Raand Saand Seedhi Sanyasi - Inse bache, to sebe Kasi...Dedicated to the oldest city on earth - BANARAS

As I packed my bags for a trip to Banaras, my grandmother informed me – Banaras is a city famous for many things - for its Pundits and its Prostitutes, for its Sweetmeats and its Bulls, for its River Ganga and its narrow cobbled lanes, for its Conmen and its Kashi Vishwanatha.

What a description! What poetry in it! I realized that just as a rose can be sensed by its fragrance even before you see it, Banaras could be experienced before you laid eyes on it!

I made up my mind to sample each USP of the city mentioned … Ah, well. Not exactly each… Certainly not the prostitutes and the conmen, and as little of the undomesticated bulls as possible.

A few facts about this holy city of India, before I embark on my personal experiences. The city, which is supposed to be located on Lord Siva’s Trishul -
The city, wherein Lord Hanuman appeared before Saint Tulsi who was busy penning the Ramayana -
The city, in which if a person dies or is cremated, reaches the very gates of heaven –

is Banaras, a.k.a., Varanasi.

Coming from the east, as I did, you get your first view of Banaras as your train crosses River Ganga. Kashi, or the holy suburb of Banaras located right on the banks of the river, appears like the distorted figure one, as though being practiced by a child, on one side. The other bank is all sand – fine, white, bare and beautiful. I observed several people throwing in coins into the Ganga as the train thundered over it. River Ganga in Banaras is akin to a wishing well, it seems. Espying several boats and streamers floating on the waters, I promised myself a treat of a boat ride then and there.

The railway station where I alighted is dirty, unpretentious and obscure on the inside, and impressive architecturally when you turn to look at it on your way out. As I began my haggling game with a determined cab driver regarding fare, (which ended in that chap winning), a little of my romantic feelings were beginning to evaporate. For one thing, traffic is awful in the city – undisciplined, foul talking and extraordinarily noisy. The garbage laden roads full of ditches leave much to be desired, and the buildings that you see on either side are ordinary, middle-class and undistinguished.
After an avid gaze that took in all this, I relaxed back on my cab seat with a disappointed sigh. So much for poetical descriptions!

I was supposed to be putting up in an ashram belonging to a sacred trust of which my grandfather is the member. My cab soon left the wider roads, to enter one of those narrow cobbled lanes I had heard of. I was instantly impressed! These lanes are not broader than, say, six or seven feet across. Not only that, men, women, vegetable vendors, flower sellers, bikes, cabs, cars, bulls, stray dogs, goats – all are duly represented - right on these streets. And yet, call it the miracle of the city or whatever, you hardly find any traffic jams! Everything and everyone moves smoothly, without hitches. I paid off my cabbie, and decided to make the remainder of the journey on foot.

The first discovery I made was that if Pune holds the world record for maximum restaurants, Banaras ought to hold it for maximum temples. Every second or third gate seemed to contain a deity, longhaired and bearded pundits and at least twenty devotees. The buildings were old, brightly painted or whitewashed and congested. Vendors selling flowers, incense and sweets to offer to the divine entities speckled entrances to all temples. I dexterously avoided stepping on to fresh dung deposited by a bull placidly munching some cabbage leaves from a greengrocer’s, and probably had the best vision of my life in the next instant – Ganga, visible from a clearing between two buildings – shining in the mid-morning sun.
I have heard that people get possessed – now I experienced how it feels. My feet turned towards Ganga at their own will. I descended the fifty or so lofty stone steps and walked right over to the water. A boatman broke my trance, “Madam, you want a ride? I take you to the Kashi Vishwanath and back here for seventy rupees.” I say boatman, but ‘boat boy’ would have been more apt. The one addressing me looked barely more than twelve, and I decided to accept his offer.
His boat was small and rickety, and I did not know swimming. Hearing this, the child, whose name I had learned to be Manoj, assured me glibly. “Madam, on this boat you are my responsibility.”
Well, the journey began. The river is cold, clear and deep, though not very wide during the winter season. On one side, the sandy banks appear clearly in the sun, while a dizzying succession of similar looking Ghats passes you on the other. If you squint a little towards the horizon ahead, you can make out the bridge your train crossed while taking you to Banaras. Each Ghat has its legend. Tulsi Ghat is where Saint Tulsi wrote his Ramayana. Narad Ghat is where if a couple takes a dip together, it will fight for twelve days. Dashashwamedha Ghat is where statues of Durga are immersed into Ganga. Harishchandra Ghat is where Hindus are cremated. Rana Mahal Ghat is where ghosts abound in the night. All you have to visualize is a high, red-walled, linear fort along the river, which has been labeled legibly by these various names after regular intervals. On every Ghat, people are busy taking the holy dip, washing away their sins. Cries of ‘Har Har Gangey’ rent the air every now and then. Scantily clad urchins enjoy diving into the river for sport.
Not only the banks, the river itself is alive, too. Hundreds of pintail ducks migrate here every winter. These birds are voracious eaters and ear-splitting screechers. All you need is an unending supply of snacks and a boatman with strong lungs, and these birds follow your boat diligently, scooping up the food that you throw out on the waters and shrieking for more.
A fifty-minute boat ride took me to my destination. My newfound friend, the boatman Manoj, guided me deftly through the confusing, convoluted four-foot wide lanes to the gates of Kashi Vishwanath. Here he handed me over to a Pundit of his acquaintance, who took me into his custody with a bewildering rapidity. Before I knew what was happening, my cell phone and fountain pen were whisked away from me and placed safely into a locker. As I was pocketing the key to this locker, I was pushed towards a lady police officer, who smiled at me reassuringly and ensured I was not carrying anything objectionable on my person. Meanwhile, the Punditji had bought everything that one is supposed to offer to Lord Siva on the day of Mahasivaratri. He shushed me authoritatively, as I tried to ask how much it had cost him. By this time, I was well into the premises of the temple. Wet marbled floors, pesky monkeys, enthusiastic devotees intent on pushing ahead and a heedlessly fast-moving guide – I do not know how I managed not to fall flat on my face. Perhaps another miracle! I have to confess, though, in this terrible hubbub, the spiritual aspect of the temple visit failed to touch me.

After I had paid off my kind guide, reclaimed my possessions and began breathing normally again, it was time to return.

The next day began with a visit to B.H.U. – The Banaras Hindu University – arguably the best university in North India. Established by Mahamana Madan Mohan Malviya, there is not a single branch of education that has not been represented by a department here. The lanes, the buildings – they are all so confusing, it is almost a labyrinth, but for the thoughtful maps provided at nooks and corners. I had completed one complete tour of the university premises, when it was time to board my train back home. I paid one last visit to my temporary residence, catching as many glimpses of the Ganga as I could en route. The return journey was the same – tummy-rumbling ditches, foul-smelling roadsides and cacophonous traffic. But I did not feel my previous disappointment. Banaras is a city, more to be felt, and less to be seen, heard, tasted or smelt. I smiled as this thought occurred to me, and am still smiling as I am typing it out. :-)