Close shaves and burning corpses

After breakfast (served in the basement of the hotel) the two families convened outside the Palace on Ganges, mounted a trio of cycle rickshaws and proceeded toward Dasaswamedh ghat, about the closest thing to Varanasi central you can get.  The riding of rickshaws is as much a Varanasi experience as is bathing in the Ganges and offering puja at one of the thousands of idols across the city.  After 25 minutes we got off and wandered down to what is one of the busiest ghats in the ancient city.

Lord Shiva dances at Dasaswamedh ghat

The first order of business was a shave for Nate, which very quickly, turned into a massage for Mose and Nate and Jen.  Kevin resisted the temptation and Yvonne was excluded because local police guard vigilantly for local men 'massaging' women. Though several offers were made to provide a massage on a river boat, Yvonne eventually grew more fascinated with the jewellery for sale in the myriad stalls along the ghat.  

Progress was slow. Boatmen and masseurs trailed the gang in hopes of landing some  business but after an hour or more of shopping, the group decided to take lunch at the nearby Dolphin Rooftop restaurant.  Rooftop, smooftop. This was the Varanasi equivalent of an ascent on Everest.  The steps were steep and kept going, ever higher and up yet another storey. Just when you thought you'd reached the summit a further set of steps beckoned, until at last one tripped, slipped and gasped into a spacious dining room, the verandah of which did indeed, hold majestic views across the bend in the river.

The gang atop the Rooftop.

Y struggles to understand her phone as Kevin peers over the edge.

Though the ascent had been planned as a mid-morning cool drink ("I can't believe this is winter," offered Mose "It's so hot!') we all decided to have a leisurely luncheon and then spend the afternoon meandering through the galis.

Hindustani sweets (mithai)

This we did. The galis, the unchanged part of the ancient city, are a tangle of narrow lanes that extend like a web out from the ghats and in which hundreds of thousands of Banarasi-walas, live, worship. work and study.  One laneway leads here and another there, sometimes through the brass and silver market, sometimes through the cheese and yoghurt wholesalers area. Wherever you go, however, there is religion, idols, worship; clanging bells and flashes of orange as pilgrims and holy men push through the cows and motorcycles beep their hurried irritation.   After an hour or so we took refuge in a sweet shop (which, Kevin noticed, had played host, once upon a long time ago, to Indira Gandhi) where we tasted several versions of peda and bought a packet of freshly made red and yellow (cardamom) sweets.  Yum.

A dead body being transported to the burning ghat.

Another pretty much constant encounter in the galis is the passing of small funeral processions bearing recently deceased wrapped in saris, heading for the burning ghats.  Esther and Mose both wanted to know why the bodies were accompanied with the incessant  Hindi chant of 'Ram Nam Satya Hai' (God's Name is Truth). Nate and Yvonne did their best to explain transmigration and Hindu philosophy as the burning ghats with the huge stacks of wood and smoke filled ashy air drew nearer.  We watched for sometime as bodies streamed steadily into the cremation grounds. At last, we boarded another boat and after a close up view of the sinking temple, just a little north of the burning ghats, enjoyed a slow ride back to Asi ghat and our hotel.

The burning ghats