A Parsi goes to Varanasi to discover the quiet in the chaos and comes away wonder-struck by the theatre of excess spirituality
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My father-in-law passed away earlier this year. He was jovial and healthy but succumbed to a sudden heart attack at 74. At his prayer meeting, his friends remembered him for his kindness, compassion, and willingness to help those who needed him. The packed room was partly occupied by former cricketers since he had played the Ranji Trophy and represented Mumbai in the 1970s. The legendary Sunil Gavaskar, a dear friend of his, remarked, “Avi [Avinash] was a big hitter of the ball, but almost religiously got out in the 70s. It’s ironic that he chose to depart from life at around the same age.” Other cricketers from his Dadar Union Sporting Club squad spoke of how they admired their captain for his fierce passion for the game, on and off the field.
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“We have to celebrate his life, not mourn it,” I insisted, when it was decided that we would go to Benaras to immerse his ashes in the Ganga. “We’ll make it a weekend trip,” I told my wife and brother-in-law, who is a scholar in the Brahmanical practices of Hinduism. On the flight, I asked him why the city had three names. “Varanasi is derived from the amalgamation of names of a tributary of the Ganga called Varuna, and the Assi Ghat,” he told me. “And why Kashi?” I prodded. “In the Mahabharata, the city is referred to as Kashi, from the Sanskrit root verb kaś, to shine. It was then renamed Benaras by Akbar, the ‘City of Light’.” I made sure my basics were covered. “This place has several thousand temples,” I was told, “and to some, it represents the entire universe.”
When we arrived, we were greeted by Aakash, the local hustler who’d show us around, and came equipped with the necessary mandir contacts. He wore an olive-green cap and woollen muffler; the rest of his face was warm with an overgrown beard. “Welcome to Benaras is my new website,” he told us after dumping our bags into a well-maintained Innova, which rode through the winding bylanes of the city threatening to graze a car, human, or animal every few minutes. “[I am] Also on Instagram, sir ji,” he showed me his phone, asking me to scroll through reviews posted by previous clients. The city is fraught with deities, ponds and streams; thousands of them, representing tirthas—crossings between this world and the other.
We had to walk from the main road to our hotel, as the inner roads could barely manage a two-wheeler and a few pedestrians at one time. The city had the sacred scent of spirituality; we were ensconced in mysterious fragrances from the time we got out of the car to the time we reached our hotel, that was a cute hole-in-the wall with a balcony view of the river. “The place where we usually stay was sold out,” my brother-in-law explained suggesting that we’d have to make do with this. “It’s perfect,” I replied as I stared at the majestic river; placid but powerful, echoing a cosmic capacity. “It’s the energy she holds which makes the river so special,” my wife explained as we watched a boat carrying mortal remains, tiny birds fluttering over. “People who die here gain moksha. Salvation and freedom from the cycle of rebirth,” she explained, when she figured the Parsi in me didn’t understand what it meant to be liberated. “Which married man does?” I wanted to quip, but instead remarked, “How strange that a city of light is also the city of death.”
“You have to go through the darkness to be able to see the light,” she said. Everything in this city was overloaded with meaning. After freshening up, we walked through the alleys that led us to the steps skirting the river. Dogs dodging the shivers warmed themselves on heated logs of woods. A blue boat and a saffron-adorned priest waited for us to perform the ritual. We set sail just before sunset. It was so cold that I could not only hear, but also see the prayers emanating from panditji’s lips. In a sombre ceremony, with love in their hearts, sorrow in their eyes, and yet gentle smiles on their faces, Mr Karnik’s children immersed his remains into a river in one of the oldest cities in the world. Ashes to ashes, dust to dust.
“Modi ji ne yahaan Ganga ji mein snaan kiya,” Aakash pointed to the new stone embankment built on the banks. We chose a less fancy spot on the opposite side to absolve ourselves of our sins. “And now we can start afresh,” I said in jest. Aakash had arranged for VIP seats on a boat from where we soaked in the famous Ganga aarti. Maroon robed priests whirling a multitude of diyas, whose flames crayoned attractive patterns in the winter fog, made for a good visual treat as masala lemon tea warmed our insides. Little children dressed as Lord Shiva smeared vibhuti on our foreheads to wash away our sins.
The next morning, we paid homage at the Buddhist temples of Sarnath on the outskirts of the city, offering us a gentler experience than what we had in Benaras. Their style of worship is tranquil, not torrential—different from what was about to greet us at the Saptarishi aarti at the Kashi Vishwanath Temple that evening. After a series of security checks, we entered the holy hallows. Seven priests adorned the idol of Lord Shiva amid bells and prayers that reverberated to a crescendo bouncing off the temple walls. Once the aarti was done, people jostled, tugging at the security guards who were in charge of letting a controlled stream of devotees through to venerate the Shivling, the most energised representation of Lord Shiva there is in the country. Aakash had a “setting” with the priests, who gave us a more civil darshan, but I still came out a little frazzled by the experience. “What’s the point of bribing priests to be able to be blessed?” I asked my wife. “Because the God is real, even though everything around it may not be,” she justified.
“Manikarnika Ghat is the main burning ghat in Varanasi,” the brother-in-law said, walking us to the place, knowing it was something I was keen on seeing. Cremation grounds are traditionally placed outside the city gates, to the south. In Kashi, however, they sit at the centre of all life. Over a dozen funeral pyres were lit up by flames, crumbling and crackling in front of our eyes as people wheeled in more dead bodies amidst chants of Ram naam satya hai. “Over a hundred people are cremated here every day,” Aakash told us as I moved closer to the flames to keep warm. “All the fires are lit from this one source that burns always,” he said, pointing to a flame in the corner. “This is the gateway to heaven,” he spread his arms wide, waving away the smoke that engulfed grieving relatives as we contemplated the fragility of life and the finality of death. Profane yet sacred. Impersonal yet compassionate. Grungy yet ethereal. All in simultaneity.
Beside being the city of death, Benaras is known for its street food. During the day, we dunked our fingers in hot kachori sabzi and gulped down thick lassi, while the afternoon was spent savouring roadside tea with “Caesarean” toast: bread that’s slit through the centre and filled with white butter, warmed over a coal fire and then sprinkled with chaat masala. Divine. We ate the final meal of the trip—a delicious vegetarian spread rounded off by hot jalebi and gulab jamun—at the traditional Jaipuria Bhawan. “Street food in Benaras is something to die for,” Aakash told us. I wondered if the pun was intended as we made it safely back to Mumbai the next morning.
Travel well, Mr Karnik. I’m glad we gave you the farewell you deserved. Thank you for all the memories.
The writer is practicing neurosurgeon at Wockhardt Hospitals and Honorary Assistant Professor of Neurosurgery at Grant Medical College and
Sir JJ Group of Hospitals.
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