MOTHER GANGA
The River Ganges
Varanasi, India
July 2015
I have never seen a body of water more respected and more utilized
in my entire life. I live near a river
so I understand that a body of water can grab hold of you for some unexplained
reason. But this river owns the heart
and soul of every Hindu I have met.
People speak of this river with a reverence that is admirable. They use
the river as their primary water source for bathing, cleaning, praying and
relaxing. Yet they pollute it with such disregard that they must think this
river will clean itself, and maybe I am wrong about this thought. Maybe they
just don’t care that it is filthy, littered with tons of debris, fecal matter,
decomposing body parts and years and years of deposits of cremated ashes. Maybe they have so many family members in
this river that it is a comfort to be here with them regardless of the polluted
conditions. Regardless, this river has a strong hold on everyone.
An evening ceremony honors Mother Ganga every night.
Thousands of people attend and pay homage to the sacred waters. People bring
empty containers, which they fill with this dirty water and bring it home. There is a facet below my balcony. Water from the river is pumped through these
pipes. Men come here just to brush their
teeth each morning.
The women bathe in one section. They tend to sit close to
the edge of the river, on the steps.
They are usually with small children so they don’t go in too deep; just
enough to sit and cool off from the intense heat. They sit as a family unit and
sing songs. And when they finish, they
huddle together quickly and discreetly, taking off their wet sarong and putting
their dry, oppressive sari back on.
The men tend to bathe right below my balcony. Some of them strut quiet a distance from some
unknown location to the men’s section.
They strut like peacocks. They are usually big bellied, wearing a tight,
tight pair of undies that barely cover their parts. They strut without shame, without thought of
bringing their clothing with them.
They jump in, they dive, they splash, they are loud and boisterous,
they scream in jubilation as they touch the water. It is a joyful occasion for them. They swim great lengths and they appear to
move at great speed, as if the tide is forever taking them away from us. They
swim around the many rowboats in their way.
But they don’t mind. They call to
one another as they joke and swim and enjoy every minute of this opportunity.
There are close to a hundred boatmen who will take you on a
ride up the river. Small-framed boys sit on the stern of rickety, worn-out
wooden rowboats and row for as long as someone will pay them. They spend the
whole day on the river in hopes of getting at least one passenger.
Priests sit under large umbrellas and offer blessings and chakra
marks for all who would like to keep this moment as a sacred homage to Mother Ganga.
Men walk around and sell flower petals as offerings to the Mother God. Containers of water are filled and brought
home for reasons beyond my understanding.
Yogi masters hold discussions with students under the brutal,
beating sun. Loners walk the steps and mumble prayers to themselves. There are merchants
who are pushing their wares but their interruptions are minor considering the
volume of people who come here every day.
They sell beads, silks, spiritual offerings for the river and the ghats.
Hindi music is available for purchase on CDs but not much more than that is
sold here. This clientele is singularly focused on the river.
There are lots and lots of stray dogs. They travel in packs
and spend much of their day trying to find a cool place to lie. Throughout the day, these packs will intrude
on each other’s territory and a war starts; they yelp and growl and bark at
each other. There are a few bites. But
the warring is short lived but frequent.
The hotels along the river use these waters to clean their
sheets. Boys stand on the steps, in the
water and pound the sheets, towels and pillowcases. Then this laundry is draped all over the
steps and sidewalks to dry. The side exposed to the sun dries first, then the
sheet is flipped over and the other side dries.
Once dried, the sheet is dusted off, folded and taken back up the long,
steep steps to the hotel.
There are villagers who come over from the other side of the
river. They come in water taxis that hold way too many people. These boats go
back and forth all day long, carrying people and their wares.
Bells toll from the various ghats all day. They call people to prayer. Sometimes they
glare these chants over a PA system for all of us to hear. People stop in at
all times of the day to pay their respect to Vishnu and the multitudes of other
Hindu gods.
The sunrises over the river are reported to be spectacular.
But I have not seen this as it has rained the last three days so the start of
each day has been dull, gray and not worthy of any more than 5 minutes on my
balcony at 5:30AM. Maybe I will get to see this beautiful sight tomorrow.
The national government bans the deposit of full or partial
body parts in the river. It’s an effort to minimize the overwhelming pollution
problem that Mother Ganga suffers. Cremations are still allowed as long as the
entire body is burned. Cremation ceremonies are open to the public. I am in search of this ritual as I am anxious
to see how people who believe in reincarnation view this moment of permanent departure.
The banks of the Ganges are just a series of thousands of
inconsistently shaped and sized steps. For no reason, platforms go up and down
within a matter of feet of one another.
All of these steps wreak havoc on my arthritic knees. I find myself
looking for paths of less resistance while I am also dodging huge piles of
animal fecal matter. The biggest contributors to this problem are the
cows. They roam the steps and get tired
so they sit wherever they can find comfort.
We walk around them without thought or concern. Some people stroke them,
maybe as a sacred gesture; I’m not sure.
The monkeys tend to hang at the top of the steps. That’s
where all the restaurants are located.
They hang with the potential of food. I hear them as they traipse over
the aluminum rooftops or swing from a tree and blop down suddenly, thunderously
on the rooftop. They fight each other all day long. Today, one monkey was eating something and a
second monkey came up from behind and snatched it. He got his ass chewed, literally. He sat in
front of me, enjoying every morsel as his rear end dripped blood from his
freshly torn wound.
The river wakes up around 5:30AM every day. People are in
the water with the first break of light.
The celebration to Mother Ganga ends around 8:30PM and the sun is long
gone by then. Most people leave with the
sun. Just the dogs roam the banks after dark. There is stillness in the air as
I linger outside my balcony but that tranquility is deceiving. This river
exudes life. Millions of souls are resting before me. And each day more and
more cremated souls join the Mother Ganga to watch over all of us.
or bkmemoirs.wordpress.com
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