by Jason Wilson
“It is such a beautiful city,” said Pramod Chandra, an elegant soul who comes from a long line of Varanasi thinkers and writers (and who is a professor emeritus of art at Harvard). We were seated in his large, bare family home not far from the burning ghats and the crumbling palaces. “If they did it up, it could be like one of the great cities of Spain or Italy. The tall houses in the Old City? If you go inside, you find abundant worlds there—courtyards and inner spaces, everything. But the problem in India is always bureaucracy. It’s deadening.” There was now, he said, a plan for creating a futuristic overpass around the Old City, so as to turn the maze of ill-lit alleyways into a kind of inner suburb.
Because the buildings of Varanasi are only about 350 years old, the city has always had to sustain its traditions in human ways, through rites and ideas; it is not the stones or monuments that give Varanasi its sense of continuity, as in Jerusalem or at Kailas, but the unchanging customs passed down from father to son to grandson. The professor recalled for me, over a long evening of talk, the days when educated boys here learned Sanskrit from pandits who came to their homes, committing to memory huge swatches of holy text.
So part of the deeper fascination of the City of Light, beyond the visceral shock, is the way it brings together back-lane black magic and high-flown speculation and, in so doing, serves as India’s India, a concentrated distillate of the culture’s special mix of cloudy philosophizing and unembarrassed reality. Spirituality in Varanasi lies precisely in the poverty and sickness and death that it weaves into its unending tapestry; a place of holiness, it says, is not set apart from the world, in a Shangri-la of calm, but a place where purity and filth, anarchy and ritual, unquenchable vitality and the constant imminence of death all flow together.
In Varanasi, as everywhere in India, the first rule of survival is that getting anywhere at all—from A to B via T, Q, and Z—is an ordeal; but settling into some quiet corner and joining in the rhythm of life around you can make for one of the most cozy and companionable stays imaginable. The center of life is Asi Ghat, at the southern end of the line of ghats, which has now turned into a foreigner-friendly neighborhood of eco-institutes and Salsa Dance Aerobics classes, pizza restaurants and compendious bookshops. And the epicenter of Asi Ghat, for the fortunate few, is the Hotel Ganges View, an unassuming-looking place whose thirteen rooms are usually filled with some of the most interesting Varanasi watchers you will ever meet.
Here you can find yourself sharing a table on a candlelit rooftop with a Danish psychiatrist working with trauma in Iraq, Rwanda, and Bosnia, and a German scholar of Hinduism. After dinner the low-ceilinged dining room was turned into a backdrop for an intimate concert, and as I sat there, being whipped up into the ether by two sarangi players and a tabla virtuoso, a gnomish man with tufts of white hair and a tweed jacket came in. He looked back at me and casually nodded, and I realized that it was a German singer of Sufi ghazals whom I had last seen in the Tiergarten in Berlin, talking of Ethiopia and Mali.
Varanasi has at times this feeling of being an insider’s secret, marked on the invisible map that certain initiates carry around with them, and as the days went on, I came to see that the constant back-and-forth—the advance into the intensities of the river, the retreat to a place from which to contemplate them all—was part of the natural rhythm of the city. Every time I stepped out of my hotel to be greeted by my loyal friend with his rickshaw, I was pitched into the Boschian madness of a teeming, pell-mell cacophony in which, amid the constant plodding of beasts, I saw ads for an Institute of Call Centre Training, notices for “radio jockey certificate courses,” signs for those dreaming to become “air stewardesses.” The promise of the new India is that even the poorest kid in the slums, if he applies himself at a Brain Gym, can make it not to the NBA but to an MBA course, and to the once-unimaginable world marked out by the shining new malls and ubiquitous signs for McVeggie with Cheese. Such is the inclusiveness of Varanasi and the hundreds of gods it houses that the new is taken in as readily as the old.
We would clatter through the mob and arrive at the river, and I would be reminded how and why members of my own (Hindu, India-dwelling) family would often tell me, “Don’t go to Benares [as Varanasi was long known]! It’s just stench and crooks and dirt. Only tourists like it.” In Aravind Adiga’s Man Booker–winning first novel, The White Tiger, the narrator declares, “Every man must make his own Benares,” a way of saying that for the upwardly mobile and up-to-the-minute creature of New India, the old city stands for all the ageless hierarchies and ancient rites that have to be pushed aside. Varanasi is the home of your grandmother’s grandmother’s dusty superstitions, and the new global Indian purports to have no time for it.
At the river itself, on the rare day when the fog lifted, men were blowing conch shells to greet the dawn, and women were pounding clothes upon the stone steps to wash them. Saried figures were stepping into the surging brown, and others were lifting their cupped hands to the rising sun. Varanasi, I thought, was a five-thousand-year-old man who may have put on an fcuk shirt and acquired a Nokia but still takes the shirt off each morning to bathe in polluted waters and uses his new cell phone to download Vedic chants.
There is another sight that helps to underline this ancient dialectic. Indeed, Sarnath, more or less a suburb of Varanasi these days, is to some extent the product of the same back-and-forth. Born into the higher reaches of Hinduism, the young prince who became the Buddha walked away from all the abstraction and ritualism of Brahmin priests in order to find his own truth, just by stilling his mind and seeing what lies behind our pinwheeling thoughts and projections. After he came to his understanding in the town of Bodh Gaya, he traveled to Sarnath’s Deer Park and outlined his eightfold path for seeing through suffering.
To travel from Varanasi to Sarnath today is to undertake a similar journey, and one that retraces a central shift in the history of philosophy. As soon as you move out into the country fields and narrow roads on the way to the little village, the roar and tumult of the holy city begin to vanish, and you see Buddhist temples from all the traditions—and buildings with names like the Society for Human Perception—peeping from behind the trees. A beautiful museum houses Buddhas excavated in the area over centuries. One minute you’re in the midst of the whirligig shock of crackling flames and darkened lanes, and thirty minutes later you are in a large, quiet park where monks in yellow and gray and claret robes are seated silently on the grass, meditating before the Dhamekh Stupa, originally set up here by the emperor Ashoka 249 years before the birth of Christ.
Because the Dalai Lama was about to offer teachings nearby, the pleasant park around the 143-foot stupa had been transformed into a busy, merry Tibetan settlement. As I looked out on the park, some Vietnamese nuns in triangular bamboo hats joined the Tibetans to pay their silent respects, while a Mongolian—striking in topknot and beard and rich silk robes—roared out his prayers. I went to listen to the Dalai Lama talk about the bodhisattva way of life, and when he was finished, the little lanes of the settlement filled with so many red-robed monks that it felt as if we had all ended up in Lhasa when it was a center of the Buddhist world.
On my arrival in Varanasi, it had seemed impossible to pull myself out of its hypnotic spell, its constant movement, its air of danger around the flames, where so many men (and it seemed to be all men) were waiting in such a state of restless energy that I could feel the sense of violence just below the surface of the Indian communion, in which a spark of misunderstanding can quickly turn into a blaze. On my third day in the city, my bicycle-rickshaw ran right into a procession for the Shia festival of Muharram, in which thousands of bare-chested Muslim boys were waving swords, shouting slogans of defiance, and carrying through the narrow, jam-packed streets 10-foot poles and silver-tinseled shrines that looked certain to collapse on us all at any moment. Two days later, the monthlong period of mourning was still blocking traffic.
But as the days went on, I realized that all I really had to do wa
s sit and let life along the riverbank unfold around me. A crow was perched on a placid cow, now and then pecking bits of seed off the animal’s cheek. A holy man fielded a cricket ball in the river and flung it back to the boys who had set up a high-speed game along the banks. Gypsies from the backpack trail drifted by, swathed in scarves and shawls.
I had been determined not to fall under the city’s spell, nor to repeat the lines that so many millions of visitors have uttered, changelessly, for more centuries than I can count. I knew that Varanasi—India to the max—would stretch credulity in every direction, and I told myself to stay clear and alert, on the throne of pure reason. A part of me, lapsed Hindu, longed to stand apart. But as I kept returning to the ghats, I found myself thinking along lines I’d never explored before. Standing by the bonfires, suddenly noting how silent all the men around me were—the clamor was coming from elsewhere—I started to imagine what it would feel like to see a lover’s body crumbling and crackling before my eyes, the shoulder I had grown used to holding every day for twenty years reduced to ash. I started to think about what one does with remains, and what exactly they mean (or don’t). I felt the truth of the Buddhist exercises my friends sometimes spoke about, of seeing in every beautiful model the skeleton beneath the fancy covering.
I began to walk south along the river then, till I came to the other burning ghat—orange flames lighting up the surrounding buildings with their glow—and as I kept walking, the path grew deserted and dark till the only light came from far above, where a candle was flickering inside a rounded shrine. I walked on and on, deeper into the dark, knowing the steps and walkways of the city so well by now that I could dodge the areas where the water buffalo were wont to relieve themselves, and knew how not to get tangled in the kite strings of the little boys who raced along the riverbank in the uncertain light as if to tangle us all up in Varanasi itself. The decaying palaces up above, with their hollowed-out windows and interiors stuffed with refuse, or with huddled bodies, looked, when a light came on, like the homes of celebrants at some great festival who had long passed on—ghost houses.
That death could be a shrine before which everyone pays homage; that holy things, as a tour guide says in Shusaku Endo’s haunting Varanasi novel, Deep River, do not have to be pretty things; that all of us are flowing on a river in which we will be picked up and brought into a larger current; and that there can be flames marking the fires of heaven as much as of hell—all played havoc with what I thought I knew.
A crossing ground, I began to think, is not just where the dead move on to something else but where the living are carried off to another plane, and where thought and sensation themselves are turned around. “For Hindus,” I had read in the work of the great Varanasi scholar Diana L. Eck, “death is not the opposite of life; it is, rather, the opposite of birth”—akin, perhaps, to leaving a cinema by a different door than the one you came in by.
The following morning I ran into my guide from my first day, always so eager to show visitors the beauties of his city.
“How are you, my friend?” I called.
“So good, sir. It is a beautiful day. More warm. No fog. Visibility is good.”
“So you think the curse is lifted?”
“Oh yes, sir. This all means it is the coming of spring.”
The next morning, my last, I awoke to find the whole city covered in a pall of mist so thick that the ghostly towers and palaces I could see from my room seemed to have unmade themselves in the dark. Planes would not be able to take off or land. Trains would be delayed twenty hours or more. Vehicles would crash into one another, with fatal results. Down by the river, I could not see 30 feet in front of me, so that the smoke from all the fires—and winter fog and pollution—made every figure I saw look like a visitor from another world. It could seem as if we were all trapped now, spellbound in this sleeping world, and that the dense, feverish, self-contained model of the universe was inside our bones and had become our destiny, our home.
LYNN FREED
Keeping Watch
FROM Harper’s Magazine
Those who haven’t lived . . . before the Revolution never
tasted the sweetness of life.
—Charles Maurice de Talleyrand-Périgord
SINCE THE END of apartheid, it has become commonplace among South Africans, particularly middle-class whites, to mourn not apartheid but the world that passed with it, a world that predated its demise by at least a hundred years. What they miss most keenly is the safety they had enjoyed—at home, on the street, in the car. In place of that world is now a sort of civil anarchy that has caused many to leave the country and those who stay to take shelter behind high walls and electrified fences, alarm systems, panic buttons, and security guards.
Not long ago, they point out, children were free to bicycle around the streets and women to drive wherever they wished, day or night. Cars could be parked without a guard to pay off. Restaurants didn’t have to lock you in behind wrought-iron gates. Even the vast numbers of poor were safer—just ask them how they cope with this siege of violence.
And yet violence was always implicit in South African life, and often explicit as well. If guns were scarce before the eighties, knives certainly were not. Knife fights, flick knives, stabbings, stabbings, stabbings—these were the daily fare of newspaper reporting during the fifties, sixties, seventies. And if they were largely confined to ne’er-do-wells and Africans, well, we all knew it was only a matter of time before it was going to climb the hill to find us.
So when our garden boy came home half dead one day, stabbed just under the heart, I stared down at the wound as into an omen. There it was, a dark, moist, oozing thing, no distinction between dark skin and dark blood, and the gleaming white rib at the center of it. Even at the age of six or seven, I knew exactly what I was seeing: I was seeing the future. Except that for us, there would be no chance of a doctor stitching up the wound. For us, the knife was going to be drawn deep across the throat.
Much of my childhood anxiety was spent concocting ways to save myself when the Knife-at-the-Throat bloodbath actually came—where to hide, whom I could count on for help (the nanny, although at the top of the list, would, at least in theory, be part of the same knife-wielding rampage). We all knew how it would happen. One night, without warning, our servants would rise as one, snatch up knives from their various kitchens, and rush next door to slit some white throats. Turn around, and there, in the doorway, would be Josiah, the Sullivans’ cook, eyes wild with dagga (marijuana) and their carving knife at the ready. Our own servants, we knew, would not be able to bring themselves to slit our throats. They’d go over to the Sullivans, or to old Mrs. Holmes on the other side. She was always complaining about the noise we made on the cricket lawn and wouldn’t give back the balls we hit over the hedge. And so, in a sense, it would serve her right.
Meanwhile, I kept watch. On a Sunday afternoon, if Zulus were pouring down the hill on their way to their faction fighting, I would sit at the study window, keeping a firm eye on them. At that time faction fights were ritualistic affairs, and many Zulus were dressed in traditional warrior regalia—skins and rattles and headbands. They jumped and whistled and shouted and shook their clubs and sticks in the air, whipping themselves into a frenzy for the contest that was going to take place down on the soccer fields at the beach.
All it would take, I knew, was for one of them to leap our fence and come crashing through the bed of cannas for the bloodbath to start right there, at our house, never mind that that wasn’t the way it was supposed to happen. It had happened already in Kenya with the Mau Mau, a phrase that could spark terror in the heart of anyone, let alone a frantic child checking behind the wardrobe before she could bring herself to leap onto the bed and under the covers.
And so when I woke up one night to the sight of a strange man at the foot of my eldest sister’s bed, I was sure it had begun, and that no amount of cunning was going to save me now. We were at a holiday hotel in the mountains, my sisters
and I in one room, my parents in the other, and the door firmly closed between us.
I lay as still as stone, moving only my eyes. My bed was lower than the others’—a sort of camp bed, brought in by the hotel and wedged into a corner. All I could see from down there was the man’s hat, and the way his head bent over my sister’s bed. Maybe he’d slashed her throat already, I thought, and was just checking to see if she was dead.
But what if he wasn’t a native? What if he was a Coloured and didn’t even have a knife? Coloureds, we knew, weren’t going to rise up against us, because they were better off than the natives and wanted to keep it that way. Our Coloured housekeeper had a bedroom next to mine, and used the children’s bathroom, and ate the same food as we did, but in the kitchen, and off different dishes.
I took another look, but it was impossible to tell. In the dark he could even have been an Indian. An Indian had once lured a girl in my class into an alley, and he’d made her pull down her pants, and a nurse, leaning out an upstairs window, had seen them down there and called the police. And after that the girl had seemed different, as if she had a birthmark down her face, or a limp, or a mother who had died.
But no one ever thought Indians would rise up and slit our throats either. They worked as waiters and gardeners and behind stalls at the Indian market. Some of them had shops down on Grey Street, and my mother knew them, and they knew her. Come the revolution, she said, the natives were as likely to slit their throats as ours. Everyone knew natives hated Indians. When the natives had rioted against them and burned down their shops, a native had thrown a brick at my uncle, who was dark and looked a bit like an Indian himself. And when Pillay, our gardener, had to use the toilet in the servants’ quarters, they weren’t at all pleased, the housegirl told me. Indians were dirty, she said, they stank of curry and hair oil, phew, and also they cheated you. Except that she called them “coolies,” a word we were never allowed to use.
