Day 33-37: Varanasi & Bodhgaya

helens lovely face.jpg — *"Life, death and laundry"*

Unlike some of the other cities we’d visited where expectations hadn’t fully formed prior to our arrival, Varanasi’s reputation very much preceded it; and coming as it did straight after our enforced hotel arrest in Lucknow the culture shock hit me all the harder.

Waking up in a beautiful hotel room lulls you into a certain state and after 5 weeks here it’s clear that India requires all of you, it demands that you’re present. Its not a place you can meander through mindlessly – it requires your attention and concentration and after being cocooned for 3 days in a very nice place which could really have been anywhere is the world – Varanasi felt like we’d been parachuted back into India proper.

Everything is laid bare here – literally life and death happening in front of your eyes – and laundry of course. Lots of laundry. It’s one of India’s holiest places and also one of its busiest with its tiny narrow streets making it feel all the more hectic.

That could be claustrophobia evaporated in a moment though when we walked onto the balcony of our hotel and the sight of the Ganges stretching out – wider and as wonderous as you might imagine.

So with that spell cast we dumped our bags and pulled up two chairs to watch life happen on this mystical river. (As well as two American kids nearly get arrested for flying their drone over it and unintentionally filming women bathing…)

As we sat we were joined by a charming a very well travelled German man named Stefan, a self confessed chatterbox who over two beers regaled us with tales of fifty years of globe trotting – including details of a brief love affair with another Helen on a boat from Mumbai to Madgaon when he was twenty. The next morning we were presented with three pieces of note paper filled with recommendations and must sees in Goa and Sri Lanka. Another special encounter in an extremely special place for so many.

And it’s genuinely true to say that life and death surrounds you here. The city’s bustle and vibrancy regularly presents you with unexpected sights that you just wouldn’t find anywhere else. Sitting in a café enjoying a Lassi and three dead people shrouded in bright orange cloth are carried by, with motor bikes following, beeping as usual with places to be. And waiting to board our train to another holy sight of pilgrimage for Buddhists we glanced down to see an old woman squatting next to a body lying on the platform wrapped in white sheets – very much on it’s final journey. Life and death side by side unapologetically.

Whilst our three hour (and three hour delayed) day trip to Bodhgaya was perhaps an unnecessary detour it was absolutely a welcome one. Having found out on the journey that our next train to Kolkata was cancelled… I arrived rather fed up of Indian Rail. Not least because the website informed us that our train was likely to be cancelled for the foreseeable future…

We’d already experienced one bun fight for tickets at another reservations desk – queues seem to be frowned upon with pushing and finagling oneself to the front the by far preferred route – so we weren’t exactly jumping for joy at the prospect of never getting to the City of Joy.

But stand we did, having filled out a two page multiple section form detailing exactly what train we wanted to get. As a female I had my own queue, helpfully pointed out after half an hour in the non gender specific one which did expedite things a little but only following some finagling on my own part. Having inwardly complained about everyone in front of us for the last half hour we were then the people who crowd the enquiries window for an age… Fifteen minutes later we were on a waiting list for two bunks on the next train to Kolkata the following day with six people in the virtual line ahead of us. As we harrumphed past the line of people behind us, which had doubled in size I felt the need to apologise for keeping everyone waiting and was greeted with shakes of the head and reassurances that there was no need for any sorrys – “We’re glad to have you in our country ma’am”. That being just one occasion when ‘India’ re-balances you – from annoyed and crotchety to grateful and optimistic.

This personal spiritual development perhaps unsurprising continued to be encouraged during our 30 hour stay in one of Buddhism’s most important sites of pilgrimage, where, you know, everyone was utterly delightful to us.

The hosts of our most budget hotel so far could not have done enough for us – feeding us at more than regular intervals and ferrying us to all the important sites including the Mahabodhi Temple Complex where Gautama Buddha is said to have obtained enlightenment under what became known as the Bodhi Tree – a tree which is still there…

Security was incredibly tight to enter possibly due to a terror attack which took place there in 2013 when 10 blasts were detonated across the complex or potentially due to the enormous multi country chanting ceremony which was happening – the thirteenth annual Tipitaka – lucky for us.

I can definitely see why somewhere like that would help you locate some inner peace – a truly hypnotic experience and one which definitely took the edge off our train woes. As it happened we returned to a text saying we’d been successful in our waiting list endeavours (just waiting really) and we would board another train to Kolkata afterall.

And even though that train was then delayed by thirteen hours we were able to embrace what would otherwise have been a pain in the arse (in more ways than one) squat on the platform because our lovely hosts let us stay in our room – without charge – until we eventually left. They are due some excellent karma.

Getting to and away from Varanasi has been such a pain, it's a drag just thinking about it. In brief, one train delayed by ten hours, one train abruptly cancelled for the next fortnight, one 6-hour taxi(!), countless hours queuing in the scrum at railway station ticket counters, one hotel booking failure, turned away from another hotel for being foreigners, tired, dirty, grouchy, touch of flu and now overbudget. But success in the end.

We were a bit unsure of what to expect from the holy city of Varanasi. Pilgrims, hippies and tourists. Bathing in the famously horrible Ganges. Cremation ceremonies on the river. We braced ourselves for an assault on the senses but weren't at all prepared for what we found. Varanasi is energetic, exciting and weirdly charming. The river is wide and attractive and sure, you'd think twice about drinking from it but that's true of everywhere. The Ganges is lined with ghats, broad steps and platforms that lead down to the water and are occupied by holy men in saffron or loincloths, meditating behind long beards or caked in white clay. They share the space with devotees ritually bathing, snoozing boatmen, ordinary people taking their ablutions, dobi-wallahs beating laundry, sacred cows, bad-tempered goats, lazy dogs and dilettante tourists like us.

Behind the ghats are a warren of tiny streets that defy all maps and are so narrow that the cows plod round them one way, unable to turn round and oblivious to the inconvenience they cause. It's colourful and chaotic and the place fills the eyes (or it would if they weren't fixed to the floor; the cows really do make the place their own.)

We take in the thrilling sunset ceremonies, worshippers dedicating praise to Ma Ganga, and take a boat up and down the river at dawn. The Ganges is a riot of activity at all times, domestic chores and ablutions carrying on around the important business of death and farewell. The Burning Ghats are famed of course and the pyres smoulder all day. Bodies swaddled in purple, orange and gold are brought through the twisty streets in procession, trailed by boisterous, hollering mourners - though there’s nothing very mournful or solemn about the way that a person’s passing is marked here; there’s little place for quiet reserve.

We choose not to attend a burning ceremony- not out of squeamishness, there’s nothing very disturbing about cremation itself. Rather, we’d feel like voyeurs at someone else’s funeral. These events aren’t private, far from it, but it struck us as a bit of a ghoulish flavour of tourism. Perhaps that’s a little precious but it was our instinct at the time.

A couple of days in Varanasi was far less exhausting than we’d expected - surprisingly restful, if anything. Still, we had plannned to take a break and get out into the sticks, alternating as we do between city and countryside for the sake of our sanity. Taking online advice from well-travelled friends we jump a train bound for Bodhgaya, where in 528 BC, Buddha found Enlightenment sitting under a fig tree. Where better to take a breath and relax?

Worldly matters intrude almost immediately though as we soon discover that our onward train to Kolkata is cancelled for the next two weeks. The frustratingly vague reason given; ‘fog’. This necessitates a few tedious hours in queues at Gaya Junction railway station, beset by fat bluebottles and impenetrable rail timetables as we re-plan our next journeys. It’s an unlovely experience but one were well used to by now.

Bodhgaya is very basic, beyond the dozens of beautiful Buddhist monasteries but our guesthouse is clean and the staff delightful. We meet spiritual types from around the world, including Victory, from Nepal. Only later do we discover that she was robbed a fortnight before and is making her way to Khatmandu relying on the charity of Bhuddists along the way. Our hosts are putting her up for free and others ensuring she’s able to catch a bus to the border. We talk global politics and meditation with a decent-hearted American charity volunteer and watch slightly bemused as our dinner guests offer the last rites to a dying fly before gently laying it to rest. This only minutes after Helen swatted a mosquito out of the sky with a triumphant “Gotcha!” The Bhuddists are forgiving of us. That’s kind of their thing.

I eat a lot of momos; Nepalese dumplings, steamed or fried and addictively delicious.

More through luck than judgement we arrive at Mahbodhi, the temple built around the Bodhi tree itself, in the middle of the annual Tipitaka chanting ceremony. Over 4,000 monks, delegations from monasteries around the world, chant from the sacred texts in shifts non-stop for a week. It’s night and the air is warm and heavy with joss and jasmine and the repetitive bass-heavy mantras of the chanting monks is hypnotically soothing. We pick our way around saffron-robed men and women in cross-legged trances and sit for a while under the ancient tree while holy men expound on the function and practise of meditation. Structured, spiritual meditation of that sort will never be for me but the experience is undeniably pleasant and peaceful. Even if a lifetime of bad Kung-fu movies means I can’t shake the notion that someone’s going to get kicked through a wall at any moment.