Burning Ghats

Above: Varanasi Folk.

Friday 4th November 1983

We set off in search of the Ghats which are the riverfront steps leading to the banks of the River Ganges. The city has 88 ghats. Most of the ghats are bathing and puja ceremony ghats, while two ghats are used exclusively as cremation sites. Hindu’s throng to cleanse themselves and carry out holy ablutions in the extreme pollution of the Ganges river. Western travellers who emulate them, far from finding spiritual enlightenment, are generally struck down by hideous sickness and diarrhoea, not having built up any resistance or immunity to the sewage and pollution in the water.

After a long wander we were adopted by a lively little Indian, dressed in white, who led us through a maze of narrow lanes which were barely wider than shoulder-width. Preparations were underway everywhere for Diwali celebrations, for apparently today was the Indian New Year. See https://www.drikpanchang.com/festivals/lakshmipuja/festivals-lakshmipuja-timings.html?year=1983 for more information.

Most Hindu families decorate their homes and offices with marigold flowers and Ashoka, mango and banana leaves on the day of Lakshmi Puja. It is considered auspicious to keep a metal pot with a large base and small mouth covered with unpeeled coconut at both side of the main entrance of the home. Shabby stalls were gaily decorated with green leaves and orange flowers.

The little chap led us to a temple where we had to pay an old boy 2 Indian Rupees to look after our shoes while we climbed a set of steep oversize steps to the roof. It was misty but we could look down on several ghats and the wide muddy brown river. A few Hindus splashed about apathetically, but it was nothing to write home about (literally).

Back on terra firma matey got down to business and lured us into his art shop. Our initial interest turned to boredom as he unpacked box after box of printed and woven cloth items. A mouse scampered in and out as we supped our tea and waited for a polite moment to get away.

George bough a couple of shirts and I bought a scarf for my sister Katy and we had matey wrap them up in cloth. He stopped being so chummy when he realised that our total expenditure was only going to be about 50 Indian Rupees. He got all moody and bickered over packaging costs when we took our leave of his shop.

In the Post Office the dullard on the parcel counter was flummoxed by the idea of a package for a foreign destination but eventually produced some customs documents and directed me to the “Letter Writer”. This old buffoon mumbled to himself as he checked the forms and painstakingly sewed them onto the parcel. He produced a razor blade to cut off the excess cotton, and in a pinnacle of idiocy he pulled the loose end of the cotton thread through the central slit and sawed roughly on the inner blunt edge until it frayed apart.

Next stop on this charade was the postage stamp counter where I was given 62.50 Indian Rupees worth of stamps to try and stick on the package without obscuring the address. The gum on the stamps was totally inadequate to adhere to the cloth package and a bowl of weak paste provided made no difference.

Thus, I stormed back to the hostel to get my tube of UHU glue. I was livid and dying to punch some hapless clown on the way back to the Post Office. These people are so fucking useless, they couldn’t organise a piss-up in a brewery. We went adrift somewhere along the way and my aggravation increased, especially as the Post Office shut early for Diwali.

Eventually we found the Tourist Bungalow and I glued the stamps on. George went into the Chinese Restaurant for a cup of tea while I set off back to the Post Office in a trishaw. I gave the parcel bod the stamped package and he looked at it as if I had handed him a soiled tampon. Eventually he reweighed it and decided that the weight had increased.

I pointed out that this was due to the addition of the duplicate A4 size customs documents. Resignedly he wrote me out a receipt with the carbon paper upside down so that it didn’t make a copy. I left as two other Post Office employees emptied a vast sack of mail on the floor and began to sort through it by hand. God knows if Katy will ever get her scarf (she did), but it will be a miracle.

Back at the Chinese I re-joined George and dined on sweet and sour boiled egg and fried rice. At least I feel happier now. I don’t think I’ll send any parcels home as it costs a fortune in money and time and undue stress.

Our evening excursion into Varanasi convinced us that the Indians were mad simpletons and that a visit to India, far from a spiritual experience, was an enjoyment for one of warped mind and fans of anarchy. We weaved through the noisy rabble as millions of fairy lights glowed and then failed as the overloaded power circuit cut and was restored.

Mad men and kids hurled powerful bangers (thunder-crackers) into the road which was packed with people, the explosive like I have not encountered since my spell on the grenade range with the Territorial Army.

Another favourite trick of these monkeys was to fire rockets across the crowded roads a few inches above the ground. Staccato explosions ripped through the night blotting out the extremely loud music blaring from most stalls. Cows, bikes, scooters and the odd car battled for passage through the teaming throng of humanity in this terrestrial version of Hades.

We gave up our search for the Golden Temple and the “burning ghats” where bodies are cremated and decided to return to our lodgings before our sanity was thoroughly undermined. We slogged back to the station dodging the explosions and rocket attacks and darted into the protective structure of the Tourist Bungalow Restaurant where I decided that this determined assault on my nervous stability warranted the extravagance of an expensive beer (17 Indian Rupees).

We settled down with our drinks while the battle raged with renewed vigour outside our sanctuary. Bang! Bang! Bang! What a fuckin’ poxy country. Thank Christ that we are leaving for Nepal tomorrow. After a cold shower we nodded off to the monotonous drone of a Yank reeling off tales of his travelling exploits to a soapy French bird.