Down by the River

There are bodies sprawled in odd directions everywhere, cocooned in shades of multi-colored silk, sleeping on their shoes. Amid the masses at the train station in Varanasi, Kelli and I step out onto an overcrowded platform, smell the air and wish we hadn’t. Back in Kolkata, I almost threw up upon arrival. The bathrooms on the trains, open holes which drip down ugly on the tracks, wreck the air entirely. Also, I was terrified and terror happens, at least for me, in the stomach. If there is anything I’m afraid of, it’s the absolute indifference of chaos, a world without order and without regard for the existence of individuals. India, especially when it comes to public transportation, is exactly that. I’m doomed. Pushing my way to the restrooms, I stood for a moment above the squat toilet with my hands on my knees, which was a mistake. The air wasn’t any better there, much worse in fact, so I got out, found an isolated corner, and started taking breaths. Thankfully, in Varanasi a low breeze moves in off the Ganges, carries some of what is rancid here away. Eventually my stomach calms and in no time at all Kelli finds a driver. We throw our bags in the back of his car and head out into the center of town. Where the river is. Where the Ghats are. And where, in a matter of two short days, I’ll fall in love completely with a city half a world from home.

             

It probably shouldn’t surprise a person that any of India’s seven sacred cities turns the stomach inside out and back again. According to legend, the seven Shakti Peethas were founded in places where various bits and pieces of an immolated bride, Sati, wife of Shiva, are said to have fallen. If the legends are correct, after Sati committed suicide, Shiva took her body over his shoulder and proceeded in a rage specific to a God whose heart is broken and who carries the carcass of his bride across the universe, destroying everything, everyone. Being fond of their creation, the other Gods quickly and violently intervened. Vishnu, in particular, followed Shiva cutting Sati into seven pieces. Varanasi, I believe, is where her left hand fell, the Ganges filling up with blood.  

            

These days, the Ganges fills with feces. With fecal coliform levels hundreds of times higher than is safe for a human to encounter in good conscience, the river is one of the filthiest bodies of moving water on the planet. Literally, it should kill you. The fact that it doesn't is perhaps the only argument outside of the experience of faith that there is, in fact, something holy to her. Everything else is waste. For the most part, Kelli and I are scared of Hepatitis C, a disease we’re certain enters the current when Hindus submerge their dead in the waters of salvation and which we accuse each other of having contracted every time we step in a sludge puddle.

             

“Get away from me, you’re infected,” I say.

“Whatever,” Kelli says, shaking off her sandals. “What the hell is this anyway?” 

The “this” she’s referring to looks, remarkably, regrettably, like diarrhea. Draining slowly from a hole in the bottom of a crumbing staircase, the sludge is half liquid, half solid, pale brown. Bits of things, I don’t know what, partially floating, partially not, but in either case they’re dragged along by gravity toward the hoard of bathers who line Ganges to our right.

            

Earlier, after the sun crested the pollution line, turned into a bright pink ball on the horizon, the two of us sat together in a wooden rowboat, saying very little and watching from the river the city slowly come to life. First, noises, low and distant sounds. A dog barking. Silence. Then more dogs. From far away, the muffled clank of bells like metal pots, human chanting, clamor. The boat rocks back and forth. Silence. More bells. Silence. For whatever reason, we speak less and less these days, but it isn’t awkward, it’s nice, calming even. And in India, the experience of calm is rare, if ever, and it is best allowed to last. There is nothing to do but cherish it, the two of us side by side and rocking in our little boat, the still and sacred water, body of the Goddess Ganga, dirty as she is.

             

Every morning the men, women, and children of Varanasi flock to the Ghats to cleanse their sins and start the day from scratch, covered in sewage, Hepatitis C, and the ashes of the dead, a new slate. Watching them, especially with cameras, feels strange, so we take our pictures from far away. Up close, though, is where the magic happens. The men strip down to nearly nothing, which means we see a lot of scrotums.

             

“There we go,” I say to Kelli, “that’s your boyfriend.” Her newest boyfriend, a large and rather unattractive man with a mustache and gangly hair is touching himself without mercy in front of everyone and calling up to her from where he’s standing in the shallows of the Ganges covered in white soap.

            

“Miss, where you from? Hold on. Miss, I take you on my boat!”

            

Because she’s white and pretty and looks like she has money, though she doesn't, the men of India all call out to her. For all anyone knows, Kelli could be my girlfriend or my wife, but it doesn’t matter. The men all flock to her, nearly crash their bicycles, their cars. They come up and want their pictures taken. Usually, she obliges, but I can tell it’s beginning to annoy her. We’re constantly accosted.

            

 “Talk to the white girl,” I like to say when the kids come up to me, which Kelly absolutely loves. Recently, though, the kids specifically have ceased with even the slightest pretense of a courtesy and refer to Kelly simply, honestly, as Money.

            

“Hallo, Money,” they call in unison, “Hallo, Money. Hallo, Money.” At times they follow us for blocks.

            

 “I can’t take you anywhere,” I say.

             

Back on shore, the cars have started in, jockeying for position on the crowded streets and letting their horns go. The holy city is awake. At the moment the locals are preparing for a festival, which we’ll miss. Some 200,000 people are expected to flock to Varanasi tomorrow from all corners of the country to drink and bathe in the water together, to rub it in their gums and spit it out, to bottle it and take it home and use it at their altars and pray to it and cleanse themselves and save themselves from sin. I don’t get it, but I don’t need to. I really like it here. I can't explain it, but I do. For whatever reason, the river is a special place, even to an American who’s not a Hindu and who, furthermore, is utterly dismayed by the way the river has been treated. I could sit by her for hours and I do. Yesterday we watched a body burn, five of them, in fact, stood up in silence and walked away.

            

The morning before we leave, Kelli and I get breakfast at our favorite restaurant and walk the ghats together for a final time, stopping every now and then to take it in as best we can and hold it, hoping that it lasts. Down below us, the boatman are cleaning up their boats and painting them. Tonight they’ll fetch about a hundred times their normal prices for a single trip, which seems ridiculous, but Hindus, if anything, are devoted. They will pay to pray here. It doesn't matter how much or how far they have to travel. Come dark, the body of the Goddess Ganga will light for miles with millions of candles lined in perfect rows on the terraced concrete steps. In droves, the devoted will sing and dance and chant together as they’ve done for centuries. As a single entity, they will do these things. They will take the river. They will put the river in them.