India assails the senses. It honks and shouts. It offers and begs. It is the drifting smoke of incense and the heavy stench of garbage. It silently whispers prayers. It calls out to you in the street. It is stubborn cows stomping into traffic and skinny dogs catching naps in puddles of shade. It is color draped and wrapped, over shoulders and heads.
It is in this barrage that even the holy must exist,
especially in one of their holiest cities, Varanasi. And in this world,
religion has pushed and prodded into every available space.
On India’s holy Ganges River, which plies the banks of
Varanasi’s step-like ghats, sacred and humdrum intertwine their fingers and
greet each day.
Pilgrims bathe in the revered waters alongside people simply
lathering up and bathing. Hindu ceremonies take place alongside rollerskating
and cricket matches. Prayers are said, children swim, people squat and piss. Hundreds
of blessings are asked of hundreds of gods.
Chai is drunk, beggers beg, hawkers peddle their goods, and
the Ganges stretches her arms in preparation for another day in
Varanasi.
