Twenty four hours in Varanasi part 2: Night falls on the city of light

On that first night in Varanasi, India, I experienced an intense craving for an endless plate of Thali (A platter of dishes, which varies regionally but tends to offer a variety of vegetables, some rice, dal, curd and, ideally, warm chapatti). I describe it as endless because it is the one meal that you can order in India (or Nepal for that matter – Dhal Bat) where you are guaranteed as many servings as you want. Being a man without a Lonely Planet Guide, I had to find my Thali by other means. I didn’t begin my journey guideless as a matter of principle (for that is one heavy-ass book), but eventually it became one. Lonely Planet is one of those perfect contradictions in our world. It praises the most pristine pockets of the globe, while simultaneously catalyzing development in such places. Honestly, how could anything that is actually “off the beaten path” be in a travel guide? The best way to learn of those immaculate corners is fellow backpackers. Also, Lonely Planet has fairly disastrous impacts on a town’s local economy. The guesthouses and restaurants with the best reviews slowly attract all of the visitors, and the rest struggle endlessly. While a Lonely Planet can be helpful, it seems to directly clash with the ancient, unquestionable goal of exploration. 

Luckily for my pursuit of Thali, a friend of mine had recently spent some time at a place called the Shanti Guest House and highly recommended the food. He had said something along the lines of, “It is less than luxurious, but there is something magical happening on that roof.” Walking in, luxury was indeed the last word that came to mind. It was a very old five-story building, with water-stained walls and ceilings, rotting furniture and an overwhelming lack of natural light. I asked the manager if I could see a room for a future night, as I’d already booked a room for that evening, and he reluctantly agreed. The only thing I remember him saying was, “There are no windows in the Shanti Guest house.” The room could have been better, but the price was right and I told him that I would come back soon (little did I know that this would be the room that sparked a two-week-long series of bed bug terror attacks). 

Having developed a sense of the place, my stomach reminded me of the importance of the Thali mission I had initially embarked upon. Posthaste, I climbed the five stories to the roof, stepped outside, and sipped in the brisk evening air. What I found was gloriously unexpected. Thirty folks whom appeared to be in their twenties, playing pool and cards, as well as a group of wandering minstrels playing guitar, tablas, and fluting around on wooden Indian flutes. Finally, my gaze fell upon a Korean man engaged in what I can only describe as a leisurely, yet precisely yogic break-dance (with cigarette in mouth of course). Having just arrived from Ladakh in the far North, I had not seen many backpackers (six actually) and was excited to finally meet some fellow travelers. I serendipitously spotted one of the six, a kind New Zealander who I had met several weeks before, sitting with a few others who looked roughly our age. He invited me to join them and we exchanged some stories. He had arrived from Amritsar a few days ago and could not get over Varanasi. When I asked him what he had been doing with his time he responded softly, “Morning boat rides, evening boat rides, long walks on the Ghats, a few concerts.” He had that glow in his eyes that is typical of those who spend most of their time walking. 

He was sitting with two guys from Denmark and a pretty girl from Vancouver. We had quite a refreshing conversation, not simply because I was with people my age again, but because we were all like-minded with common interests beyond the obvious desire to explore India. Our conversation bounced between such diverse subjects as Kraut-rock, Barthes and Lars Von Trier. We spent the evening swimming through beers and jokes, enjoying the spontaneity that comes from gathering with like-minded strangers. At some point, our discussion turned to Varanasi’s Burning Ghat. I told them that I had heard of it, but that I did not know what it was and that I had not seen it yet. They all simultaneously pointed towards the river, because the Shanti Guest House actually sits right above the place. “Ah. So I’ll be seeing it tonight,” I remarked, knowing that the ghats would be the only way I could navigate my way back to my own guest house at such an hour.

They explained that the Burning Ghat is essentially where all of the people who have perished in Varanasi are ceremonially cremated. Hindu religious traditions teach that those who die in this city instantly achieve Nirvana. Hence, many believers make the pilgrimage in their last and hardest hours. When one actually perishes in Varanasi, their body is typically ushered by family and friends through the winding alleys of the city on a bamboo stretcher until they reach the Burning Ghat. Here, they are placed into piles of flames, where they are released from the cycles of rebirth in which all beings are bound.

“Huh, and its right down there? We gotta check it out,” I said, hoping someone else would want to join me on my late-night stroll. I did not have a watch in those days and had to ask someone for the time. Somehow, it was already two in the morning. Shucks. Knowing that most guesthouses in India close at 11, I felt pretty damn careless. “Uhh, I’m pretty sure I gotta make the walk back to my guesthouse. Anybody feel like exploring the late night ghat scene?” Surprisingly, one of the Danish guys and the Canadian girl were both up for it. I can tell you now, it was not your average walk. After several beers and a Bhang Lassi, everything had become a bit more interesting (vibrant, drowsy, theatrical, mildly paranoid, you know how it goes). We bid our farewells to the other fellows and ran down the stairs to explore the city at night. 

Varanasi had been flipped on its head. The children that are usually frolicking through the streets had been replaced with groups of armed soldiers sitting around a massive speaker, blasting Hindi commands through the vacant alleys. We encountered one of these groups immediately, who said nothing to us, but simply pointed back into the guesthouse. From there we started down the alley to the Burning Ghat. On the way, we heard a chant approaching us from behind. “RAM RAM SANTI RAM.” Whatever this meant, and whoever this was, it seemed to be stalking us. Suddenly a group of about twenty men carrying a body on a stretcher burst into the street around us. We hugged the walls and watched as the seemingly satanic parade tromped past with smiles on their faces and a bounce in their step. What a wildly different view of death. 

When we finally made it down to the Ghat, I was quite certain that we had found the river Styx. There were at least five enormous bonfires with very visible body parts silhouetted against the flames. Pop! As I gazed into the roaring flames, I watched a human skull burst like the beer bottles in backyard fire pits. The smell of seared flesh was suffocating, and the crowd enormous. We tried to make our way through the tumult discretely, knowing we were interrupting something far bigger than us. Of course, it did not take long for someone to notice us. “You! No tourists at this time. There is no Burning Ghat at night.” At this point, it did not seem like I was even there. I drifted upwards like some sort of Purusha - a floating witness in the architecture and the flames. A friendly hand on my shoulder brought me back to the when. We had almost passed the one obstacle in the journey to my guesthouse, but were now going to have to turn back, and take the way of the loaded rifles and the labyrinth. At a certain point, you have no choice but to love those moments (thoughts evaporate).

It took us about an hour, and only a few Minotaur encounters, to find my guesthouse, and I was allowed in with only a bit of scolding, (“Are you a crazy person? Varanasi is not for the tourists at this time! You must be leaving here tomorrow.”) Needless to say, there was no sunrise boat ride for me the next morning. Fortunately, this was only the start of the second day. As I said earlier, every time I’ve met a person who has visited Varanasi our conversation has received a sheer jolt of energy. People immediately bounce up and lean in, perhaps try to grab your hand. There is something about the place that bursts through its clouds of beauty and ugliness – like a good dream you could never forget. Perhaps it’s the fact that the locals and Indian pilgrims are as excited (if not far more) to be there as you are. Whatever it is, it’s happening right now, so do what you can to get to the Ghats, take a seat and a ganga chai, and coast.