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We caught the night train from Agra to Varanasi, we had sleeping bunks, very public, 10 to a compartment, some men
were snoring loudly and no-one got much sleep. We were very tired and when I stepped on to the train I slipped and gashed my leg on the iron step, blood everywhere. Good Lord, I thought, I'm on my way to Varanasi where people go to die, I'll be cremated on the banks of the Ganges. Fortunately the wound didn't turn septic but left quite a scar as a souvenir.
Varanasi is a shock to the system, it's allegedly the oldest city in the world and to have one's ashes scattered over the water of the Holy River is the aim of many Indians.The city has many hospices full of people waiting to die and around 500 cremations take place every week. It's the only place in the world that I know of where every kind of drug is legal and freely available, consequently many modern-day hippies hang around.
To watch the funeral pyres burning, ashes being scattered, people relieving themselves, drinking the water and filling bottles to take home is mind-boggling. Pregnant women and children are not cremated, but weighted down and buried in the river and occasionally a body floats past, bloated and beyond recognition. In spite of all the sickness and decay one feels very alive and humbled by the faith and surviving skills of the people.
Varanasi shows life at its worst and its most noble. |
