Post Varanasi Withdrawal Symptoms

I was worried, on my last few days in Varanasi, that I hadn't changed. I was still the same person, with the same mindset. I'd expected the trip and the city itself to impact me more. And I flew back disappointed, that Varanasi hadn't changed my life.

Except it did.

When I got back home last night, I fell asleep almost immediately. Nothing hit me. But this morning, I'm lost.
I've hit normalcy so soon after returning. Too soon.
How can Eight Days of Wonder be succeeded by so much normal?

And then I realised.
My life has changed. It has changed and it will never be exactly the same.
Because I have changed.
To say I've understood faith and religion would be a lie.
To say I've found questions would be a lie.

Yet, I have changed.
The city has broken off a part of me and kept it with itself.
And Varanasi has returned with us, dwelling inside us all.

So what is Faith?
Faith is the intangible creature that floats amongst us.
It can't be felt, or seen, or heard or even smelt.
Yet, it defines the basis of our existence.
Whether it is the faith mankind places on a higher being or the faith we have in eachother,
It is pivotal to our lives.

What is Fear?
What are we afraid of losing?
Our individuality is defined by the people around us.

'Our entire lives are the dialogue between what is within and what is outside.'

Varanasi has changed me as a person.
Not through its religious connection or its spirituality.
Just as a city.
With its warm, welcoming people.
And its noise and colours and cows.
And the people who made this journey with me.

I've learnt something from each of them.
Memories from the city are seared into my mind and the marks they've left, I'll wear with pride.
Before it begins to seem like too much, I'll sign off.
To conclude, I'll conclude.
Varanasi has taught me to question the Mapmakers,
And the Maps themselves.

Varanasi - Day 9

The next morning we awoke to our last Jalebi with breakfast. During our final discussion we spoke of experiences and learning and memories, but what mattered most was what wasn't said. The feeling inside us all, of having to leave behind a good friend. A city that had slowly begun to dwell in our hearts and our souls.

At the Varanasi airport, I was at the lag end of the line. When there were just 4 of us left, yet to get our boarding passes, commotion broke out ahead of us and soon it became clear, ever people with confirmed tickets were being declined seats. A mismatch in the aircraft meant the flight was already full. And so we waited in line for far longer than the others had, and finally somehow got our passes and moved ahead, exhausted and frustrated. And then we realised, we had been given business class seats! So the four of us, previously cursing our luck and loathing our classmates for getting ahead of us, now strolled through security with our heads held high, and proudly announced to the rest of them - we'd be flying business class tonight. What a hilariously perfect end to the trip.

When we landed at Delhi, filled with remorse since our time of luxury (and cheese sandwiches with Gulab Jamun) had ended. Our connecting flight to Bangalore had already begun boarding, so we ran through the airport to get to it. And somehow, before we even knew it, we were home.

Just like that, it was over.
When did we even leave and where did those eight days of wonder disappear?
We got back late, and already the monotony of normalcy was settling upon us.
Yet those eight days continue to live on in our minds, as Kashi continued to dwell in our souls.

Varanasi - Day 8

Another cold, early morning greeted us as we set off for Sarnath after some simple yet delicious bread and butter. Sarnath - a city that is home to both Buddhism and Jainism. I'll admit I was slightly disappointed when we first reached, since I had envisioned a huge spacious green city, the place where lord Buddha gave his first sermon. Yet what we saw looked, well, normal. Regular roads and cars and a serious lack of meditative aura.

Of course, that was just the first 5 seconds. Once we began walking towards our unknown destination, the city began to showcase what it had to offer. The greenery soon turned up, as did the peaceful aura. There are an endless number of places to visit in Sarnath, and the fact remains that I just couldn't connect to the place in the limited time we were there for. Yes, the monasteries were beautiful and the place radiated serenity. Somehow though, the place didn't impact me while I was there. When we left and headed back, it hit me. The place where Lord Buddha gave his first sermon. The birthplace of the eleventh Thirthankarna of Jainism. Sarnath, being such a small town in Uttar Pradesh, is home to two religons of the world.

(Paromita Bathija, 2014)

(Paromita Bathija, 2014)

I tried to initiate conversation with our auto driver on our way back, and of course it was easy. The people of Varanasi take in in stride to remind us of the depths of their nature. As he spoke of the river, the same reverence crept into his voice. I asked him why he chose to continue living in Varanasi when he had the opportunity to leave, and he was clear. There are other cities, and yes they are beautiful. Yet none of them are Varanasi. Varanasi with its chai and its paan and its people. This city holds such importance in the hearts of those residing in it, it almost surely evokes jealousy amongst the other cities that grace our maps. Because the love that the people here have for their city is beyond comprehension. The place the river holds in their hearts is beyond compare. It explains why no resident of Varanasi will be caught refering to the river without the prefix of Maa. Maa Ganga. Ganga Maa. The mother to all those who live by her side. It is as the auto driver so articulately phrased, 

'यहाँ तोह गंगा मां घर घर और दिल  दिल मे बहती है।'

The river flows through every home, every heart. The city runs in the very veins of its inhabitants. It is in their soul and shapes their personality. The city makes them who they are, as does the Ganga.

With one last evening spent on the ghats, amongst the yellow lights on the banks; we all began to feel as though time had passed too soon. Eight days in this beautiful city had gone by in minutes, and now suddenly there was too much left to see and too little time.

It was on that last evening that we went from Travellers to Tourists, and Tourists to The People of The City. On that last evening we felt a fragment of the attachment that the people of Kashi feel towards their city. As the entire group spent half an hour arguing about where to go for dinner, I found myself wondering. Have I changed as a person? People say Varanasi is the kind of place that changes who you are. And I expected this trip to be a life changing experience. Yet, I feared I hadn't. I had this strange hesitation within me, as though perhaps I didn't do the city justice. I didn't make enough of an effort to soak it all in before it left me. And that was why I felt the same. Maybe.

Also, on that last night as we all graced the city with our mournful goodbyes, an extremely terrible cold decided to grace me with its presence. And so, I fell ill on our last evening. I slept through dinner and my eyes watered through the journey home. What a lovely conclusion to a genuinely lovely week.

Varanasi - Day 7

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.

(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.

Varanasi - Day 6

Entirely drained from the excursions of the last evening, most of us slept in this morning. It was past 9;30 am when a few faces began to appear downstairs for breakfast. The lazy morning was long overdue, as exhaustion was settling upon us all. After a group meeting where we planned the rest of the day, we continued to procrastinate, taking in the beauty of the guesthouse. Of course the delay wasn't without reason, since the day happened to coincide with the Prime Ministers visit to the city. When 4 of us finally stepped out after a large meal complete with Gulab Jamun, we took an auto to cover the even widening distance from the guesthouse to Lanka Gate only to realise the ghat had been blocked. The convoy was passing the gate a few minutes later and so all traffic had been barred. As we caught another auto to go across the campus to its other gate, we found the streets on that end deserted and realised that Lanka Gate had been opened while we had impatiently moved on. So we returned to our initial location, an hour later. The delay forced us to change our plans, as we had wanted to visit the heart of the city, and had to be back in 3 hours.

And so, we ended up back on the ghats, where we were beginning to feel as though we belonged. I decided to make some use of the time to sketch the view of the ghats, and positioned myself at the entrance to Janaki ghat and stood sketching, while the others moved ahead to take photographs of the serenely beautiful view. A Spanish couple walking by saw me sketching and seemed impressed by the sight, so they requested just as I agreed, to photograph me. After the shot was clicked, they naturally moved closer to actually see what they had imagined to be a masterpiece. So, I felt incredibly apologetic at having to show them my very rough first attempt at live sketching. However, they smiled politely and we had an insightful 5 minute conversation before they left.

Attempts at Sketching (Paromita Bathija, 2014)

We spent the latter part of the evening in earnest discussion with some aging boatmen, who had been assigned to picking up garbade floating on the river. They went into depths of their lives and their river; swearing to their belief in its holiness while in the same breath, explaining the magnitude of its pollution. But it was evident from the hour long conversation, that they had profound pride in the river, inspite of its decline. They proudly claimed that they drank only water from the river, and as if to prove that statement, all 4 of them cupped their hands and gulped down water right from the river. 

The reverence with which they spoke of the Ganga was extraordinary to us, yet almost the entire population of Kashi speakes of the river as they would of their life. Because to them, the river is life. Their livelihood, their faith, the traditions and their dignity are all tied to this massive water body. And without it, their lives wouldn't be as they are today. So of course, when we approach them, or for that matter any outsider, and claim the Ganga is polluted, they feel the need to jump up and defend themselves. It's easy for any of us to go up to them and ask them to 'not pollute' the river. Yet to them, it's felony. How dare we, people who have probably spent a week or so around the river, tell them how to look after it? The river is everything to them. They, who have been living in Kashi for generations and traditions that have existed since what seems like the beginning of time. Of course they are offended when we make such claims. Of course they deem us as snobs and themselves as virtuous. The we will never be able to comprehend their love for Maa Ganga. All we can do, is stand aside and respect the devotion with which they approach it. And look beyond its mistreatment to the place it holds in the heart of its people.

Varanasi - Day 5

I walked out the door just as the first few rays of light poured into the open courtyard, filling it with the light of dawn. About 35 minutes later, few others arrived and we headed off for a morning 'Architectural Study' walk through the BHU campus. Each building has so much character. Every structure has elements of Greek, Mughal, Jain and Hindu architecture. The things to see are endless, as are the number of things one can decipher from each structure. We concluded our 2 hour walk with some lovely steaming hot Benarasi Chai, complete with cinnamon. We returned to a lavish breakfast of Chole Bature and more Chai.

Later we headed to the Visual Arts department in BHU, to observe our Benarasi counterparts. The sculpture department had lots to offer, as we got to watch the students at work and the exhibits themselves. We headed back to the guesthouse after stopping for some exquisite orange juice on the way, with the promise of a lazy afternoon.

BHU Fine Arts Department, exhibit. (Paromita Bathija, 2014)

Later that evening, we headed for the ghats to attend the annual Dev Deepawali festival, that attracts lakhs of visitors from across the globe. There are an endless number of warnings about the pick pocketers at the festival, so all we took with us just a phone and some money - no bags, no cameras. Before we even entered the ghats we realised we'd underestimated the crowds. Once we actually reached the ghats, we seriously considered turning around. There were easily 10-15 lakh people present. A dance performance was put up at Assi ghat by a few volunteers, and hundreds of people had gathered to watch. The view of the ghats themselves, was mesmerising. Millions of diyas were lined up on the steps, waiting to be lit. People had arrived dressed in their ethnic best, and I could taste the festivity in the air. Two people in our group seemed to have reacted badly to breakfast, and began throwing up just as we arrived. As the decision was made that they would stay back at Assi ghat with a third companion, everyone felt a twinge of pity for the people who wouldn't get to experience it. 

Assi ghat hadn't begun lighting their diyas when we arrived, but even unlit, they lit up the night sky. Each ghat seemed to be competing, and each ghat seemed to have outdone itself in festivity and beauty. There were millions of tiny flames, personifying the name of their city - Benaras, the City of Light. Tonight, it was easy to comprehend how it earned the title. The goldish-orange aura that each diya radiated, combined to form millions of lights, millions of reflections. Even the endless shoving crowds couldn't take away the beauty of the ghats that night. The full moon reflected in a flawless trail down the river, broken only by the floating candles, lighting up the silvery reflection with the orange of festivity. There were an endless number of boats, filled with an endless number of wonderstruck tourists. The boats are apparently booked almost a year in advance, for the festival. It reflects how the festival is not only religiously auspicious to the locals, but also economically. The day their gods return home is the day their income flows home, emphasizing the importance of festivity in their lives. And the link between culture and livelihood is underlined by the beauty of the system. 

The crowd was so large, we were barely even walking. Just being swept along by the masses as we were swept off our feet by the sight. Each ghat had different ways of arranging the lights, different kinds of diyas. One in particular hadn't even lit oil soaked wicks; it had lit up chunks of coal in clay pots, which gave off enough heat to make our eyes water. We passed massive structures that had come up overnight, of gateways and elephants and a giant statue of Ravan, decked in beautifully evil colours. The crowds sapped our energy before the oil in the diyas ran out, and we were swamped before we even arrived at Dasashwamedha ghat. Once we stopped for some extremely good channa chat and regained some energy, we began to head back.

For some reason, the crowds seemed far more brutal during the return. An unfortunate number of instances of groping drew our attention away from the festival. The crowds were so large and were behaving so badly, it became nearly impossible to stay still and take in the beauty that surrounded us. It's funny how life works, like offering a slab of chocolate to someone only to snatch it away when it's inches away from them. 

As we slowly began to comprehend the sheer size of the crowd on the ghats, it hit us. The Ganga brings in a sense of equality to their society in a way no laws or measures can. In the depths of the city, life is nothing but cruel reality. Yet, on the banks of the sacred river, everyone was equal. It broke down economic boundaries and allowed people to just be. None of the morning bathers would harass women, none of the richer sections would look down on the poor. On the ghats, in contact with the water from the sacred river, everyone was equal. Everyone was blessed. The Dev Deepawali festival involved millions of Diyas. People from all possible backgrounds united to light these up. 

The festival played its role beautifully in Benaras. It lit up the city and the hearts of its dwellers. It gave people from across the globe a reason to fly down and witness the once in a lifetime experience of watching the river Ganga lit up by millions of lights. So, although crowded as ever and filled with bad experiences as well as good, the City of Lights truly wowed us tonight.

Varanasi - Day 4

Today was dedicated to our individual exploration of the city. We set out at 9 am with our chosen fields of study, our heavy equipment and bounds of enthusiasm. As we walked down the ghats with an air of confidence that hadn't been present earlier, I was blown away by the realisation that I was already at a level of comfort with the city. The aimless wandering with which we occupied ourselves for the next hour only loosely disguised the fact that we knew exactly where we were throughout.

 It gave us a new way of looking at the ghats, as though were slowly shifting from Tourist to Traveller. No longer an outsider yet not entirely accepted. We were drifting in an interstices, as though awoken from slumber. My field of individual study wasn't clear to me as yet. Although I had unconsciously decided I wanted to focus on the lives of the people, I was basically hoping inspiration would strike me as the ghats went past.

As we passed Jain Ghat, we came across a lovely brick wall with a cycle parked against it, like one of those vintage photographs. Surprisingly though, what caught our attention was the ghat it belonged to. Nishad Raj ghat is probably the least noticable ghat along that stretch. All it has in the tiny area it covers, are a few seemingly run down houses. Yet for some reason, I felt drawn to it. Like the fates had wrapped a yarn around me and directed me there. So the 3 of us decided to enter the ghat, to try and figure out what it was that made us stay.

Nishad Raj Ghat (Paromita Bathija, 2014)

Nishad Raj had levels and levels. In a single glimpse, we saw different colours and structures and styles and people. As we climbed its beautifully aged steps, we met two teenage girls with a young boy of about five walking between them. They appeared to have judged us before we judged them. In an attempt to make conversation, we asked them what the ghat was called and why. Hesitantly, they explained the mythical character Nishad Raj, to whom a temple is dedicated, which is located on the ghat. Through some smiles and introductions, we were sitting outside the Bamboo house of three sisters. It's a funny world we live in, curiosity is so often received with contempt, and contempt so often inculcate curiosity. After the first few minutes, the walls the separated us began to look like the walls near the ghat, slowly wearing away brick by brick.

 The young girl we spoke to doubtfully claimed she was 14 before telling us about her father, who turned out to be a celebrity of sorts in Varanasi. In a file full of newspaper clippings about him, she showed us articles of the boat he had made entirely by recycling Sprite bottles. She explained his work as an electrician as her own eyes lit up like lights. Her voice resonated with pride as she spoke of him, and her large family of four sisters, and brother, and brother-in-law and three nephews who are almost her age. After about an hour of speaking with her, we'd become so comfortable in each others' presence, conversation flowed freely and rapidly. As she told us of her dreams of becoming a dancer, albeit mentioning it would never happen, I discovered the power of dreams. And the importance of having and believing in dreams, even if they seem unrealistic. Next, we met her 99 year old grandfather, who was actually around when the PWD built their ghat. He told us with remorse of his achievements as a youth, and how he could no longer dip in the Ganga every morning, since old age had taken away his strength. The conversation was translated for us by his grandson-in-law, who bid us farewell with a Shayari; 

फूल  तोह  अनेक  हैं , पर  गुलाब  जैसा  कोई  नही;

शहरे  तोह  बहुत  हैं , पर  मेरे  कासी  जैसे  कहीं  नही। 

(Paromita Bathija, 2014)

Nishad Raj Ghat (Paromita Bathija, 2014)

We returned after a quick lunch, to sketch the scape of the ghat. Sketchbook and crayons in hand, I settled down amongst a few kids running hamper scamper all over the place, and began my attempts. It took about 5 minutes for me to realise it wasn't going too well. A young girl came towards me an curiously looked into my book, wondering no doubt, what on earth I was doing. As I smiled at her, a sudden impulse struck me, and I offered her a crayon, asking her if she wanted to draw. 

Her toothy smile spanned the Ganges,

As she picked the Periwinkle crayon from the box.

Slowly, unsure of herself, 

She began to move the crayon towards the paper.

After moments of hesitation,

She slowly drew a masterpiece.

There was an intangible beauty in that moment.

How could life continue to go on normally? 

The world should stop.

Time itself should pause to take in the

Mesmerizing joy of watching her,

Bringing visualisation to reality. 

I wonder what it felt like for her though. 

I like to think she felt like a creator. 

Bringing to life things she dreamt of.

With all this, she left me spellbound. 

The omnipresent smile on her face made me wonder,

Why do the rest of us not follow the same philosophy? 

Of smiling at every little thing, 

Accepting and embracing life. 

In those few moments, I lost hold on life. 

Hanging loosely, by a thread;

I experienced what I had come here to.

Soon, a few of her friends joined her, picking colours and scribbling random, perfect things in my book. And then, I have no idea how, 3 kids became 6 which became 10, until there were at least 17-18 kids shoving and pushing eachother for crayons and space to draw! All three of us gave them our books and materials. As they fought for the opportunity to put their dreams down on paper, we began to converse with them. The joyously told us about their lives and schools. I asked a few of the children to draw their homes, families. They would concentrate, frowning with their tiny tongues sticking out from the corner of their mouths, and proudly show me what they had made. Before we knew it, we had given each kid a sheet of paper and a crayon, and they had settled down on the ghat steps. It became immensely quiet as they all focused on their papers. When they finished they proudly showcased their work to us, and soon the din became an uproar, and we realised they were attracted a lot of unwanted attention, as were we. Subtly, we began to pack up and say our goodbyes to those unbelievably amazing kids. 

The experience was, I think, the best one I had in the city. I know it will continue to remain my strongest memory of the place. As they all headed home grinning from ear to ear as they looked down at what they had made, the three of us left in a daze; spellbound by the joy of making someone else happy. 

Nishad Raj Ghat (Paromita Bathija, 2014) 

'Things that matter to me' - Nishad Raj Ghat (Paromita Bathija, 2014)

Random Masterpiece - Nishad Raj Ghat (Paromita Bathija, 2014)

Nishad Raj Ghat (Paromita Bathija, 2014)

The Joys of Happiness (Paromita Bathija, 2014)

Returning to the guesthouse that evening, we settled down to discuss the day after another great meal. I realised, there are some emotions and experiences that just cannot be articulated, they can only be felt. And today was the kind of day I'll never really be able to explain to anybody.