Photo Pest: ghat

Thursday, November 29, 2012

Holy Water at Dawn

I enjoyed the Ganges experience at dawn much more than I had the night before: peaceful vs. gaudy. These women had begun to bathe even before the sun rose. Keep in mind the water is filthy, even by Indian standards, although our guide claimed that no one ever had gotten sick from a ritual cleansing.

Buddhist monks waited in line to board one of the larger rowboats.

They eventually glided past us, the morning mist making them seem almost ethereal.

Some of the boats are colorfully painted.

Our morning rower didn't have to deal with as much traffic, but he covered a greater distance without complaint.

Some men joined the pigeons congregating on the ghats to do their morning wash.

Another man prayed.

Half our group stayed back at the hotel to sleep-in.

Look at what they missed.

I won't deny that the funeral pyres held a morbid fascination for me or that seeing the flames the night before had stoked my curiosity. The piles of wood stacked on the ghats fuel the cremation of bodies, rich and poor. After our boat ride ended Andrew, Dan and I stood close enough to one to feel the heat and glimpse a pauper's charred feet. The man tending tending the pyre hit us up for a donation in addition to the fee he charged us for the experience which suddenly seemed like an unforgivable violation of someone's privacy. It's not something I'd ever want to do again.

Scales like these make sure you purchase enough wood to do the job.

Seagulls looking for handouts surround the boats.

Some ghats are privately owned. This family of well-fed pilgrims looked better off than most.

A young man, no doubt the family prince, bathed alone, above the women. He ignored my request to pose for the camera.

Nevertheless, beauty of all kinds engulfed us.

Somebody had arranged the oil lamps on this ghat into a familiar shape.

Man and beast warmed themselves in the early morning sun.

We returned to the hotel for breakfast and then headed to Sarnath, a major pilgrimage site for Buddhists. En route, we passed this man bathing in the street, a common sight in India.

JP took us into the Mulagandhakuti vihara, a monastery restored in 1930. Wall murals depict the life of Buddha. He insisted on explaining every scene, oblivious to the fact that none of us were listening.

After a visit to the Sarnath Museum, I asked to see the Varanasi train station. Instead, the guide took us shopping for silks. I managed to resist the lure of the loom, no doubt because my video camera wasn't working.

The proprietors were so eager to get rid of me and Chris, the non-shoppers, that they sent us back to the hotel in a private car. But the others bought enough bedspreads, table runners and wall hangings to get an invitation to dinner at the owner's home. Too bad they didn't accept. It would have been interesting to see how a successful merchant lived.

More India:

Arrival in Dehli

Off the Beaten Path in Jaipur

The Pink City

Next Stop: Pushkar

An Unusual Thanksgiving

Time for Hopscotch

Get Your Piece of the Taj Here

Gwalior, the Gibraltar of India

Final Stop: Old Delhi

Wednesday, November 28, 2012

Holy Water at Night

An early afternoon flight to Varanasi, one of the world's oldest continually inhabited cities, gave us plenty of time to deal with airport security. Note that passengers aren't permitted to carry catapults.

A rolling staircase enabled us to board our packed Jet Airways flight, which lasted a little more than an hour and gave us a glimpse of the snow-capped Himalayas in the distance.

JP, our guide, met us at the airport with a van and driver. After a brief stop to check in the hotel, we took a pedicab to the old city, passing this lively funeral procession along the way.

As we neared the Ganges River, the crowd became so dense that we walked the last quarter-mile, more than a little nervous about getting separated, until we reached the water. Thousands of full-moon pilgrims already had begun assembling on the ghats, a series of almost monumental stairs that descend to the water and extend for about seven kilometers. These Indian soldiers had gathered on one of them, waiting for the sun to set.

JP hired a rowboat. George boarded first. I call this the "calm before the storm" shot. A little more than an hour later he threatened to jump into the river if we didn't return to our hotel immediately. As much as most of us shared his desire, it would have been fun to call his bluff.

Pilgrims use these tiny oil lamps, filled with ghee, to seek holy blessings.

Our rower never smiled but he navigated the congested waters smoothly, jockeying to get us good views of the celebrations and funeraly pyres on the ghats. Thankfully, the row boats weren't equipped with horns.

The water was as crowded as the streets in places.

The competing loudspeakers made it impossible to hear JP's reverent explanations of the spectacular onshore rituals and decorations. Religious men are always so sure of themselves.

I enjoyed the puja oil lamp ritual mostly for its photographic possiblities.

Thom never managed to successfully launch one of the lamps on the water. In fact, he napped through much of the boat ride proving once again that he can fall asleep anywhere.

By the time we persuaded our guide that we had had enough spirituality for one night, the scene at the river's edge looked like something that might have been painted by Hieronymous Bosch.