<\/a>Since we arrived in Delhi, it had been hot, easily in the 90s each day. Thankfully, it cooled down when we reached Varanasi\u2014 because it brought the rain. But the drizzles and downpours that marked our time there didn\u2019t 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.<\/p>\n
Varanasi has many names \u2014 Banaras, Kashi, the City of Death \u2014 but no matter what it\u2019s 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.<\/p>\n
It wasn\u2019t 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 \u2014 stepping over an entirely unbothered ram, sitting in the middle of the chaos\u2014 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\u2019t 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\u2019t 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: \u201cDon\u2019t go up there,\u201d he said. \u201cIt\u2019s too hot\u2014 it will hurt your eyes.\u201d But I could just see the back of a friend\u2019s head disappearing over the top, and so I didn\u2019t know what else to do except follow.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
We didn\u2019t stay long at the top. As we made our way down, I made eye contact with the man from before. \u201cIt was too hot,\u201d he said. I didn\u2019t get a chance to agree, since the crowd kept pushing us forward, but it was a friendly, and deserved, \u201cI told you so.\u201d<\/p>\n
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\u2014 foreigners and total strangers\u2014 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\u2019t understand the language, and had very little context for the rites, I could feel the weight in the air of a sacred space.<\/p>\n
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.<\/p>\n
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\u2019ll carry Varanasi with me.<\/p>\n
– Kayden Beidler<\/p>\n
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