Benares

"Crazy when something from six months ago is still vivid in your mind." - Wagner Floriani.

The 'ghats' of Varanasi along the Ganges river.

A few days ago a friend of mine changed their cover photo on Facebook to one of our team walking along the Ganges river as the sun was setting on our way to some cultural festival or another. His caption was the above quote. It is crazy how that place still lives in my mind so vividly. It's crazy how poignant the memories are.

the street on the way to the community center

 If I close my eyes for a minute and remember I can almost feel the scorching sun, the dust on my feet as I make my way to the community center, the sweat beading on my forehead as I pull my head scarf a little further up to shade my face from the sun. I can hear the rickshaw horns and voices calling loudly and see the cows lazily wandering along the streets taking full advantage of the right of way that comes with their 'holy' status.  I can still hear my students running through the narrow alleys that lead to their run down homes and holes in the wall calling "Auntie Mesilla! Auntie Mesilla!", I can see their mischievous little faces and remember their antics as they attempted to capture my attention. More often than not their antics bordered on violent and usually involved pinching and slaps across the face the likes of which I had never seen any American or Brasilian child inflict. Then again I've never seen a Brasilian or American child bounce back from anything like that as easily as these Indian children did. The truth is they were used to this kind of rough treatment. The kids we were privileged to work with were children from the lowest rung of India's social system - the untouchables, or to use the politically correct term - Dalits. They are quite literally the outcasts of society. In traditional history to even touch one was to render yourself unclean - hence the name untouchables. Today the world likes to think that the social situation in India has vastly improved, and in some ways it has, but those who would say that the caste system in India is dead are foolish. It is very much alive - particularly in a city like Benares - otherwise known as Varanasi. Varanasi is famous around the world for its religious festivals and the ghats (walk ways and steps) that line the 'holy' Ganges river. It is considered the mecca of the Hindus - their most holy city. It is said that if you bathe in the Ganges river in Varanasi that your sins will be forgiven. To die in Varanasi,  be cremated and have your ashes deposited in the Ganges is to gain entrance to their version of heaven. 


Sari clad lady climbing steps to the temple

All things considered this city where we lived for five weeks was the epitome of Indian culture. In the early morning as the sun rose if you found yourself along the rivers edge you would see hundreds and hundreds of pilgrims and residents preforming the rituals of worship to the sun as it rose in the east and the 'Mother Ganges' - dunking themselves repeatedly in the contaminated water. At any point in the day you might stumble upon a procession carrying a dead body covered in orange clothes to the ever burning 'burning ghats' to cremate a loved one - you will hear chanting and shouting, but never crying - tears upon death are condemning to the decease's soul. For this reason women are not allowed at the burning ghats. In the evenings if you find yourself about the city you may stumble upon a group of devout Hindus singing their hymns as they preform 'puja' waving what looks to a westerner's eye like a flaming Christmas tree around and around in worship to one god or another - I honestly can't remember which, there were so many of them i had a hard time keeping them all straight. All through out the city there are countless idols and sacred trees - so much so that one time I tried to figure out how many I passed each day and lost count. I will say that it makes for interesting traffic situations when one of those sacred trees just happens to be in the middle of a major street (there were actually several of those believe it or not.)
 


Shivani and Pyal

All of these things live on in my memory as if it were yesterday. My friend Kristen and I have often remarked that it feels almost as if we could wake up tomorrow and still be there serving and working the best of our ability to complete the goals set before us. We worked tirelessly all day teaching the aforementioned children to read in both Hindi and English. I remember watching as the four children placed under my care would fight over who would get to read the Hindi children's illustrated Bible each day and wishing that they would stop fighting over the book long enough to grasp the words the book contained. Little RimJim's favorite story was the Christmas story and Ruth. Vivek liked the stories with warriors. To all of the them the crucifixion story and the Easter story made no sense at all because they had no point of reference for it. They usually read that story quite hastily just to get points for the pages they read. At other points in the day I and our other team members spent hours trying to help them grasp the concepts of math, music, science, and soccer. All the while receiving our own education in the Hindi language, and Hindu culture. Whenever we weren't working we were traversing the country side or eagerly perusing the shops of Godolia - a maze of street shops laden with beautiful but cheap wares that threatened to swallow you alive if you didn't keep your wits about you. Customer service has a different definition in India. All you have to do is give the slightest indication of what item you'd like to purchase and poof the shop keeper proceeds to absolutely destroy his own shop in an attempt to find you exactly what you want - whether it be a scarf, trinket, pillows, shoes, or clothes. If you peruse for long enough he may even offer you a cold coca cola or some fresh chai on the house. Days spent in Godolia were always an adventure.

I could go on endlessly about the things that we experienced in Varanasi - I could tell you of the ache it's left in my heart longing for the Light to overcome the the pervading darkness that shadows that incredible city. I could tell you of the temples and the rituals we observed. I could tell you what it felt like to watch dying people raise their eyes in hope to an idol made of wood and stone. I could tell you the chill that swept over me as I stood in the monsoon rains watching as a dead holy man was tied to a stone and thrown in the river. I could tell you a lot of things. I've said next to nothing of the food, or my living conditions, or the work that is already being done there - the candle in the dark. I could tell you things for hours on end (as some of my friends can bare witness too. They've been so kind, and such good listeners to my ramblings) but I'm afraid that that wouldn't really serve any purpose here. My goal with this post has not been been to write eloquently, or to impress you - but merely to share a piece of Varanasi as I remember it. For the sake of my family and friends who have yet to hear these stories, I hope this has given you a little idea of what that place means to me.
Still to come - the final India post: Lucknow.