Holy Shit!

I name this entry as such because when I look back in this holy city I will remember the river, of course, but most of all I will remember the shit. Cow shit, goat shit, dog shit and yes-human shit everywhere. Even on the walls of the narrow streets. The lower class people make cow patties and stick them to the side of the walls until they dry and fall off. They then collect it and burn it for warmth. But, don’t you go and think that number one is done in the privacy of home. Around almost every corner is a man openly emptying his bladder for all the world to see. Of course, this behavior would be unheard of from a woman, but men can proudly display their private bits at any time and place without so much as a second look by anyone but westerners. Lets just say I think twice before walking through any mysterious puddles now.
This is also a very dry city. That means that along with all the dust that is constantly sitting in the air, dried shit is mixed in with just a touch of the red spit (from paan, a red tobacco that, I’m convinced, everyone in India chews) all over the roads as well. After breathing this cocktail in all day for 3 days my lungs had finally had enough and decided to protest with a cold. Helen’s body decided to protest with another bout of “the sickness” which has kept us in this holy city a little longer than planned.
With all I have wrote so far it sounds as if I didn’t like Varanasi, the truth is there is a special place in my heart for this city. I witnessed my first miracle here: at the monkey temple we saw Indians waiting patiently in line to offer their blessing to the gods that waited inside. I had no idea that Indians could wait in line. Every time I have been obviously waiting for my turn everywhere from the restroom to getting on a train I have been totally ignored and even at times pushed out of the way. We experienced this in Thailand as well, I just assumed their culture didn’t know how to wait. I marveled at this development at the monkey temple and even said a silent thanks to Shiva once inside.
Because of the neat lines running far out of the temple we were unable to get up to the deities but I was able to see them from afar (one of the only times I was thankful for being six foot in my travels). I was also able to ring the bell that is a normal fixture outside Hindu temples, our guide said that ringing it says to the gods “I am here, living.”
We were also able to join in on a sing-a-long of praise that was taking place on the right side of the temple. Helen and I took a seat on the women’s side and clapped along to the words we could not understand. At that moment I really did feel the faith in the room. I was left with a subdued joy the rest of the day.
The monkey temple is named that because of the many monkeys’ that live outside it. When walking up to it monkeys are everywhere, one even tugged on my top as I walked by. Our guide warned me not to play with it, as they are dangerous, but still are considered holy.
There was much more that we saw over the last few days but nothing can compare to the boat rides down the Mother Ganga (the Ganges). One in the evening and one in the morning showed us the best part of this city, the faith. Even off of the river faith is everywhere and not restricted to any one religion. We saw Muslim, Christian, Buddhist and Jewish temples on our rickshaw rides. The Ganges may be holy for the Hindu’s, but Varanasi is holy for everyone. On the evening ride we get to see the nightly (365 days a year) celebration on the Main Ghat that thanks the gods for the day and asks them to give us a new day tomorrow. It is a loud affair (as most Hindu celebrations are) with dancing, drums, singing, and incense and candle burning. Pretty much all along the Ghats you see people lighting a candle and letting it go in the river (for luck).
Farther down lays the burning Ghats. This is where Hindu’s that have passed away are cremated and then dumped into the Ganges for their final resting place. Unless it is a baby or a god, then they are let go to float down the Ganges and into “heaven.” Five fire pits burned in font of us as we sat in silence unable to really grasp that bodies lay in the flames. One family came down to the shore to dump the remains into the river right in front of us.
The evening was relaxing but it didn’t compare to the sunrise ride. This featured the city coming to life (and every tourist in the town taking pictures of it, at is, except for me because I had forgot to put my battery back in my camera). People lined the shore doing puja, bathing, brushing their teeth and their clothes. The sun showed the temples that hid in the darkness the night before. Mini celebrations that resembled the large one the night before sprung up along the shores. Helen and I decided to light our candle in the morning, as it gives you good karma. I let mine go in the dark green water and said a little thank you to the gods.
There are two burning Ghats, one big and one small. This morning the big one had only one small fire and the small one had two. This time feet stuck out the sticks burning, and a yellow scarf covered what was the head of the nameless Hindu. It made the cremation seem more real then the night before, when any body parts were hidden from our view.
We visited many temples (Varanasi has been the only place we decided to get a guide) and silk factories where the people working there are all to happy to serve us chai (milk tea that in no way resembles the chai at home, except that they both have milk in them) and show us every piece of fabric in the store. “Our prices are cheap, we make you happy price.” But my rupees where spent at a place where Goldie Hawn and Michael Jackson have unloaded their hard earned cash on, an astrologer.
For the price of the psychic I have gone to in the states I hand over my rupee and my birth information to a man I have never met and agree to come back to next morning. When I return, after the first scooter ride since I wrecked mine two years ago, I walk into the pillowed room and sit in front of my guru. He tells me to remove my glasses and headband and to give him my left hand. What happens after is unreal, without any knowledge of me besides my birth day, time, location and year he accurately tells me details of my past and predictions of my future that oddly resemble what my guru at home has told me. I am amazed.
Riding on the high I got from the visit I decide, as I have every time I leave the country, to do something that will remind me of my time here, as if just experiencing wouldn’t be enough. With the help of visiting a café that is owned by an American that does piercing, I decide to pierce my nose. My nose is not a virgin to the needle, my septum was pierced at the age of 19 and the side of my nostril at 21. Both have since been removed, but piercing my nose in India seems as right as getting a tattoo in Thailand, a way cheaper. So I do it.
The ex-San Franciscan woman is gentle and fast with her procedure and before I know it I am sporting a new (fake) diamond stud. In India the left side of the body receives and the right side sends, as well as the left side of the body is female and the right is male. She suggests that I pierce the left side, as all Indian women do, in order to receive all the feminine stuff out in the world. I decide I need to send more stuff out then I need to receive at this point in my life so I for the right, keeping my body modification a little western after all.