With two days left in this beautiful city, I decided right at the start of the day that I'd have to meet and spend time with all the people I possibly could. My individual inquiry became clear to me a few days earlier. What are the people of Varanasi proud of? What aspect of their lives allows them to uphold their dignity?
Today we journeyed into the city. Heading first to Varanasi's most famous temple, we caught autos to Kashi Vishwanath. Although the streets of the city seem immensely crowded, with bikes bumping into cows and autos into cycles; distances seem short. Perhaps that's because of the way the newer areas of the city are planned. Every junction is a similar looking circle connecting 5-6 roads, with traffic swarming in every possible direction. Crossing a road in Varanasi seemed impossible at first, but in a while we got used to it. The sounds and the colours and the traffic that doesn't seem to care that you're ahead of it.
We got off the auto and onto one of the gallis the city is famous for. Crowded and almost overflowing with character. There were 3 small temples within our sight alone. With buildings that looked brand new being overshadowed by complexes that look as though they'd crumble if touched. That was where we saw a tiny cubbyhole of a shop. An electrical supplies store, with just enough room for a few shelves and a rusted metal chair, seating an old man of about 60, reading a newspaper through his rimmed spectacles. His white shirt sleeves came up to his elbow, his face was lined with traces of his smile and traces of his frown. the rolls of electric wires lining his store were the colours of Varanasi, orange and red and yellow. Two of us approached him, hoping to ask him some questions about the city. We ended up sitting with him for 2 hours, discussing politics and colleges and the Ganga and everything else possible. He was thrilled to discover my being partially a Bengali, and explained to us in detail his life and the area's history. We learnt the street we were standing on was called Bengali Tola, names so because when Bangladesh immigrants came to the city, this was where they settled. When the time came for us to leave, a twinge of sorrow at the idea of separation settled in. We had heard so much about his family; of how the shop had been inherited by his father and then by him, of his wife and children, that in some ways he felt like family. In those 2 hours of conversing on a a noisy street, we had developed an equation with the aged man who sat alone in his shop all day. As he took off his glasses and wiped them, he handed us each a few chocolates. We walked away accepting the fact that the beauty of some moments lies in the fact that they last only for a short time.
Next we joined the rest of group in the narrow alleys surrounding the temple, filled with more things to offer than the temple itself. The crowded street comprised mostly of never ending lines to enter the temple, stalls and vendors and people and colours and more people. One could get lost in those streets and forget they have lives outside of them. We got out though, and arrived at never ending stores of sweets. The lot of us strolled into a double decker restaurant. I say double decker because the floor above wasn't a floor. It was a second level that looked non-existent yet somehow, it was there. And in that non-existent place, we sat on a non-existent table and had the most delicious Lassi ever.
Today we journeyed into the city. Heading first to Varanasi's most famous temple, we caught autos to Kashi Vishwanath. Although the streets of the city seem immensely crowded, with bikes bumping into cows and autos into cycles; distances seem short. Perhaps that's because of the way the newer areas of the city are planned. Every junction is a similar looking circle connecting 5-6 roads, with traffic swarming in every possible direction. Crossing a road in Varanasi seemed impossible at first, but in a while we got used to it. The sounds and the colours and the traffic that doesn't seem to care that you're ahead of it.
We got off the auto and onto one of the gallis the city is famous for. Crowded and almost overflowing with character. There were 3 small temples within our sight alone. With buildings that looked brand new being overshadowed by complexes that look as though they'd crumble if touched. That was where we saw a tiny cubbyhole of a shop. An electrical supplies store, with just enough room for a few shelves and a rusted metal chair, seating an old man of about 60, reading a newspaper through his rimmed spectacles. His white shirt sleeves came up to his elbow, his face was lined with traces of his smile and traces of his frown. the rolls of electric wires lining his store were the colours of Varanasi, orange and red and yellow. Two of us approached him, hoping to ask him some questions about the city. We ended up sitting with him for 2 hours, discussing politics and colleges and the Ganga and everything else possible. He was thrilled to discover my being partially a Bengali, and explained to us in detail his life and the area's history. We learnt the street we were standing on was called Bengali Tola, names so because when Bangladesh immigrants came to the city, this was where they settled. When the time came for us to leave, a twinge of sorrow at the idea of separation settled in. We had heard so much about his family; of how the shop had been inherited by his father and then by him, of his wife and children, that in some ways he felt like family. In those 2 hours of conversing on a a noisy street, we had developed an equation with the aged man who sat alone in his shop all day. As he took off his glasses and wiped them, he handed us each a few chocolates. We walked away accepting the fact that the beauty of some moments lies in the fact that they last only for a short time.
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| (Paromita Bathija, 2014) |
Next we joined the rest of group in the narrow alleys surrounding the temple, filled with more things to offer than the temple itself. The crowded street comprised mostly of never ending lines to enter the temple, stalls and vendors and people and colours and more people. One could get lost in those streets and forget they have lives outside of them. We got out though, and arrived at never ending stores of sweets. The lot of us strolled into a double decker restaurant. I say double decker because the floor above wasn't a floor. It was a second level that looked non-existent yet somehow, it was there. And in that non-existent place, we sat on a non-existent table and had the most delicious Lassi ever.
Later, we headed to the ghats again, when we had the opportunity of conversing with a man who sold moongfali's near Dasashwamedha ghat. Speaking to him confirmed what I'd realised on day 1. People of Varanasi are truly uninhibited. Each person has stories to share and they're all willing to open up to listening ears. The dwellers of Varanasi have an amazing outlook to life. Each one has philosophies and approaches to life that they are willing to share.
They say its the people that make the place. And there is no city that elaborates on that as much as Varanasi. The people are welcoming and profound, true to their hometown. Varanasi is a city that had 5000 years of recorded history. It is a city that has more knowledge than any other in the world. It has experienced life and death since time immemorial. And so, it is a city of character. A city that is an abode of education. And its people live up to that reputation. The wisdom and integrity with which they go about their lives is worthy of the city itself.
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