9:30 a.m.. Varanasi Junction. You can’t set a foot on Platform No.1 without either trampling on a fellow human or on fresh poo. Its Dev Deepawali. Millions across India and from abroad are converging at the ghats of the Ganges. This occurs each year fifteen days after Diwali on a full moon night of Kartik Purnima. Gods descend from heaven on this day to bathe in the Ganges; hence, the chaos.
As festivals go, this is as big as it gets at Benaras. All
the 80+ ghats are lit up with diyas, the sky is smattered with firecrackers
rarely seen, sound and noise pollution levels touch new highs and brisk
commerce is undertaken by vendors in temporary stalls. The boatmen make their
annual killings on this evening. I overheard one of them quoting a lakh to an
inquiring customer for a one hour ride.
Yet it all merges to produce a spectacle worthy of the gods.
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Breakfast. The mandatory fare is all about kachori-sabji, hot
jalebis and malaiyo. A bit more about that last item. Milk is left out in the
open at night to catch the dew. A sprinkling of cardamom, saffron and sugar is
followed by vigorous churning to generate a frothy output. This is then topped
with pistachio crumbs. The end result transcends you to heaven.
Ram Bhandar, in Thatheri Bazar, is supposed to set the gold
standard for kachori-sabji-jalebi. As a non-regular, please factor a half hour
wait and serious jostling before your turn arrives for the goodies. The stuff is good, but there’s a
better, lesser known option around. You need to move away from the ghats to get
a taste of the real deal. This is a hole-in-the-wall outlet at Chetmani
Chauraha. The place sets the Nadia Comaneci (Montreal edition) standard. Its
the mix of black grams and paneer in the sabji that does the trick. As you
munch your jalebi, the crackle can be heard for miles around.
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The `bhakts’ may continue to holler. Their worthy opponents
may shout themselves hoarse. India has only one religion, one opium for its
people. Its called cricket.
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Rahul catches me at Chet Ghat. His English is fluent. He sizes
me up, and says I must be from Canada. Canada?! I get the drift of his
observation and deduction thereafter. Chet Ghat houses a mutt of Sachchidananda
Maharaj. The Maharaj has huge following of Indian origin from Canada. Rahul
concludes that I must be one of them. He escorts foreign tourists around the
city. He’s disappointed that I’m not a newbie to the place. But his commentary
on the history of the fort at Chet Ghat, the battle with Warren Hastings, is a
gem.
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There’s something about anchored boats on a shoreline. It
brings a sense of serenity, a lightness of being. It contributes as much to
making Benaras what it is as any other theme.
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Across the river, clinging to the walls of Ramnagar Fort,
there’s Shivprasad Lassi Bhandar. They serve lassi of a semi-solid variety that
you need to eat with a spoon; not drink. Default toppings comprise malai and
rabri. A large `khullar’ of the stuff, a proper meal by itself, sets you back
by forty bucks. Its a steep increase from the twenty rupees I shelled out six
years ago. The post-consumption bliss remains unaltered.
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Babu is a Benaras-bred Bong from Bangali-tola. His dad was a
fitter in the mechanical section of Indian Railways at the local DLW. The
youngest child of his family, Babu peddles `babaji ka prasad’. He stocks stuff
of high quality. Unfortunately, he himself has succumbed to irretrievable
depths from his own addiction.
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At Babua Pandey Ghat, you can’t miss the bright signs of
Lucy’s Heritage Cafe. It essentially serves vegan fare and offers a stunning
view of the ghats. A few months ago, the river overflowed. The resultant floods
wreaked havoc on the city. Lucy’s was practically under water for some time. It
took two months for the delightful cafe to be restored and for operations to
resume.
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The `Swachh Bharat’ mission was a five year drive launched
in 2014 to tidy up India and to bring in a culture of cleanliness. The project served
its purpose for the government’s headline management. It may also have created awareness. At ground level, however, old habits are deeply embedded and die hard. On an early
morning visit to Vishwanath Temple, I stood in a long queue behind a dhoti-clad,
lota-wallah in his forties. He maintained a torrent of spit on the walls of the
temple as the queue progressed. All in the name of faith and Bholeynath!
******
8:30 a.m.. Clear skies. The morning stroll along the ghats
begins. But its soon brought to a halt by the strains of a `bansuri’. I follow
the sound. Perched on a ledge above Tulsi Ghat is a young flautist, constructing
an impeccable Ahir Bhairav. Its evident that he’s professionally trained. A
unique act, in a matchless setting, for an audience of one. A surprise awaits you around every corner at Benaras.
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