VARANASI: A DIP IN THE RIVER
The big story in India this January is the ‘Cold Wave’. Everybody knows the daily low temperature, how much it is below average, and the grim statistical death-count it has caused (643 and counting) . The cold moist air that comes down from the Himalayas creates a huge fog bank across the northern plains every evening as the temperature drops. Depending on conditions and where you are, the fog lingers into the afternoon, or doesn’t lift at all. Every year this throws transportation schedules into utter chaos. One couple we met waited 12 hours on the platform in Calcutta, and then learned their train was cancelled. We have been fortunate: both overnight trains we have had have been pretty much on time. But enduring the fog and cold is another matter.
The way the railway lines run mean we don’t arrive directly in Varanasi from Calcutta, but at a junction called Mughal Serai. Mughal Serai is a rubbish pit of a town, and one of my least favorite places in India. The clamour of drivers trying to get us into their auto for the 13 km trip to Varanasi starts as soon as we hit the platform, and increases in volume and decreases in price the further into the station we get. The ruse is to get you into the vehicle at any price, and then put up such a fuss at the destination that you give them more . The benefit of arriving from Mughal Serai – in the 
morning at least – is that we get dropped at the end of the bridge over the Ganges River, and hire a boat to row us the final 2 km to our guest house.
We are wrapped up in all the clothing we have to guard against the morning chill, and bundle into the bow of a wooden dory. It ‘s a huge relief as our boatman, Muna, pulls away from the hassle and hustle of the road. All that jarring cacophony is replaced by the rhythmic squawk of the rope oarlocks, and the yammering gulls trailing a neighboring boat who are throwing them snacks. The fantastic curve of the river fades into the fog as we slowly row towards the place called both The City of Light and The City of Death. It is 
a timeless vista: on our left the bank is completely deserted; on the right stone steps continue the rise from the river into an idiosyncratic geometry of palaces, temples and houses. A beautiful scene unfolds as we near our landing, Scindia Ghat: washer women are holding up long lengths of bright sarees to dry, forming a multi-coloured mandala.
Our business begins later that day as it always does: with warm greetings and sweet chai. Everyone is seated on the floor wrapped in balaclavas and blankets, and we are in down jackets. With the new moon approaching, we are told, there is a conjunction of three events: the kite festival, Maha Sankrati; the festival of Mauni Ama Vaysa ; and a solar eclipse. The kite festival traditionally marks the end of the cold season, but this year there is no end in sight. Our host Ajit, as a responsible member of the community, has already given 100 blankets to the poor. His mother, he says, has made it known that no one who comes will be sent away without one, so porters are 
constantly coming in with more bundles. In between this philanthropy piles of silk scarves are unfurled at our feet, and bed spreads, and cushion covers, and tea is served, and food, and more tea.
No work takes place on Maha Sankrati – everyone is flying kites. The next day is the new moon, and with the festival and a solar eclipse it is a major event. Where we are the eclipse will only be partial, but it is still regarded as ill-omened. Most businesses are closed, and the superstitious will require purification rituals afterwards. Since the Ganges is perceived as the ultimate purifier, it is a big day at the ghats. Many of the crowd are villagers from the surrounding area, and they have been gathering since morning. An important part of the ritual of this festival is the giving of 
alms. Professional beggars, snake handlers, the handicapped and the poor line most of the approaches to the river, and receive, typically, a sprinkling of special rice, “khichori”, from the pilgrims. After their dunk in the river, many worshipers also leave their clothes behind to be picked through later. Ajit tells us that some of the wealthy even leave gold bangles and Rolexes behind. It is also a day to give clothing to the poor of an untouchable caste, and they walk through the streets of the old city, making their request with a half-sung half-shouted rhyming verse. By the time the moon has moved away from the sun – about 2:30 – there are tens of thousands of people along the banks of the Ganges River. More are ferried in over-packed launches to the other side, a wide sand bank, where it is much easier to get into the water. We have left the 
impossibly –congested ghats for the space afforded by a boat. From this perspective the crowd changes from a collection of individuals – some singing, some dressing, some just waiting – into a single flowing creature, a river in itself. This is India, and the river and the city and the country always has something more to throw at you. As we are rowed along in front of the worshipers, the body of a young boy floats past – the boatman has to raise his oar to avoid it. He is face 
down, and there will be no answers to who he was or where he came from. It is a startling sight, but I have to think of it as the boatman does: meaningless, now that the life is gone; more matter, returning to the water, the earth, or the fire. So life goes on. And so much life goes on that there is no time to pause; the crowd chants, and surges, and submerged in the water purification is given.
The other topic, besides the “Cold Wave”, that everybody is talking about is the “Price Increase”. It came up in Calcutta, when I was 
negotiating for a leather bag, and the dealer’s first line was “sugar is twice as expensive!”. In Varanasi it is the same: cotton is forty percent more than last year; and silk yarn has gone from 1600/rupees a kilo to 2400. Everyone is pointing fingers, but in general it comes down to two things. One is good: a general increase in wealth in the country. And one is bad: hoarding by speculators, and the newly-created futures market for agricultural commodities. The merchants that we deal with in India operate on small margins, but have always been (like us) very reluctant to raise their prices. This year they have no choice, and we willingly pay them more. In the case of one of the products most dear to us, the price has increased almost 40%. These are the silk scarves and shawls from Varanasi that we call in our display “Simply the finest hand 
weaving we can find”. They are extremely beautiful, intricate hand-woven silk made by a Muslim community outside the city. When we started buying them eight years ago, there were over 70 weaves making them. Because of our special relationship, the price remained unchanged until this year, even though the art is dying out. This year there are only 12 weavers left, and with the price of silk at record levels, the increase was unavoidable. We have decided to keep our price the same, on these masterpieces for one more year. But this is your last chance! After this, they may not be available, at any cost.
For a video of the festival, check out this:Mauna Festival
You can see more of our Varanasi videos: The Boatman Rows us to the City of Death , Silk and Chai , Gadaulia Crossing and Our Front Yard (and they are getting better all the time!) or all of them by going to youtube, and searching for: kebeandfast
There are, of course, lots of photos on flickr. Just go to our website: https://www.kebeandfast.com and click the flickr link.
live at Scindia ghat, which is to the east of center. In front of our window is the leaning tower of a temple too heavy for its foundation, now picturesquely subsiding into the river. From our hotel we walk down a dark flight of steps, and as soon as we set foot on the ghats above the temple someone yells “Hello! Boat?!” It is a greeting we will hear several dozen times a day, touts trying to take us for a ride on the river. A few steps along and we are at the wood piles of Manikarnika Ghat. This is the most auspicious – and expensive – place to be cremated. Big scales weigh up the logs for each fire. We take an archway to the left, and descend almost into the yard where the bodies are burned. There are always five or six pyres on the go. I have seen this scene many hundreds of times, as have most people 
here, and there is very little overwrought emotion on display. All the same it is a peculiar place. Dogs find relief from the cold and their itches by curling up in the warm embers, and sometimes a naked holy man will bathe in the ashes of a dead fire, covering himself from head to toe as a graphic expression of the impremanence of life. We skirt the top of the burning grounds, and return to the river’s edge under the palace where our friend Pappu lives with his family. The palace has been abandonned and unkept for generations, and Pappu, a kind but down-at-the-heel Brahmin I met years ago has as squat inside. Charming as they are, the ghats are filthy and smelly, serving as a toilet for dogs, people, cows, water buffalo, and all the other creatures who have nowhere else to go. A little way along the ghat is wide enough to play cricket on, but I always wonder: who gets to fetch and clean the ball, or do they just keep bowling crap?
but primarily it is a big laundromat. The water is a turgid brown, and knowing what goes into it I recoil from even getting my sandals wet, but scores, hundreds, thousands of people are scrubbing frothy masses of clothing in the river, and while their knickers are drying they brush their teeth and lather up and kick around for a bit of a swim. Either the hospitals are filled with ulcerous cholera patients, or there is a God.
our business, we decide to keep going. Right beside the main ghat, the Dharbhanga and the Maharana have some beautiful palaces, but from there things decend out of the tourist-pretty very quickly. The Harischandra ghat and it’s environs look more like the water buffalo bathing ghat. This is another cremation ground, however, the poor relative of the Manikarnika. There is no fancy temple here, just a mud flat where the bodies are washed and burned surrounded by wallowing livestock. Beside it, the Dandi Ghat has attracted some pretty strange tenants. There are holy men, sadhus, all over the city, and dreadlocks, ashes, face-paint, robes or lack of them, pet snakes, drums, skewered lips, hash-filled chillus don’t usually attract my attention, especially as there is often a pitch for money involved. So walking by the makeshift tent I barely glance in, but Katheryn says: they’ve got a human skull!. I know it’s bad manners, and I don’t usually take pictures of people with human skulls 
without asking, but this time I sneak one, and get out of there quick. This is India, and there are no solitary occurances, and a few yards on the sadhus have FOUR skulls on a mat in front of them. This time I ask for a photo, and the answer is no.