The-World-Noticed-Us
The sun was already setting when our rickshaw came to a stop.
“I can’t drive closer.”
He pointed across the street, to where the buildings collapsed into a maze of alleys.
“You must walk.”
I spread my arms and dragged my fingers along the rough stone and plaster walls of the houses on both sides of me. Then traffic rushed in, and I pulled them close.
Motorcycles, bicycles, pushcarts, cows, goats, and pedestrians shoved and honked their way through the narrow lanes.
I pulled out my phone.
Varanasi.
Then our dot on the map disappeared.
I shook it.
“Remember when our guidebook recommended ‘getting lost?’”
Dani stopped walking.
“Yeah …”
I looked at the narrow slit of open sky above us.
“Well, it happened.”
I picked a passage that looked wider than the rest and turned.
Twenty steps later, we passed a man ironing shirts beneath a single lightbulb. At the next corner, a goat blocked the alley.
Soon, we started keeping score.
Left.
Right.
Right again.
Dani stopped.
“We already passed that shrine.”
“Did we?”
She pointed at a faded blue door.
“I’m almost sure.”
This time, we turned left.
A spice vendor smiled as we squeezed past his stall. The smell of cardamom and tea leaves rose above the smoke and motor oil.
“Hello, my friends!”
We smiled back but kept walking.
Ten minutes later, we found ourselves beside the river again.
Another turn.
Another alley.
Cardamom again.
“Hello, my friends!”
The same vendor leaned against the same doorway, still smiling.
I looked at Dani.
“How does he recognize us every time?”
She laughed.
“We’re blond tourists. I think you underestimate how noticeable we are.”
Night fell, and the city receded into an eerie quiet.
As we moved off the main track, the rows of shops disappeared, replaced by towering stacks of timber shoved against the city walls.
Dani coughed as the air thickened around her, hazy, luminescent, and orange.
Looking to my right, I saw a gateway in the wall leading to the Ganges, inky and invisible against the night sky. We stepped through, and smoke and heat engulfed us.
The air smelled of wood. My eyes burned, and I struggled to breathe.
The concrete steps along the water’s edge blazed with altars of fire.
I saw three of them, arranged on stone pedestals of alternating heights. Two fires simmered, empty and unattended, glowing a soft red beneath a mask of white ash. The third burned hot and bright, with flames licking the sky over our heads.
Solemn groups of isolated men stood watching the fire.
As I continued to look, a shadow darkened at its center, betraying the fire where its light should have burned brightest. The dark profile became clearer as it burned: a familiar elongated curve receded to a slender column ending in a human skull. The body faced upward.
Although timber and blinding light masked its form, I recognized its finger-like ribs, bared teeth, and empty eye sockets.
I grabbed my wife and turned away from the water.
The city quieted.
A woman approached Dani. She held a bundle of marigolds under her arms.
“Where are you going? Maybe I can help.”
“Marigold Guest House.”
I waited for the sales pitch, but she just pointed the way.
Fifty yards later, a man pushing a wooden cart directed us again.
“A hundred meters.”
Then a boy sweeping a step.
“Twenty more.”
Soon, we arrived at another alleyway. My shoulders nearly brushed the walls.
Our hotel lay just inside.
~
Sonu wore a striped tank top and khaki shorts. He also sported a red mark on his forehead.
“Welcome. You must be Dani. I remember your emails.”
She blushed.
“Sorry, we came so late. Our train from Agra, it should have come yesterday morning, but—”
Sonu stopped her before she finished.
“You took the train? I’m sorry. That train is … well, it’s better you should fly next time?”
“Yes. Next time we’ll fly. We’re here now. That’s all that matters, right?”
Sonu bobbed his head. Then he led us through his living quarters, upstairs, and to our room on the third floor.
Along the way, he pointed out a skylight that ran through the center of the building, connecting all the floors to a shared courtyard overhead. There was no glass covering it, only iron bars decorated with potted plants and hanging vines.
Sonu saw me looking.
“Hindu worship takes place in the home on the ground floor, but our souls must also connect to Brahma in the sky overhead.”
He pointed at his bare feet when we reached the room, then at my covered ones.
“I leave my shoes at the front door outside, so I don’t bring dirt into my home. You also should leave your shoes here outside the door, so you don’t take dirt into yours.”
Then he gave us two bottles of water and wished us goodnight.
Before the door closed, though, he turned.
“Do you want to go to the roof and see my city? Come, I’ll show you.”
I glanced at Dani, who had already climbed into bed.
She squeezed the pillow.
“No. But you should go.”
“Let’s go.”
Sonu and I climbed two more flights of stairs to a wooden doorway. The door hung ajar, letting in the dark and humid night.
“You can come here whenever you want. But I ask you always close this door to keep out the monkeys. Here, like this.”
He pulled the door shut and showed me how to work the latch: a hook of metal he had retrofitted from a chain-link gate.
Then Sonu opened the gate again, and we stepped into the night.
On the nearby railing, silhouetted against the city lights, two monkeys sat with their tails swinging over the side of the building.
They watched us enter but didn’t otherwise move.
I followed Sonu up another flight of stairs to the highest level. The square parapet measured ten feet in each direction.
“Watch your feet.”
He pointed at the metal grate forming the skylight entrance.
I stepped around it and approached the edge of the roof.
Beyond us, crisscrossing snakes of city lights receded in three directions, outlining the roads we had wandered. But turning to the fourth side, I saw nothing but darkness.
“This–”
Sonu gestured toward the emptiness.
“This is the mighty Ganges. This river is a god; this river is why Hindus like me, and tourists like you and your wife arrive at Varanasi. We have temples along the riverbank.”
He pointed into the distance, finding specific buildings among the visual clutter and flickering lights.
“The Nepali Temple, here.”
“Krishna Temple, here.”
I did not see what he did. Still, I nodded.
Then Sonu directed my attention to the shore, where the conduits of city lights ended and the darkness swallowed them.
As I looked, I saw a single yellow flame above the dark, like a lighthouse. I turned around and followed the black shore in the other direction. The city lights ended in the same darkness, and again, I found an orange flame.
Sonu knew what I saw.
“This is the Burning Ghat. Varanasi has two, one on each side of us. They burn the dead at the river all day and all night. Always smoke, so they put these lights to guide the boats. The funerals are public, open to all. Tomorrow you should go, but tonight, you should sleep.”
Then we when down.
I lay in the dark beside Dani after, as the ceiling fan cut slow circles through the heat.
~
The smoke from last night still clung to our clothes as we once again followed the river.
Two men carried a body wrapped in yellow silks and marigolds to the dock and set it on a burning pyre along the water’s edge.
Dani and I sat on a bench on the outskirts and watched.
A man came and sat next to us.
“Do not worry. I work for Mehrotra. Arrive to my store and buy silks if you like, but I don’t want your money. I come to this ghat every day during my break to pay respect to the river and share my culture with those who pass.”
I waited for him to continue.
“This ghat is special because it’s one of two for funerals. This is Harishchandra Ghat; it’s open to everyone. The larger, Manikarnika Ghat; have you been there? It cremates hundreds of followers every day, but there are tourists there, and it’s only for Hindus.”
We nodded.
“Ah, yes! When Hindus die, their souls return as another life—but here, by the Ganges, they go straight to heaven. This is why they come.”
“The fire must come from Kashi Vishwanath, from the Golden Temple. That fire always burns. Men carry her to the water. Only men can be here for cremation. No woman. Do you know why?”
I didn’t answer.
“If a woman comes, she might throw herself in the fire. This is barbaric, and we don’t allow this act, so we don’t allow women. Also, if a woman comes, she might cry, and her tears will tie the soul to Earth and stop it from reaching Brahma. Men come here to carry the fire and pray, but they mustn’t show sadness.”
He paused.
“Cremation takes three to four hours to burn. See the color of the silk wrapping the bodies? Gold signifies old, red signifies women, but you can’t burn smallpox victims, lepers, pregnant, or children. They are pure and don’t need cleansing with fire. Their bodies must be weighted with stones and released to the Ganges.”
Gold clothes wrapped around the body burning now, signifying age, turned black and disappeared in the smoke before my eyes.
Dani leaned over.
“It … doesn’t smell.”
“No, the smoke never smells. This is holy. She doesn’t take the whole body. For men, the chest will never burn, and for women, the hips. This is where the soul lives: the hips and the chest. When the soul stays, and the body is pure, we put these into the river and give to the Ganges.”
“At this ghat, cremation is for everyone, but see the different altars? These are for different castes. This”—he indicated the body burning in front of us—“is for Kshatriya, and that altar at the water is for Brahmin.”
“And what of that one over there?”
I pointed toward an altar built at waist height above the others.
“Oh, that? That one is for rich people. And see those people who move the bodies? Those are the Doms, the untouchables. There is no altar for them.”
I looked at the alters, and then at the water.
Smoke drifted over it toward the far bank.
~
We kept walking.
The day grew late.
We’d traveled far along the river to the edge of the city.
A group of wooden vessels swayed and bobbed near the concrete steps along the water’s edge.”
“Boat?”
A man waved at us.
Dani and I approached him.
“I’m Rocky.”
There boatman held out his hand. He stood on the dock—barefoot, wearing a “London rodeo” T-shirt, with palms like oars. Bright eyes peered over his graying beard, hinting at more youth than his worn body otherwise suggested.
“Rocky … from Assi Ghat.”
We followed him onboard, taking care to avoid touching the water that lapped against its shifting sides. His boat was a triangular wooden vessel, with makeshift paddles of bolted-together driftwood.
Rocky collected our fare. Dani tried offering him a tip by letting him keep the change, but Rocky shook his head.
“Boss Man takes half.”
He nodded toward the dock, where a man wearing a bright pink shirt, silver watch, and Wayfarer sunglasses stood with his clean-shaven face turned toward us.
Then, quieter:
“I do all the work.”
He flexed his back and laughed.
Right on cue, Boss Man walked over, collected Rocky’s earnings, and pushed our little boat off with the heel of his boot.
Rocky waited until we had cleared the dock. Then he dipped his paddle into the river. Soon he had us moving downstream, rowing with practiced ease.
He saw me watching him.
“You try?”
Rocky held out the oars.
I reached out and took them.
Dani smiled as I carved the boat in circles.
Rocky laughed.
“Like this.”
He took the oars back and showed me how to straighten my path.
A hundred yards later, my arms were already burning. My shoulders began to hunch.
“Here.”
I handed the oars back to Rocky and reclaimed my spot with Dani at the stern.
Something in my pocket stabbed me as I settled back into the seat. I reached in and found the booklet we’d been given at the monkey temple.
Rocky saw it and immediately snatched it from my hands.
“This is my god.”
He kissed the booklet and tapped it against his forehead.
“Hanuman helped Rama when…”
I nodded politely.
~
As we went down the river, our boatman pointed at palaces lining the shore.
“King Jaipur.”
“King Udaipur.”
“King Agra.”
Then he pointed toward another building nearby.
“This is my house.”
This gave Dani another chance to offer a tip, far from the eyes of his manager.
This time, he took it.
Then he pulled to shore and disappeared.
We sat and waited.
As we docked, another man climbed aboard.
“People arrive in Varanasi to die.”
He pointed around him.
“These buildings are filled with people waiting to die; filled with people waiting to go to heaven. They cannot afford cremation. Do you see all those pallets of wood? It takes two hundred kilograms of wood to burn a body. Patients in my hospital can’t afford this. Please, help. Buy wood and save their soul.”
I remembered the conversation Sonu had with me at our hotel, standing on the rooftop as he gave me a tour of his city.
“I am Hindu. This is my religion and my culture. It’s my responsibility to help the poor here and give to charity. When you go out, they will ask you for money, but you are tourists, and this isn’t for you. You are here to learn and experience. Listen first.”
I remembered Sonu’s advice. Then I handed him money.
Rocky returned as the man left. He carried fresh water bottle in one hand and his mouth was oozing with crimson liquid, which he spat over his shoulder into the water.
Then he pushed away from shore, and we continued our journey.
The municipal water pump towers rose over the buildings downstream.
Rocky pointed at them as we passed.
“Holy Water.”
I looked toward shore, where a group of men bathed unbothered in the river’s pollutants.
And just then, a child’s body drifted face-down past our bow.
Rocky angled his oars so he wouldn’t touch her.
He didn’t look away.
Neither could I.
~
Before we left, Rocky had told us about a ceremony at Munshi Ghat.
“Ganga Aarti—A nighttime prayer. We say goodbye to the light and welcome the darkness.”
By evening, Dani and I had wandered town, then set off toward the river, not knowing exactly where to find it.
The road ended abruptly, fifty feet above the water. I leaned over the stone railing.
Below us, the steps were packed with people. They filled the ghat from the buildings to the water’s edge, crowding onto the boats moored along the shore.
We climbed onto the wall and settled between two of its stone notches.
Five raised platforms stood in a row below us. A priest occupied each one, facing the river. As the music began, they lifted brass lamps filled with burning ghee and began to swing them in wide, deliberate circles.
The flames traced arcs through the darkness. Each time a lamp reached the bottom of its swing, the priest paused before lifting it again.
Marigold petals rose above the platforms and drifted down over the crowd.
Beneath the priests’ feet, a thin layer of sand covered the concrete. As they stepped and turned, their bare toes traced circles across its surface.
A little boy climbed onto the wall beside us. Another followed.
“Hi. Can we take a picture with you?”
Dani smiled and held out her phone.
The two boys squeezed between us. One put his arm around Dani. The other leaned against my shoulder. They grinned at the camera.
“Again!” one said.
Dani took another.
They looked at the pictures, laughed, and handed the phone back. Then they climbed down and disappeared into the crowd.
I watched them go. Below us, the priests were still swinging their lamps. The band played on. Across the water, the funeral fires still burned.
Then we turned toward the Marigold Guesthouse.