ He explained the process, adding that it was men’s torsos and women’s thighs that are hardest to burn. ‘Then,’ he said with a grin, ‘we rake everything left into the river and let the fish sort it out.’ He told us of the documentary film makers he had worked with, and how much they had paid him. When he was sure we had got the message he said, ‘All right, just one photo.’ We tipped him well, but declined his offer to take us to a silk weaving factory.

The smaller cremation ghat, Varanasi
Lynne had regularly used a picture of the Kedar Ghat when teaching Hinduism in school. Being photographed sitting in the middle of her teaching aid caused her a small frisson of excitement.

Lynne on the Kedar Ghat
It would not be India if there was not a game of cricket somewhere. At any one time it seems that half the teenage boys in India are involved in a game of ‘gully’ cricket. It keeps them out of mischief.

Gully cricket on the ghats, Varanasi
On our way back we passed through the sadhu encampment. There is one man who claims not to have sat down for several decades and spends his days leaning on a wooden trapeze at the mouth of his tent. In another tent were two sadhus, several young westerners of both sexes and a guitar. Whether their smoking material is legal in India I do not know. Perhaps some holy men are holier than others.

Sadhu encampment, Varanasi
Back at the ghat nearest our hotel we watched three men cleaning milk churns. Using soap and twigs for scouring they were washing the churns in the water of the Ganges. We made a mental note to avoid milk in future.

We dined at the hotel. They promised a vegetarian buffet cooked without onions or garlic and served in a community atmosphere. Eschewing onions and garlic as well as meat is a Brahmin diet (while strict Jains also abjure root vegetables). To make such a meal interesting requires a talented chef, but sadly the hotel chef was only competent and the dinner was distinctly ho-hum - and they failed with the promised community atmosphere, too. The highlight was a jaggery and cardamom laced rice pudding - so much for avoiding milk.

Later we took a stroll and found nothing happening on the ghats or in the surrounding streets. Perhaps I am a slave to my base appetites but, as meat and alcohol seemed unobtainable in Varanasi, we were happy to retreat to our room for a nightcap of Heathrow airport duty-free and a slice of salami (even if the salami was entirely imaginary).




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Location: Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh, India
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