We did not go out again until the sun had begun to set. This was our last jaunt of the trip, and we were going back to the Ganges. This time we took Rohit’s sister, and several of his friends. We walked a ways then caught a couple of bicycle rickshaws. However we got caught in a traffic jam and took off on foot.
Every single night, there is a festival at the Ganges River. It’s not a festival with a name, it’s a festival because of its air, the air of thousands of people singing, clapping, laughing praying, clicking cameras, and buying trinkets. It’s an air of excitement, and it took us with it as we laughed down the massive stone steps towards the water.
All along the shore priests in sets of eight perform a ritual to praise the Ganges River. They dressed in fabulous outfits consisting of an orange top with a cream sash and loose cream pants. They stood on slightly raised platforms with a little table in front of them laden with their equipment, lights shining on them and a vast crowd surrounding them. The priests held the same flaming chalice I mentioned earlier and simultaneously moved their brands in circles. They went through the ritual slowly and steadily. At one point they would put down the flaming chalice and pick up an ostrich feather fan, or some other item and go through similar, slow movements.
Hospitality is not a lost art in India. However, while many would give it universal praise I find that the sword sometimes has two edges. At this point I’ll give an example of the good part, an example of India’s spirit of spontaneous generosity. I was frantically trying to take pictures of these priests while my camera was obstinately rejecting the newly purchased Indian batteries. I gave it up for a lost cause and put my camera away. Rohit asked me what kind of batteries I usually used. I told him I had had Duracell batteries before, and turned back to watch the priests. Two minutes later Rohit’s best friend pops up with a package of Duracell batteries. There were no stalls nearby, and I have no clue where he found them. Not only that but I’m sure that brand of battery would be rather expensive for him. This was only one small example of the kind of generosity these people showed us, purchasing things with their dearly earned money that would have cost us less than a dollar, and refusing our coin and letting us stay at their small home.
After watching the ritual for a while we walked down the stone walkway a bit. We entered another temple, this one low and almost gaudy with orange paint and tinsel. As we left Rohit’s sister gave us each a bindi, that red dot you sometimes see Indian’s wearing. Different marks have different meanings such as marriage etc. but apparently that one was just a culture thing.
Bindi-ied and in fine spirits we entered another building. This one was a shop owned by a friend of Rohit’s family. Varanasi is famous for producing a special kind of Saree using real silver and gold threads. We were shown several great swaths of fabric. Now you know me, I’ve never been the sort to goggle over cloth, but this was truly beautiful fabric with gorgeous embroidery.
After this we left the shores of the Ganges and walked back into the city. We went into one of the narrow lanes and wound our way to a street-side shop that made good south-Indian food. I’m not too fond of Indian food but this was good stuff. We ate it sitting on a little stone ledge with someone’s laundry hanging over us, surrounded by people and spice racks. One of the charming things about India is that feeling of comfortable casualness.
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