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Hinduism and Buddhism
In the Hindu religion, the water of the Ganges is considered sacred,
and to bathe in it is to wash away one’s sins. It is also
believed that if the ashes of the dead are cast into the river,
their souls can be cleansed of sin and released from the cycle of
reincarnation. Varanasi is also the birthplace of Buddhism (which
is India is considered a branch of Hinduism, the Ganges symbolizes
the boundary between this world and the world of deliverance. The
side where people live is the present world, while the world of
deliverance is the sandy land across the river. Buddhist visitors
always take a boat across the river to set foot in the land of deliverance.
It is said that by taking a little sand from that place, rinsing
it with water and bowing 100 times each day for 100 days, one can
transfer the afflicted soul of an ancestor from hell to heaven.
Filth and Beauty
Varanasai mingles things that one would not have thought could
exist together. Next to the crematorium, for example, stands the
vibrant marketplace . The same boats that carry corpses for burial
in the river turn into cruise boats for tourists. But it is not
only on the banks of the Ganges that everything seems jumbled together.
The narrow alleys and streets teeming with people, cycle-rickshaws,
and auto-rickshaws are so thickly littered with cow dung. And even
human excrement, that if you’re wearing sandals you can hardly
move a step. When you have gotten used to that, you suddenly notice
that besides all the dung there are also flowers everywhere. On
the stalls of street merchants, in the courtyards of temples, in
front of the little shrines attached to the walls if houses, in
the alleys, in the straw ropes used for tying up corpses, on the
water, in people’s hands, even on the cow dung lie bunch of
after bunch of red and yellow flowers. Even after being offered
to the gods, the flowers bequeath all their physical beauty to embellish
the human world.
 Alleys
and Rooftops
Varanasi’s rooftops are separated from each other by no more
than narrow alleys where two people can barely pass each other.
In a sultry Indian city, the buildings are designed to provide shade
fore each other. In Korea, neighbors might blame each other for
blocking the sunlight, but in India, they feel grateful. Still,
in this maze of alleys, where you are always bumping into people,
it can feel quite stifling. Perhaps that’s why Indian houses
and buildings make such good use of their rooftops. It is characteristic
of Indian architecture to provide a rooftop space equal to the ground
area of the building. The roof of a middle-class Indian house serves
the same purpose as a Korean courtyard. A rooftop is also an excellent
place to admire the view of the Ganges and its banks. With a simple
canopy and some cushions to sit on, the rooftop can sometimes offer
superb views. Besides losing your way in the alleyways , one thing
not to miss while in Varanasi is to ascend to that rooftop under
the sky.
India has 480 million gods, or roughly one for every two Indian
people. In Varanasi, each house has its own god, and with more than
1,500 temples, the whole city might be described as one great temple.
And in spite of such a large number, the gods weren’t able
to look after everyone, and so they created a river-the Ganges-which
many Indians call the Mother River. The Ganges is both a metaphorical
mother and a god made manifest.
The Ganges flows down from the of the icy Himalayan Mountains,
and when it passes trough Varanasi, its banks are lined with many
‘ghats’ or bathing places in the form of stone steps
that lead into the river. Here according to the Hindu faith, one
can instantly wash away ones;s sins by bathing in the holy water
of the Ganges. As a result, each year more than1.5 million people
came on pilgrimage to the holiest place of the Hindus. The belief
that the dead can be released from the cycle of reincarnation by
casting their ashes into the river has made this place a boundary
between life and death. Varanasi is home to India’s largest
crematorium, but it also has a bustling market that is always packed
with people. The ordinary life of Varanasi’s million residents
mingles with the extraordinary experiences of the 60,000 visitors
who arrive each day. On the alleys leading to the crematorium, the
chant of ‘Ram Nam Satya Hai’ (God is Truth, Truth is
God) continues as unremittingly as the smoke that rises from the
outdoor crematorium from dawn to dusk, come rain of shine.
People begin to encroach on the river before dawn has even broken.
On a chilly winter morning only strong men bathe in their underwear.
But the darkness also provides cover for women, who can occasionally
be seen lifting the hem of their saris to immerse themselves in
the water. Some bathers lift up the water  I
their cupped hands to pour it over their heads as they stand half
submerged in the river; some pray, lovering their lips to the river,
some meditate; some carefully pour holly water into bottles. In
the dim light of dawn, they have not yet taken the appearance of
people, but look like shadows of spirits.
Soon the river begins to reflect the sunlight as it flows gently
downstream. The movement of people, too, becomes as busy as the
sunbeam glittering in the water. The ‘ghats’ bustle
with people chopping firewood or carrying things on their backs,
and at one side a steady stream of pilgrims arrive to bathe in the
now tepid water. Mothers come with their children to do the laundry,
and big children wash smaller children. Someone reverently brings
his lips to the water as he performs his ablutions, while nearby
a cowherd leads a herd of black cattle in to the water, their horns
sticking up like bows.  The
cattle seem to be used to this, for as they stand in the river with
only their heads above water, their faces are as calm as the river
itself, and even their horns look like hands reaching up to heaven
in prayer.
In the afternoon, oarsmen come in little rowing boats, loudly advertising
their services to the tourists who have come to see India’s
greatest crematorium. The same boats that have recently been carrying
dead bodies for burial in the river have innocently come back to
the shore to offer sightseeing trips for tourists in the afternoon,
as the river fills up with these tour boats, the banks become less
crowded. People sit there gazing vacantly at the river. To be able
to sit or lie down anywhere, spreading a single mat to create an
instant home wherever you are, is one of the blessings of a tropical
climate. The Indians in Varanasi know this well, and make good use
of it.
 A
man who saw two hours earlier alongside the banks of the river is
still there, just as he was motionless. Whatever he is meditating
or praying, I can’t tell In fact, I don’t need to know.
To him, time is as plentiful as the sunlight shining on his shoulders;
so plentiful that there is no need to count it. I sit down beside
him to rest my legs and steal a glance at his face. His eyes remain
unfocused, and even my direct gaze cannot make eye contact. Beside
him a skinny dog, one of the many dogs that prowl all over Varanasi,
lies dozing. Oblivious to the busy chatter if tourists and pilgrims
who have come to the river bank, time flows as lazily as the weight
of sleep that presses on the dog’s eyelids.
Around sunset on a big central ‘ghat’, the same festival
unfolds each day: an hour-long worship service in which Brahmin
priests make offerings to the Mother River. With long retitations,
they prayholding lighted lanterns. They did it yesterday, and they
will do it tomorrow, but each time they pray as earnestly as if
it were the last prayer of their life. Instead of praying with big
lanterns like the priests, lay people offer little prayers on the
river. These are the ‘dia’, little dishes loaded with
flower petals and a lit candle to be cast onto the river from boats.
As darkness descends, the lights stand out more brightly: the light
of the crematorium that burns on trough the night; the lights of
stalls selling incense, tobacco, flowers, and tea to hose coming
and going from the crematorium; the lights on the sand below the
steps shine like beacons. The moonlight alone would only illuminate
a part of the river, leaving the banks quite dark, but these lights
glow with a belt of warm-colored tint. The little lights of the
‘dia’ sparkle and ripple on the water like glowworms
hovering in the night sky.
These same views of Varanasi can easily be seen in hundred-year-old
photographs as they can today. Varanasi is the oldest city in the
world that is still inhabited. Just as Indians still call it by
its ancient name Benares, when it was built 2,500 years ago, the
city must have looked much as it does today.
Another morning begins to brighten the sky. Day is dawning across
the river, and , started by some sound, a flock of pigeons all at
once rise into the sky with a sound like clapping. It is the beginning
of another new day a yesterday from long ago, a tomorrow that has
already begun
Park Mi-kyung is a freelance writer who communicates a warm view
of human life. Lee Han-koo is a photographer who portrays people
and scenes trough the camera.
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