Since we arrived in Delhi, it had been hot, easily in the 90s each day. Thankfully, it cooled down when we reached Varanasi鈥� because it brought the rain. But the drizzles and downpours that marked our time there didn鈥檛 stop us, and we ventured down shoulder-wide winding streets filled with holy cows, street dogs, and motorcycles. As we got closer to the river, the crowds grew heavier until we were squeezing past other pedestrians, and the smoke hung ever thicker in the air, until we finally reached the steps up to the balconies of the crematoriums.
Varanasi has many names 鈥� Banaras, Kashi, the City of Death 鈥� but no matter what it鈥檚 called, Varanasi is a city defined by its place on the holy River Ganges. Millions of people visit each year to witness the rituals on its banks, see the temples, and bathe in its waters. Additionally, as I understand it, Varanasi itself has significance, and if you die within the city, you can achieve moksha, or salvation. The smell of Varanasi is the smoke of incense and crematoriums, and the water scent of the Ganges and rain.
It wasn鈥檛 quite raining yet, when we reached the crematoriums. The smoke and ash was thick in the air. We made our way up a set of narrow, crowded steps 鈥� stepping over an entirely unbothered ram, sitting in the middle of the chaos鈥� towards a raised platform. With the crowds, our group had been spread out, two or three strangers between each of us and the others, and with the clamor of that many people, we couldn鈥檛 communicate much as to where we were going; it was like a market, but without the bargaining. Instead, all I could do was keep one eye on the back of the head of the nearest member of our group, and try my best to follow after, so I wasn鈥檛 really sure what was waiting for us at the top. I gained an inkling when a man sitting on one of the walls leaned forward and reached out as if to stop me: 鈥淒on鈥檛 go up there,鈥� he said. 鈥淚t鈥檚 too hot鈥� it will hurt your eyes.鈥� But I could just see the back of a friend鈥檚 head disappearing over the top, and so I didn鈥檛 know what else to do except follow.
Well, he was right. I reached the top and was hit with a wave of heat and smoke. My eyes stung, and I honestly thought I was going to choke. The top of the square tower was covered in ash, from the multiple smoldering funeral pyres. Beyond, the Ganges was grey and wide.
We didn鈥檛 stay long at the top. As we made our way down, I made eye contact with the man from before. 鈥淚t was too hot,鈥� he said. I didn鈥檛 get a chance to agree, since the crowd kept pushing us forward, but it was a friendly, and deserved, 鈥淚 told you so.鈥�
We made our way down to the beach, where we watched priests bless dead bodies, the Sacred Flame set pyres alight, and divers on the banks look for the gold of jewelry in the ashes from the cremations. It was surprising to me for the funerals to be so public, that we鈥� foreigners and total strangers鈥� could just wander in and watch a family grieve. It was also interesting to see the rites, and how people send off their loved ones across the world. Even though I couldn鈥檛 understand the language, and had very little context for the rites, I could feel the weight in the air of a sacred space.
As we left the crematoriums, the sky that had been threatening to do so finally broke, and it began to rain. We took shelter in an alley as it soaked our clothes. It would rain for the rest of the week.
Varanasi was never what I expected, whether it was the crematoriums, or riding in a rickshaw that made me scared that I might achieve moksha, but it was always, always interesting, and always, always valuable. While we were in other places for longer, Varanasi made more of an impact on my memory, and I think that as long as I smell smoke, rain, and incense, I鈥檒l carry Varanasi with me.
– Kayden Beidler