Nearly slept through my 4:20 am alarm. I jumped up with a start straight into my mosquito net. A small jet engine revved up as the mosquitoes took flight.

When we arrived at the boys’ hotel Aaron was nowhere to be seen. “You learn about a person when you do this kind of travel,” Josh said sagely, rubbing the sleep from his eyes.

We drove to the Dasashwamedh Ghat, passing blurry-eyed tourists and a few pilgrims. The marigold butter candle girl recognized us – must be a slow season. I spotted my Spanish trainmates.

Devesh showed us to our boat. We pushed off, the overcast sky lightening sluggishly.

The place was overrun with tourists. Dozens of boats glided past quiet ghats, cameras following the shoreline like periscopes. A few pilgrims indulged us by bathing themselves and washing their clothes. One jolly good sport broke out the fire, the face paint and the Om chanting. Shutters clicked madly. We could see monkeys running amok while residents lived behind window bars. On the east bank of the river a group of Korean tourists collected sand, believing that it was the same sand upon which the Buddha once walked.

We disembarked at the crematorium ghat, now much quieter than the previous night. We wandered through the back alleys of Vishwanath Khanda, unchanged for thousands of years. In the narrow passages we gave way to cows, locals, pilgrims and sadhus. I passed women in bare feet adorned with delicate bangles and carved toe rings navigating through unimaginable filth with balletic agility. It was like walking through the middle ages: cramped passageways; tall, crumbling buildings; tradespeople selling their wares, including a young, bashful boy selling yoghurt.

On Devesh’s suggestion Josh and I ventured through a skinny corridor leading to the Kashi Vishwanath Temple, a revered Hindu site located next door to the Gyanavapi Mosque. The original Vishwanath Temple was destroyed by Aurangzeb (son of Shah Jihan) to make room for his mosque, but the current Siva temple reappeared in 1776. In 1835 it acquired one tonne of gold leaf for its dome.

Needless to say, the tension of having two different religious centres in such cramped quarters meant that security was extremely tight.  We had to leave all our possessions, including the cameras, with Devesh in a silk shop. No worries – a young man was arranged to take us through.

After passing through a metal detector and full pat down, we could briefly peer through the window to the Temple; however, non-Hindus are forbidden entry.  I asked our guide,

“How do you know I’m not Hindu?”

“Yes, I am Hindu,” he answered.

I tried again.

“But what if I have converted to Hinduism? How would you know?”

“Yes, we have essential oil!” the enthusiastic response as a perplexed Josh and I were ushered to his shop.  Evidently all visitors drained into this alley, clearly designed to trap unwitting tourists.

Josh reluctantly subjected his forehead to the anti-migraine blend. Within 60 seconds his skin was on fire. He asked me if his skin was blistering. Our young friend then dipped his finger in the bottle and came at me. I ducked, grabbed Josh’s hand and made a run for it, Josh holding his forehead tenderly.

Rather than turning right to go back the way we entered the secret garden, I suggested we explore to the left.  It was almost like there was a magical force field stopping tourists from going further – none of them ventured to the left. Except, of course, us.

Suddenly we were surrounded by a conga line of devout Hindus. The alley didn’t go for too much longer – it ended abruptly with another metal detector and heavily-armed soldiers – so we turned back.  A Hindu man warmly invited us to enter one of the temples. I was sorely tempted, but I couldn’t bear to remove my shoes. Traversing the disgusting floor in either bare feet or socks was just to gruesome to contemplate.  Yes, it was that gross.

Next stop on the tour was Banares Hindu University, established in the early 20^th century by the lyrically named Pandit Madan Mohan Malviya. With 33,000 students on a 22 km-square tree-lined campus, it is one of the largest universities in Asia and, despite its name, not religiously affiliated. It has over 30 university departments, including the enigmatic “Basic Principles Department.” (Devesh, who did his Master’s degree at the University in 4^th Century Sarnath Buddhism, had no idea what that was.) Devesh explained that India used to suffer significant brain drain until the government mandated that Indian nationals who graduate must commit to working in India for 7 (!) years after graduation. We drove by pale yellow buildings trimmed with maroon. I noted the inconsistent availability of air conditioning and the signs reading “Ragging is a Cognizable Offense.”

We visited the Shri Viswanath Temple that featured an absolutely glorious display in honour of Krishna’s birthday. It was like a frenzied Hindu Garden of Eden made of gnomes: colourful multi-sized characters, many of them Krishnas, primarily in blue, danced for an audience of smaller characters such as snake charmers and a voluptuous reclining Wonder Woman. Within the Temple was a Siva lingam: a five-headed cobra into which Ganga water was poured and dripped like venom from the ten fangs. We watched as devotees would grab a handful of sugar/wheat mixture, hold it under the venom water to moisten the mix, then reverently pray. Later they would eat the mixture.

I loved watching the religious ritual. I found it strange how open, how non-private religious participation is in Hindu India.  Seems quite democratic.

Outside we went to one of the many student cafes. We enjoyed a delicious 3 rupee cup of chai served in a disposable ceramic cup. I loved the feel of the hot chai against the pottery. Felt real.  I asked Devesh if the water for the chai came from the Ganges.  Devesh said that he could tell me it was if I wanted.

I asked Devesh the same question I tried asking the purveyor of acidic aromatherapy: for temples restricted to Hindus, how do they know I’m not a Hindu? Finally, the mystery was solved. Hindus believe that you can only be born a Hindu; conversion is not possible. This answered my unasked question about why Hinduism was relatively limited in its global reach.

I asked, “Sonia [Rajiv Gandhi’s wife] couldn’t convert to Hinduism?”

“Correct,” answered Devesh. In fact, some Orthodox Hinuds don’t even consider Rajiv Gandhi, former prime minister of India, to be a true Hindu. His father, Indira’s husband, was Muslim by birth, but because he was an orphan he was adopted by Nehru and given the surname Gandhi. On a trip to Nepal Rajiv was denied entry to a temple because he wasn’t pure enough. A furious Rajiv issued sanctions against Nepal with devastating consequences. I obviously don’t know the whole story, but that seems a bit disproportionate?

Next stop was the Temple of Mother India featuring a large-scale map of the Indian subcontinent made from marble (I believe). Devesh explained that it was often included on pilgrims’ itineraries as one of the many temples to visit, but that most pilgrims are surprised because it isn’t actually a temple but rather a way to teach the uneducated about their country and the surrounding geography.  I was disappointed there were no pilgrims as I would have liked to ask how they appreciated the ruse.

Our tour with Devesh ended.  We sat in the lobby of Josh’s hotel and reviewed the costs.  Somehow my 600 rupee tour ended up costing 4300 for the 3 of us.  If I wasn’t so sleep deprived I might have asked why the 7-fold increase, but at the end of the day it’s about value. Yet I couldn’t help but feel that the agency I snubbed somehow got their cut.

Dasaswamedh Ghat, Varanasi

Our lively bicycle rickshaw ride came to an end at the Dasaswamedh Ghat, the grandest steps down to the Ganges; “Ganga” as it’s called in India. The ghat was occupied by sadhus (holy men) in various stages of undress, body paint and emaciation; little girls charming visitors into purchasing their little hand-formed butter candles adorned with bright orange marigolds; freshly-shaved pilgrims; sellers of Hindu religious trinkets; cows and tourists.  Lots and lots of tourists.  To paraphrase a quote from the October 2008 Departures Magazine, Varanasi swarms with tourists more than it does with actual pilgrims and citizens.

Our guide, Devesh, pointed out the water line demarcating the extent to which the Ganga normally swells during the monsoon.  In a normal season we should have been standing under water; businesses along the river are used to moving out while the Ganges moves in for a few weeks. But given that the Ganga records human fecal counts 3000 times the safe limit not to mention harbours countless other unsanitary nasties, I was quite happy to be on dry land.

Devesh explained to Josh, Aaron and me that people travel from all over India to Varanasi for yatra, a Ganges pilgrimage. These pilgrims believe that the river is the incarnation of the Goddes Ganga who flows down from its Himalayan source on the strands of Shiva’s hair. By bathing in the Ganga, or Ganges (the “eez” comes from a suffix given in Hindu as a sign of respect – Devesh hence forward became “Devesh-ji”), Hindus believe they are cleansed of Karma – the measurement of deeds of previous and present lives – and prepared for death.  This in turn leads to rebirth and hopefully a better life.

I asked Devesh-ji if he had bathed in the Ganga.  “Once,” he said, “and I got sick.” I didn’t probe the nature of his ailments, but I sensed he was unhappy by it and perhaps a bit envious of those who ingested and bathed in its waters with impunity… if you disregard the infinite parasites and other ills they no doubt suffer on a constant basis, Ganges or not.

There are many old people in Varanasi who carefully navigate the steep and treacherously slippery back alleyways barefoot. They believe that anyone who dies on the banks of the Ganga achieves moksha, deliverance from the cycle of reincarnation.  This explains why dead bodies receive one final dip before cremation.

I asked Devesh when Hinduism began.  He answers that no one really knows.

We each bought a butter candle from a girl who flirted persistently with Josh and Aaron and walked down to our boat. Our boatman’s oars peacefully swept through the obliging river as we glided slowly toward the Manikarnika cremation ghat. Devesh-ji asked us to lower our cameras, out of respect for the mourners.

The orange flames of the pyres stood out starkly from the concrete steps. The heat of the crematorium pressed against my face, but I was amazed that there was no noticeable smell. Stacks of wood towered over the throngs of workers, mourners, cows and dogs who moved deliberately among blackened ashes strewn with the tattered yellow and orange remains of discarded shrouds. On the steps bodies wrapped in saffron patiently waited for family members to carry them down to the river for one final immersion.  Devesh pointed out an older man with a shaved head who had a white scarf wrapped around his privates – the eldest son of the deceased. He explained that the two main crematoria run 24 hours a day, every day of the year, and that the caste who manages this operation has become quite wealthy selling wood, sandalwood dusts, shrouds and other cremation accoutrements. We sat in quiet contemplation as the sky turned indigo with dusk.

On our return to the main ghat we lit our marigold butter candles and released them into the Ganga. Aaron’s fell apart as soon as it hit the water, a sign that he should stick to Buddhism.

By now the Dasaswamedh Ghat was buzzing with people preparing for the daily aarti ritual where Hindu priests pay homage to the Ganga in an elaborately-choreographed ceremony [Mariellen Ward wrote an excellent article on the Varanasi experience.] Devesh ensconced us on stairs above a raised platform next to a cow pen. We were soon surrounded by a group of chattering young Japanese ladies who jockeyed with us for precious bum space. I drank in the scene of hundreds of people and many cows milling about, extended families wedging themselves into narrow seated groups, the loudspeakers broadcasting tabla drums and monotone singing.  The tension and emotion palpably mounted as boats filled with tourists and pilgrims crowded into each other at the base of the landing, forming a nautical chain 12 boats deep in places. At the centre of the crowd were seven priest stands – one for each day of the week – and while the organizer fretted with the priests’ diyas (large brass candlesticks), tourists peppered the night with camera flashes. The sense of festivity and anticipation increased as more people streamed into the crowd, Westerners in their sober tech-wear colours amidst the rainbow of Indian saris. The slight breeze did nothing to stem the sweat trickling down my brow.

The priests ascended their posts.  The air filled with the sounds of accordion, tabla and chanting. The priests were quite young and a couple of them, with their short hair, glasses and seeming uncertainty with the lyrics, looked like they were better suited for a university campus than leading a Hindu service. I was captivated by one priest with long hair and incredible bone structure and watched intently as he swung his diya with purpose, spelling “Om” with his arms and chanting the prayers majestically. I decided to get closer.

Josh and I descended in the crowd and sat amongst the pilgrims.  The older gentleman next to me was very friendly and encouraged us to take lots of photos.  I was surprised at the ceremony’s informality – it was perfectly acceptable to move around, chat with your neighbour, take photos – and how little the congregation was directly involved in the ritual. Suddenly, the crowd burst into a flury of hand flourishes. They clapped, namaste’ed and raised their arms.  For a fleeting moment it was pure electricity. The priests gathered at the central platform to sing the Broadway finale, then distributed blessed flowers to their devotees like celebrities dispensing autographs.

We ascended the steps – tourists, locals and pilgrims criss-crossing each others’ paths. I was surprised to discover that our bicycle rickshaw drivers had been waiting patiently for us.  We had a marvelous ride back to the Surya hotel.  The crowd was happy and energized. Because of a power outage, many of the shops were lit by candles, making the experience dream-like.  Figures glided in and out of the shadows in a cacophony of bells, horns, motors, voices and rattling metal. An auto rickshaw behind us honked passionately. I looked over my shoulder and gave him a “what can we do?” smile.  He shrugged and smiled: honking is in the Indian’s DNA. We passed the ox. Given that it was after 8 pm, he was now outside the shop.

When we arrive at the Surya hotel, Josh and I decide to give the rickshaw drivers 200 rupees instead of the negotiated 150.  We pay Josh and Aaron’s driver first, and just as we’re sorting out the second driver’s payment by some perplexing motive Aaron runs over and gives the first driver another 100. Josh and I stare dumbfounded and the driver solemnly holds the money to his head in an extreme gesture of danyavad. The other driver waited expectantly. So we gave him 300 rupees too.  More head pressing.  Felt good to be generous.

We bid Devesh goodnight, arranging a 4:45 am pick up. To our surprise the Surya at night looked like a wedding reception, with candlelit tables distributed across a perfectly-manicured lawn. Because all the tables were full we tried to persuade the waiter to let us site on the grass, picnic style, to which he disdainfully replied, “No. We treat our guests with respect.” We eventually crashed a table with two very blond English gals from Bath who extolled the virtues of Indian goat and mutton meat but who couldn’t wrap their heads around “cheese curry” (paneer).  Listening to carnivore culinary stories challenged Josh and Aaron’s commitment to their vegetarian diet, notwithstanding Aaron’s dreadful spring roll experience in Rajasthan. To drink I ordered a “sahlab”, described as “warm, thick milk with cinnamon, coconut and raisins”. The table made fun of my selection until they tried it – hot, creamy, sweet and textured (thanks to cashews), it was like pudding in a glass.

At midnight we closed down the joint. I went to bed and Josh and Aaron tried to walk back to their hotel. As Josh told me the next morning, they were stalked by a persistent bicycle rickshaw who wouldn’t go away.  They got lost and ended up on the main road. Who should find them but their bicycle rickshaw walla from earlier in the evening, pissed out of his mind.  Whether it was alcohol or drugs wasn’t clear, but he was speaking Hindi to them in dramatic, unbalanced sweeping arm gestures.  Yet again Aaron showed wacky judgement and hopped on the rickshaw before Josh could stop him.  A terrifying 50 rupee ride later (during which said walla careened blindly into oncoming traffic), they made it home.

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Cremation fires burn day and night on the ghats in India‘s holy city of Varanasi, powerful symbols of the cycle of death and life
Mariellen Ward.  Toronto Star.  Toronto, Ont.:Aug 29, 2009.  p. T.1

The veil between life and death seems very thin here, and aboat ride on the river can become a journey to the other side.

It was just before twilight when I stepped onto the creaky planking of a small wood boat. The old knotty boatman pushed us away from the muddy shore and rowed. With each pull of the oars we crept along the surface of India’s most sacred river, the Ganges, past the scythe-like curve of ghats (steps) that line the western shore, toward Dasaswamedh Ghat, the main ghat, and the aarti (ceremony). The aarti is performed each evening at dusk to honour Ganga Ma, the Ganges River. Behind the ghats, and a wall of soaring stone palaces and pavilions, pulses the holy city of Varanasi.

As the sky darkened, the moist air filled with swarms of mosquitoes, huge flying insects and the damp, putrid smell of the river.

The riverfront darkness was broken at Dasaswamedh Ghat as crowds gathered for the aarti, performed by Hindu priests in flowing robes brandishing huge burning diyas (brass candles).

Loud music and chanting accompanied the choreographed ritual. I watched from my boat, tethered to many other boats jostling their cargoes of Indian pilgrims and tourists.

When the aarti ended, we untethered and continued to glide slowly north, the hypnotic current of the Ganga leading us along as we crossed the weakly lit ghats. Out of the darkness, a white shape appeared, wedged in the black water. Instinctively, I knew what it was and I froze. I prayed the boatman would not notice, would not point. I wanted to observe the blunt presence of death, wrapped tightly in a white shroud and floating in the Ganga, in my own quiet contemplation.

On we went, the boatman didn’t notice, and I breathed again.

Varanasi is the city of Shiva, Hindu god of destruction, and his energy is intensely present. I thought about the figure in the river and felt shaken as some of my own fears were confronted and destroyed. I wondered if this figure was recently one of the many dhoti- or sari-wearing pilgrims I saw descending the ghats for ritual immersion in the sacred river that they consider Shiva’s divine essence.

Was he or she one of the unending stream of believers who have made pilgrimages to Varanasi for 3,000 years, to seek salvation, to be absolved of sin, to become a jivan mukta, one who is liberated while still alive, or to die and cross over?

Crossing is a spiritual practise here in one of India’s holiest tirthas (crossing places). The souls of faithful Hindus are believed to cross to the other side in Varanasi, the most visited pilgrimage destination in India.

To die and be cremated here helps to achieve moksha, a release from the continuous cycle of life-death-rebirth. Those who cannot afford a full cremation are released into the river as partially cremated corpses.

It takes a long time to cross the six kilometres of Varanasi ghats in a small boat.

Finally, we reached Manikarnika Ghat, the main cremation ghat, one of the oldest and most sacred ghats in Varanasi. It is said that Vishnu, the preserver, dug a well here at the time of creation and Shiva was also present. This ghat symbolizes the cycle of creation and destruction.

In most Indian cities, the cremation grounds are well-removed and hidden from view. But Varanasi is Mahashamshana, the great cremation ground, and death is ever present. At any time of the day or night, Manikarnika Ghat is busy. As we passed slowly we were on our way back and travelling against the current several cremation fires burned and I saw the bearded face of one man being consumed by flames.

Varanasi is a cauldron of Hindu beliefs made manifest. The careful avoidance of death often practised in the West is burned away and the knife-like demarcation between this world and the next dissolves in an instant.

It’s strong medicine and the effect can be shocking. And beguiling. Along with mourners, pilgrims, tourists, citizens and students, Varanasi seethes with wayward foreigners who wear layers of dishevelled clothes and far-away expressions on their sunburnt faces.

I spent a week in Varanasi and often felt bombarded with intense energy and surreal disorientation. But on my last night, I took a boat across the Ganga to the flat, wide sandbank on the other side to watch the sunset over the city and the ghats.

Some time after the sun disappeared behind the ancient buildings, the pink sky faded, leaving a pale glow that made the entire scene soft and indelibly beautiful.

I began to understand why this spot is considered so very sacred.

Lights appeared and shimmered gently on the crystal surface of the sacred river and soon after the aarti began way down the river at the main ghat. But I could hear the powerful chants and see the huge flames of the diyas from where I was seated on the sand, across from Assi Ghat. I felt in that moment in harmony with the rhythm of Varanasi. It is so peaceful on the sand bank, yet very few living souls cross over to this other side.

I lit two diyas that I had purchased on the ghats, spoke the prayer to the mother of India, Jai Ganga Mata, and set the candles afloat on the river in the twilight as the boatman rowed me back to shore.

Mariellen Ward is a Toronto-based freelance writer.

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Not surprisingly, the overnight train from Agra to Varanasi wasn’t the most relaxing experience.  My Spanish bunkmates roused around 5:30 am, a good thing because we arrived in Varanasi at 6:00 and I had no idea what time we were supposed to arrive.

I followed the Spaniards to the main arrivals hall which, as expected in India, was very busy.  I stood there waiting to be found.

Not long after, my London friends Josh and Aaron arrived, looking none the worse for wear after their evening in AC3, one class below my train car. Miraculously, my Varanasi driver found me amidst the hubbub. I asked if we could give my friends a ride to their hotel. Oh no, the answer, their hotel is very far away. I’m sure.

I called Devesh, the Varanasi guide recommended by the October 2008 Departures Magazine whom I had organized before I left Canada. Sure enough, the boys’ hotel was in fact very close to the Surya where I was staying – go figure. So I explained to my driver, Babu, and his greeter sidekick that I had my own guide and that Josh and Aaron would be joining me.  They respond that they want to take me to their boss. By this point in my trip I am prepared to put my foot down. Firm, but gentle, I insist they take the boys to their hotel before dropping me off.  Babu furrows his brows, then smiles in agreement.

When I arrive at my hotel my room isn’t ready, so I head to the restaurant for breakfast. Inexplicably, all the fruits in my fruit salad are canned except for the banana. I am delighted to discover my hotel warmly embraces the standard issue Indian paper napkins which feel like they’re coated in plastic and disintegrate immediately upon exposure to food.  The table runners are filthy, and the bamboo centerpiece has a drowned fly.

My grotty Varanasi hotel room

On that theme, I arrive to my grotty room and discover the bathroom has a few mosquitoes swirling around. No wonder – you could fit a raccoon through the gap under my balcony door. For the first (and as it turned out, only) time on my trip, I set up my mosquito net.  Then I chuckled at the pathetic toilet paper provision and laughed when my Indian phone plug didn’t fit in the outlet.

I waited for Devesh in the lobby.  I plugged my phone into the outlet and it rang – it was Devesh calling from two metres away to confirm I was me.  What followed was a large discussion with Babu who insisted that I go to the office to speak with his boss.  I gave Babu a straightforward choice: either he takes us with a tip that would recognize his extra effort, or we get a new driver.  Babu passed his cell phone to Devesh who then passed it to me, explaining that they didn’t believe I had booked Devesh from Toronto. Sighing, I spoke to the boss (who, unusually is a woman, or perhaps a man with a very high voice) and firmly explained my position.  Phone went back to Devesh then to Babu.

“Okay, all set,” Devesh says. That was easy.

Sarnath

We picked up Josh and Aaron and drove to Sarnath where the Buddha first began teaching and which consequently became a major religious centre after the 4th century C.E. Devesh revealed within two minutes why he came so highly recommended.  He was smart, funny, had a perfect command of English and was a bewitching storyteller.  By the time we arrived he was mid story and the three of us were captivated.

The "faux" Buddha

Pilgrims' gold rubbings

We visited a Buddhist temple which had the story of the Buddha painted by a Japanese painter and a sandstone Buddha made to look like gold.  Devesh explained that according to the Buddha, the source of all our confusion is greed: when you have nothing you lose all anxiety.  When you see the Buddha holding his fingers in a circle it represents “undoing the knot”, or releasing the confusion of life. I was so inspired I bought the book “What Would Buddh Do?” Ah, the Buddha – the MacGyver of the ancient world.

We strolled the grounds, admiring the massive bodhi tree and visiting the Ashoka temple ruins where pilgrims rubbed gold leaf on the ruins for good luck.  We strolled clockwise around the Dhamek Stupa (a “stupa” being a mound shaped like an upside down alms bowl which stores Buddhist relics), followed for a while by a persistent child asking for chocolate. We surrendered to the tutelage of Aaron who had spent two weeks in a Thai Buddhist monastery and taught us to solemnly repeat “Om mani padme hum”. Aaron then described how, after a week of 16-hour days of silence, he made a ninja run for the fence to get cigarettes.  After that we visited the Jain temple where we learned there are two kinds of Jains: those who wear white and those who wear nothing.  We saw neither. Jains do not believe in harming any living beings; they won’t even eat onions or garlic for fear of offending the bacteria that live on such beings. I was intrigued when Devesh said that most Jains were stingy businessmen. Hmmm.

Weaving the good ole' fashioned way

Yet again, the inevitable craft shop pilgrimage. In Varanasi they’re known for their silks with metallic thread. Our craft shop hosts claimed the process for weaving silk hadn’t changed in the last 200 years. Having visited the primitive conditions of the weaver, I can believe it. Boy, did we sure learn about making silk!  The silk thread comes from Bangalore. The spools of copper wire are cleaned in a large vat of sinister-looking blue chemical whose fragrance permeates the air and then polished in sawdust. It’s dyed into metallic colours (silver, gold) after which a machine mixes the silk thread with the coloured wire, making metallic silk thread.  The weaving is done piece work all over the city. The weaving machine uses punch cards that instruct the machine which threads to weave.  Thus the pattern is created.   Of course my immersive silk education led to a scarf purchase.

Josh, Aaron and I treated Devesh to lunch at my hotel which Devesh claimed was one of the best restaurants in Varanasi. I recalled my dubious breakfast in silence.  But I have to admit – the palak paneer, dal makhani, garlic nan, pineapple raita, babganoush and mango lassi were pretty awesome.

Heading to the ghat in Varanasi

Devesh then organized the two bike rickshaws to take us to the ghat for the evening Hindu ceremony by the Ganga, the Ganges.  I was so excited – going to evening puja in Varanasi is one of the most quintessential Indian rituals you can experience!  And the rickshaw ride there?  Spectacular, amazing, incredible, fabulous.  As the streets got increasingly busy, you could feel the happy energy surge. All kinds of people – locals, pilgrims, holy sadhus, tourists from all over the world – were flowing down the road to the ghats, the riverbank steps. Although technically no vehicular traffic is allowed, our rickshaw drivers stealthily bribed the police to let us pass – without us noticing.  Given the rickshaw congestion, this was clearly common practice and undoubtedly very lucrative for the gatekeepers.

“Quick, look over there!” Devesh said, pointing to the textile store to our right.

“What the…?” I started.  Inside the shop was a giant ox. According to Devesh, the ox has been visiting the store on a daily basis for years. He causes no problems, and even leaves the store to relieve himself before coming back in. This ox was famous enough to make the pages of the Toronto Star.

Jupiter Temple

We passed the Jupiter Temple, the only temple in the world dedicated to worshipping the planet Jupiter. Luckily it was Thursday, the only day of the week the temple is operational. And by golly, it was busy.

If this was the opening act, I couldn’t wait for the main show!

At this clothing store, ox marks the spot; Varanasi shop owner welcomes the presence of blessed, aging animal
Rick Westhead.  Toronto Star.  Toronto, Ont.:Apr 23, 2009.  p. A.10

“Namaste, mind the ox.”

Not the usual greeting a visitor would expect walking into a store on one of the traffic-choked roads near this sacred city’s famous riverfront ghats.

Four years ago, Naveen Chhugani opened a clothing store called Lucknow Chikan House on a narrow, gritty street where he sells shirts and kurtas for 120 to 220 rupees ($3 to $5.50 Canadian). On his first day of business, a red ribbon still stretched across the entrance of the store, an ox wandered in and sprawled out on the cool floor.

It’s come back every day since.

“We call him Nandi Baba, named after Lord Shiva‘s ram,” Chhugani said, folding clothes and wiping down an idol of Lord Shiva behind his counter. “I don’t know what we did to deserve this. We’re blessed. We open at 10 every morning, and he’s always there, standing outside, just waiting. It’s a unique thing in all of India.”

Lord Shiva is one of Hinduism‘s most revered gods, both a lord of life and a destroyer of life. His bull, Nandi, was a constant companion.

On Sundays, when the store is closed, the ox usually sits on the store’s front steps. Chhugani said he feeds Nandi Baba sweets, barley and vegetables – tomatoes are his favourite. Somehow, the ox knows not to relieve himself inside.

Over the past few years, word of Nandi Baba’s favoured store has spread through Varanasi. Chhugani said tour guides, ferrying both Indian and foreign visitors alike to the turgid waters of the Ganges River for a boat ride, often stop off at the Chikan House first to take pictures of the placid and mangy-looking ox.

As is the case with cows, which typically roam free on streets even in cities like New Delhi, oxen are considered holy in India. But Nandi Baba doesn’t look especially consecrated. His horns look mouldy and his hide is mottled and worn. “I think he’s 14 or 15,” Chhugani said.

“I don’t even want to think about what happens after he dies. I guess we’ll take him down to the Ganges and put him in the river.” The Ganges is Hinduism’s holiest river. It’s considered an honour for Hindus to be cremated at one of the funeral ghats (steps) along the river, their ashes then deposited in the water.

Chhugani has made the ox a part of his business. His invoices, order slips and even his business cards now include photos of Nandi Baba.

Chhugani said no customers have ever been hurt by the ox, and no one has tried to shoo him from the store, especially after an incident with local police a year ago.

A few days before the prime minister was scheduled to arrive in Varanasi on a visit in March 2008, a police officer walking the streets tried to move along a cow that was standing next to a sweet shop, swatting it with his baton. The very next day, the same cow somehow made its way into the police station a block away, ransacking the place.

“It was quite a day,” said Vikram Yadav, a local journalist. “The police were helpless to do anything. It was such close quarters and they couldn’t do anything. They couldn’t shoot it, there would have been a riot. We have learned to live with animals here. It’s a way of life.”

Even in a shop selling saris and kurtas.