As the sun sets in Varanasi, we (Karen, Mike, and Luigi) collect out thoughts and gather our energy on the rooftop of the Dolphin Hotel, taking in the views of the Ganga river and rooftops of the city. It’s been an amazing and busy day. It began in the morning with chants from the monks in front of the Dhamekh Stupa in Sarnath. We sat with the monks as they chanted facing the Stupa, and later shared the famed Tibetan butter tea with them. Unfortunately, we were later informed, it was not yak butter in the tea, but just plain old buffalo butter. Still, it tasted quite strong, and salty, but not in an unpleasant way. We all agreed, however, that a glass was about all we could drink of it.

Then we decided to head to Varanasi, “just for a few hours”. That turned into a full day of walking around, taking another boat ride, which took us so close to the funerary pyres that we started to feel sweltering from the heat of the burning logs, a visit to a temple dedicated to Hanuman, the monkey god, which is overrun by wild monkeys, and two passes through the main Ghats, the Dasasvamedha Ghats. So we found ourselves to be within a couple of hours of the night puja ceremony, and decided to stick it out, and witness it.

A few minutes before 6pm, the ghats are teeming with people, some already sitting on the raised platforms that serve as bleachers, and some scattered over the steps, on the roofs of nearby building, and, of course, on boats on the river. Loud music is playing over the loudspeakers, and at first I couldn’t identify the source. Eventually I found out that it was a harmonium player and a table player in the front, play and singing. By the river, there are seven smaller raised platforms, each with a small altar in front, with a few items on top of it, waiting for the holy men to take their place on them. Next to each platform, high up on the scaffolding, there are two bells, connected via long strings to someone in the public.

Eventually the time comes for the ceremony to begin. A candle is lit on each of the platforms, and the holy men take their place. The music becomes a devotional chant, slow and mesmerizing. for the entire ritual, each of the seven men will repeat exactly the same motions: the ritual begins with the playing of a conch shell, staccato at first, and ending with a long sustained note. Then the slow repetitive dance begins: first incense sticks are waved, toward the river at first, and then with identical motions in the other three directions.

Then big incense burners are lit, and waved in the same way, its sweet smell filling the entire audience.

One by one, different offerings are presented to the deities, some of them spectacular in their fiery glory, others as simple as marigold petals. The whole puja lasts for an indefinite amount of time, I really can’t tell if it’s been 10 minutes or 3 hours. Eventually the conch shell is sounded again, and most people start to leave.

However, the ceremony is not over yet. An even slower and more mellifluous dance with a feather brush begins, while the audience joins in the chanting and more upbeat singing. Finally, the holy men all gather at the front, facing the river, preparing for their last veneration. A yell goes out, from the singer and the crowd, hands in the air. A final farewell to the holy Ganga.

We had been wanting to see Varanasi since our brief transit through its outskirts on the way to the Institute from the airport. One afternoon, finding ourselves free, we decided to take the plunge and go into town. Asking someone how to do something or go somewhere in India often means that they will show you, or take you there themselves, and so while we were just trying to gather information by asking Lakdhor how to get to Varanasi, what ended up happening was that Neema, one of our translators, “volunteered” to accompany us.

What made us a little concerned is that two of the translators, Neema included, seemed to feel that Varanasi was “crazy”, and told us they didn’t really like going there because it was too chaotic. This, coming from a guy who lives in India, and lived four years in Chennai (Mumbai), a much bigger town, was disconcerting. No less, we decided to go.

As always, the sights and sounds begin with the ride there. The way to go is by auto-rickshaw: they sit three Westerners in the back (Indians manage to squeeze in unbelievable numbers of people, however), and so Neema shared the front seat with the driver. It’s very difficult to give a sense of what traffic is like: a series of close shaves with other vehicles, bicycles, pedestrians, and cows, a constant honking of the horn to alert other travelers of your presence, a racing spirit that compels drivers to try to pass the rickshaw in front of them, and thousands upon thousands of people, all going somewhere to do something.

After a harrowing and fun 30 minutes, we had to get off the rickshaw: traffic became so intense that motorized vehicles didn’t have a chance anymore. We switched to a human-powered rickshaw, which took us a little further, and then we started walking. As soon as we turned into one of the labyrinthine side streets, the feeling changed drastically. Most of the traffic was on foot, and the houses are small and crowded against each other, and open to the street, whether it was to sell something or just offer a window onto the world.

We had to ask for directions a few times, receiving contradictory information, and took a couple of wrong turns (remember, this is with a Hindi-speaking guide!), but eventually we found our destination: the burning ghats.

Hindus believe Varanasi to be a holy city, and if one dies here, is burned on the banks of the Ganges, and has their ashes thrown in the river, they will escape samsara, the cycle of rebirth and worldly suffering, to go directly to Nirvana. The burning ghats (steps) are were the cremation ceremonies take place. Between 200 and 300 people are cremated daily here in Varanasi.

This was also the only place in Varanasi where we saw other westerners.

We decided to take a boat ride along the Ganga (this is what the Ganges is called here), and we were told a few instructional tales by our colorful guide.

There are five types of people who are not cremated, but are thrown directly into the river: pregnant women; children under 10; holy men; in all three cases it’s because the children, or holy men, are already almost pure. Also, people who die of cobra snake bite, as the cobra is associated with Lord Shiva, and to die of its bite is considered a blessing from the god. Finally, people who die of small pox, for reasons that escape me.

The ride along the river was lovely, and the sights unforgettable.

Back on solid ground, our guide took us to his favorite temple, which is underground, three stories deep. Visitors can look down into a well and see the statue of a bull, next to the symbol for Mother Parvati. On the way back to the auto-rickshaw, he helpfully led us to his relative’s silk shop (located inside his house, of course), just in case we hadn’t realized that we might want to take a look at some fabrics, maybe a pashmina or two. He was very dismayed at the possibility that we were not interested, but we eventually managed to extricate ourselves from there and make our way back to Sarnath.