The Life-line of Indian Culture

I am no longer in the India I recognize. The four other volunteers and I have taken a month to travel around the northern parts of India, taking on a new role to us in India as tourists. We traveled over fifty hours by train from the south to the north, watching the landscape change from Kerala’s lush greenery to the tan heat of Rajasthan’s desert. Now in Goa, at the beach, I recall the place where our trip started, one of the most haunting and moving places I have ever visited. Varanasi.

When I allow myself to truly face what I'm witnessing, India puts my extraordinarily Western ideals to the test. Located in NorthEasternish India, on the banks of the Ganga River (Ganges), Varanasi is a gently sloping town filled with tiny alleyways winding through tightly packed buildings, housing ground-floor stores and upper-floor apartments. People crouch to sell chaia from tiny holes in the wall and cows block the path of oncoming scooters. The sewers that line the streets are filled to the brim with brown, scuzzy water and plastic bottles of coca-cola and mirinda. It reeks of feces and body odor and spices. When you reach the Ganges it is a breath of fresh air, mostly.

During our first night in Varnasi, we attended a pooja ceremony at one of the ghats on the river. It lasted one incense-filled hour and we watched in confused, Western awe as the Hindu celebrants chanted and prayed, rang bells and lifted ornate incense holders in circle motions around their bodies. One might consider Varnasi the most holy town for Hindus, a place of pilgrimage. Dying in Varanasi guarantees rebirth and the Ganga water heals sins. As we toured the ghats (steps) leading to the water and lining the river, we pondered the importance of water in this city. Each ghat seemed to have a unique purpose: bathing, laundry, frolicking, mediating, and the most famous: cremation. Each passage and necessity of life centered around the Ganga waters from the most basics to the most holy. We passed a wall that read in yellow paint "Ganga is the life-line of Indian culture" and it seemed to make sense at that moment.

Later that day, I accidentally walked directly to the largest of the burning ghats, a cremation site. I was immediately led to a tower overlooking the site, much to my dismay and trepidation. "Come, come! No pictures, only looking!" the Indian man said as he pointed me up the stairs. When I reached the top, I saw bodies wrapped in blankets and recoiled, afraid that I had walked into a room holding bodies waiting to be cremated. "No, no, give some money, these people wait to die" the Indian man said. I realized that it was a room of people accepting donations for their cremation wood, paid for by kilogram and priced by quality of wood. I saw another Westerner in front of me and decided to walk to the edge. As I looked down, I realized I was witnessing about six cremation ceremonies at once, all at different stages. I watched tiny bodies wrapped in cloth and bright gold ribbons being dipped in the Ganges and then lifted by two men (untouchables) to the pyre on the beach. I watched a man, most likely the next of kin to the deceased, light a bunch of sticks from a holy, eternal fire and run to the pyre, rapidly taking the ceremonious circles around the pyre as the flame in his hand grew larger, finally lighting the feet of the body and walking away as the untouchables stoked and monitored the rest of the cremation process.

It felt morbid and ghastly. How dare I watch this? It was more vivid and horrific than any Hollywood movie could portray. It was real. I continued to watch and listened to my thoughts. I quickly lost the sensations of fear at the sight and disgust at myself for watching and began to watch in respect of the mourning ceremony I was witnessing. This was a funeral. It isn't morbid, but it is very real. Just as the Ganga River is a place where children swim and women do laundry, it is also a place where everyone in the city hopes to be laid to rest. It is a holy place and a welcoming place.

India has made me come to terms with a few things that America allows me to hide from: the prevalence of waste reminds me of my constant abuse of consumerism, the abundance of animals walking in my way and crapping in my path reminds me of the work and sacrifice that goes into the meals I eat, having to drink boiled water and take cold showers reminds me (in a Westernly counter-intuitive way) of the unquestioned opulance living in the West allows me, and watching someone be cremated reminds me of the beauty and stillness of death after a life led. A recognition that death is just as real as life is something India has impressed upon me, through the tranquility of a Buddhist temple and the shock of a Hindu cremation, to the logistical problem that, from Mavelikara, the nearest good Emergency Room is kilometers away over bumpy dirt roads.

Our trip to Varanasi was short and we were soon back on the train, perspiring our way through northern India's most famous sites. We shivered in Dharamasala (a welcome change!) and moped through Rajasthan's desert on ornery camels. We met fellow travelers from around the world and ate an exciting variety of Western, Indian and other foods. We ALL got sick except for Allison. We tried to reconcile within our group how to most humanely react to the hundreds of beggars we daily meet. We are experts at piling 5 people in one rickshaw. We poured over books and enjoyed long walks through new cities. Now we are at the beach, soaking up the salt sea and the equatorial sun before we return to our respective villages. I am nervous to return, and excited as well. I have been away for one month, and I have felt very free and independant, but also very self-involved. I will return to my village for two more months of service with my Indian family and I look forward to deepening relationships, improving my classes and learning more about Mavelikara.