VARANASI, NO SHOWER, NO POWER

January the 7^th

India is the place to learn life. Tonight we learn how not be claustrophobic and how to fit two average French girls in a bed meant for an average Indian. We spend first a few hours happily in the ladies waiting room (our oasis for peace in the railway stations). It is the only space in India were there are only women, where one can enjoy the company of ladies. Indian cities are male cities, and it is relief to sit in the middle of sarees. As we go to the train, we realize there is no WL wagon (as marked on our tickets), but that this mysterious WL letters mean Waiting List. Basically, you don’t have a reserved seat, but might have one if some people cancelled theirs. This detail was not mentioned when we bought the ticket. We are given the bed 39, where an old lady was deeeeeeeeeeeply asleep. After an interestingly absurd hour (see video), we end up “sleeping” together in the upper bed.

We met a wonderful family, honest and generous from Calcutta. They give us a new insight of this city, which wasn’t our dream destination before. The son, a teenager, is friend with Perrine on facebook. He advises us to go to see an action movie, now Bollywood hit in India, DON 2. Hopefully we’ll manage to see it.

January the 7th

Before stepping in Varanasi railway station, we built a plan: how to survive a highly touristic town, where cheating is the local sport. As we arrive, we look a bit tired but we are so strong in our mind that nothing could get us out of the way we drew for ourselves. We walk through the army of rickshaws, calling us. A man starts a conversation – a monologue – and even though we repeatedly said no to his offers, followed us through the car park. As a fairwell, he gives wisdom : “No shower, no power”. Mmh… True.

Without a failure we get to the ghâts, reach our hostel and realize that Varanasi is mainly filled with Corean tourists, which is a drama for the restaurant owners. One of them, so happy we came to eat at his place, tells us that he misses dramatically European tourists, because Corean tourists eat crisps, drink chai and share once in a while a plate for five. A funny man.

the candle ceremony 

At sunset, all along the Gange, is held a candle ceremony. Varanasi’s is very famous and of course we go to see it. It is not a ritual that is performed, it is a show that has lost all spiritual aspects it probably used to have. The monks have flawless faces, the rituals are directed towards the audiences only, the music is played on CD, children are selling flowers to be lit on the river. It is well thought business affair where the key commercial argument is that financial participation is good for the karma. On the river, the boats are full of tourists who observe the scene for a high price and take countless pictures they could bring back home, saying that they have experienced hindouism. A sad view, really.

kitsch

Tired and a bit depressed / angry, we go to sleep early with our Corean companions.

January the 8^th

We wake up at 6.00 to see the morning raising in Varanasi, when all Hindus – up to 60000 pilgrims and locals per day - bath and wash their sins away in the holy Gange. It is Sunday, it is cricket day. All along the ghâts, young guys play seriously, without forgetting of course as we pass to ask if we want to go on a boat. The atmosphere is peaceful, joyful and light. The picture we had of Varanasi starts to change and improve little by little as walk South. We are almost alone and left, which is a gift we enjoy.

Few men here and there are washing clothes and bed sheets in the river. They perform a dance, as their gestures are so refined, precise, beautiful, as if it came from another time. The presence to their actions is mixed with an absence to it. Paradoxal and fascinating choreography. We surely have lost this quality of movement in Europe in our everyday tasks. We could watch them endlessly, contemplating a form of perfection.        

A man washing, it's beautiful

We also pass by our first cremation. It is believed by Hindus that the one who dies in Varanasi will be freed from the cycle of reincarnations. Thousands of bodies are brought from all over India, for their last physical journey, to be cremated by the Gange before their ashes are spread. First we see the wood, stored in tremendous quantity, then we see the smoke. A body is brought, wrapped in red cloth, meaning it is a woman. We want to wallk by without stopping, but a man hells us and offers to come closer so we can see everything. We refuse. It seems absurd to us and even disrespectful to take part to rituals we don’t understand nor belong to. The family alone should be there, how could tourists fill their curiosity in such a place. The man, angrily, tells us that we cannot understand either the Indian culture nor the meaning of life if we don’t see it. If we had gone, there is no doubt we would have paid for the “service”, and sure this money would not help the grieving family. Money, money, money…  Wherever, whenever. If it comes out, any reason invoked is good.