Rangrasia Benaras

Two days after returning from Benaras the lasting memory is of two two worn out travelers, completely spent from carrying their luggage all day long on the streets of Sarnath, crashing in front of a huge Buddha idol inside the Thai Buddhist temple.

People would come, look at the Buddha, then look at us, and then look some more for good measure. They would watch the bespectacled, short-haired girl with a nose ring peering over a book. They would watch the other one gaping as she slept sitting up. No one, not even the caretaker, would tell them that this is not the place to rest, to find your peace. For where else, but at the feet of Buddha, in a land soaked with history and spiritual energy, would we have found our peace. And much needed rest to our blistering feet and aching shoulders.

It all started at the railway station. There is something about it. A feeling that something new is about to begin. You see people rushing to catch the train or getting off it, a beginning written all over them. You realize your life is now bisected- the one before the journey and the one after. The twain meet at the railway station.

While talking to her in the train, I realized that Neha did not want it to be a blitzkrieg trip.Neither did I. We concurred that Benaras was a flavor best set in slow. I was also grateful that she eventually let pass the fact that I chained my bag to the train (and how I conveniently forgot about doing so on our way back!)

The train was late- and perhaps for the best. It slowed us down further. Made us drop few things on our list and focus on the two most important- the Ghats and Sarnath.

The sight that greeted us when we reached our hotel is best described only in a photo. I knew then this city would be the kind I'd like.

They say the best time for a boat ride in Benaras is sunrise or twilight. We had ours with the noon sun beating down our backs.

I wouldn't recommend any other way to do it. You can see every thing clearly in the daylight, every single detail. And mind you there is lots to see. The midday's bustle runs like currents in the river and rises up your body. The Ganga charges you. You see how a Benaras is a city of oddities, of contradicting coexistences. How police boats and naked kids, priceless ancient structures and house boats that go at 50 thousand a day blend in to make the perfect view.

It does help if, on the eve of Dev-dipawali (or Kartik poornima) your boatman's name is Poornamashi. Phull moon, he said, with a proud grin plastered on his face. I was born on Dev-dipawali. My parents did not consult any expert; they knew what they had to name me. 

If you want him as your boatman, call Ashok (the one who runs the service) @ 9919883433.

Our man was quite a storyteller. The best one about Manikarnika Ghat. When Shiv and Parvati visited Benaras, Shiv lost his earing (karnika) and Parvati her nose ring (mani) on this ghat. They searched, but to no avail. Shiv, raging with anger, set afire the ghat, cursing it to burn till eternity.

Death is not considered to be unholy in Benaras. It is believed that if you die in the holy city of Varanasi, you will attain salvation. So cremation grounds, unlike at other places, are not shoved to some obscure corner, but are at the heart of the city- at Manikarnika. The ghat burns day and night, setting free the souls of the departed.

I had dreaded visiting this ghat, having never witnessed a cremation. Surprisingly, I was quite stoic. Perhaps synced with city about the graceful acceptance of death.

A cliché, but also a truth, about Benaras is that to know the city you need to get lost in its narrow alleyways. We did that- trying to find our way to German Bakery, asking for directions, stumbling upon eight year olds trying to sell us colorful salwars, and buying more than we intended to, all down to the cuteness of the boy in question.

I do not have photos of these veins of Benaras, of the eight year old boy, of the music shop or of German Bakery. We ran out of camera rolls. All for the best. The imprints left on my memory could not have been captured by a camera. You cannot capture in photo how it feels to sit cross-legged, sipping hot ginger-lemon-honey, while the couple sitting next to you rolls a joins. Of how Neha and I compose a limerick by just rhyming each others' sentences. Of how the narrow alleyways broaden your outlook towards life- you realize there is more to it that 6 lane highways, and more exciting. 

You cannot capture in a photo the taste of sweet lassi, which you stumbled upon, trying to find your way back. Of how Neha gulps down two kullars after declaring she was 'too full' to have even one. (Perhaps we could have captured the poster that read 'I making in mineral water'.) And you definitely cannot capture the relief and gratefulness a woman traveler feels to find clean, usable public loo in the heart of those narrow alleyways.

We bumped into Hu Yang while on our way to the Nepali Hindu Temple. She, a lone traveler from China, was probably grateful for our company, and so she tagged along. She went where ever we went, never once questioning our judgement. We made her walk from Lalita Ghat to the first one- Assi Ghatt. That is a lot of ghats! 

On our way, we met wild, cheerful children, catcalling strangers, bearded sadhus watching over small temples under peepal trees. We walked away from crowds on this side, to crowds on that one. On the way we met with silences. Where only the ghats spoke to us. With its unexpected colors.

On our way back to our hotels, Hu Yang giggled and said this road looks like old Shanghai. 

No wonder. I though out loud. All old cities wrinkle alike. I should know, mine is one such old city- Delhi.

This building captured the essence of old Benaras for me. It was exquisite but not ornamental. It did not just adorn the street but served a very functional purpose for somebody. Benaras was a beautiful city with a purpose. A soul set free. A gourmet well fed. An infant's head shaved. Two women handed their peace. A need served for everyone.

People walked past this breathtaking building as if they'd never seen it. This building, the one that stopped me dead in my tracks.

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We choose quite a ride to go to Sarnath. The most colourful auto-rickshaw we can find.

We didn't know that the city is schizophrenic. At least I feel so at Sarnath. Looking at the stately stupas, the ghats seem like a dream. Benaras, one of the holiest places for Hindus, has metamorphosed into Sarnath, one of the holiest places for Buddhists. And how!

The angular structure of Chaukhandi Stupa, the manicured gardens, brick-red and gold of monks makes Benaras feel like another life.

Yet, the structure is the kind of mis-mash that Benaras also is. The top portion was broken by Govardhan, Todar Mal's son and made into an octagonal tower in honour of Humayun. In Mughal style. Atop a Buddhist structure from 4-5 AD. I am almost delighted and saddened at the same time. How can a violation of someone's labour of love look so perfect? I stop thinking about it and climb.

This task turns out to be more daunting than it looks. Neha and I scramble to the top, bag, baggage and all, while a bunch of students from Gaya walk up nonchalantly like its nobody's business. One girl does it with a baby in her arms! 

If going up is fun, coming down is even more. Fun. For the students from Gaya. Neha and I look as close to playing Jack and Jill as anybody can be.

I can see a Buddhist Monastery from the top and thats where we head next. Pema Sami Chhokur Ling. They let us wander in. The tiny-tots in the Buddhist robes give us a guided tour of the entire place. The structure is typical. Three levels. Stacked starting from the biggest room going up to the top. If only my school was so beautiful...

The kids are in fourth. Its been a year here. And they haven't been home to Arunachal. My heart melts. 

On my way back I request all of them- kids and their teacher- to pose for us.

I spot the youngest two from the lot. They cringe as I try to touch their cheeks. They are twins, says the teacher. I have never been happier to see a pair.

The ASI Museum annoys me a bit with all the no-photo, no-bags-inside Government-ness to the whole place. But inside is full of hisory. Our history. Ashok Stambh. Ashok Chakra. How the Devnagari script evolved. Oldest Boddhi Satvas. Laghu (Tiny) Mandirs.

We go to see the archaeological remains and Dhamek Stupa. What a sight it is! I look at the tall, lush, trees and think them befittingly crooked. Too much history. Too much crookedness, bloodbaths and battles, sieges. Then I think of how Ashoka changed his ways and took to Buddhism. The trees appear more lush.

We want to see the temples made by other countries. Chinese, Tibetan, Japanese, Korean, Thai, Sri Lankan. We see all except the Korean. Most of then have beautiful murals on their walls. Fables depicted beautifully in colorful paintings. The Sri Lankan one goes a bit far. The artist seems to have an obsession with breasts. He has depicted all the woman- women with their dhotis, chunaris, jewelery, makeup- topless! Both of us have never seen such a depiction of the Budhha and his followers. 

There is this huge queue of Sri Lankan tourists going about everywhere. All dressed in white. How can they ever feel religious in this place full of topless ladies is beyond me. We giggle at the sight. Lets get out of here.

We walk, tired from lugging our bags, to the Japanese Temple. From the looks of it outside it doesn't seem too exciting. Leave it, this is not worth it, I say. But we crawl in. The sight that greets us is best left for the photograph to describe.

These Japanese have a knack for perfection. Na Mu Myo Ho Ren Ge Kyo. (That's the chant, not the translation.)

We visit the Tibetan Temple and winter home of Karmapa Lama. There is a wall that blocks the view. It unfolds into the most magnificent Buddhist structure. We look at the completeness of the building with wide-eyed wonder. To conceptualize such an assortment of elements seems impossible to me. Not one thing looks out of place, I think.

We buy  souvenirs from the gift shop, for us and for the friend who could not join us for this trip.

I joke with Neha that no other person at Sarnath has shown so much dedication as us. We have been to pretty much every Buddhist Temple, Stupa, whatever! On foot. Carrying all our luggage. We must have converted to Buddhism by now.

We have prostrated ourselves in front of Buddhas of all sizes and colors, bought Buddhist knick-knacks, even paid a visit to the board that described Hyun Tsang's route to India. Ours doesn't feel any shorter than his.

Perhaps Neha would disagree (or agree), but I liked that Sarnath was so punishing. (Although we did hail a rickshaw for the last few stops.) I think it meant something going the distance, taking all that trouble. It felt...felt like a pilgrimage. Gandhi says in one of his books that before the convenience of fast transport like railways people used to take a lot of pains, really suffer to complete a pilgrimage. Then it meant something. It had value. I put Vaishno Devi down to the same thing. Talking the trouble. Going the distance. Sarnath meant something.

I gulp down 2 kullars of hot milk and one of rabari while we wait at the railway station. I could do more, then I think of my motion sickness. We manage to get seats at the station. Good thing as I hate to put my bag down on the floor. We are way too tired to reflect on the fabulous life experience we've had in the past day and a half. All I can think of is my worsening cold and the delayed train. All I can think of is that we have to come back for BHU and Ramgarh Fort (and in hindsight Chunar Fort). But deep down I know if I do come back it will be for the Ganga Ghats and the Buddha.