Mecca for Hindu-Philes

Article

by Isabel Huacuja

I cringe at the thought of writing one more travel essay about Varanasi. Many say Varanasi is a sort of Mecca for Hindus because more than one million pilgrims visit each year. But I cannot say with certainty that Varanasi is a Mecca for Hindus. No Hindu scripture requires a pilgrimage to this city. I can, however, say - with absolute certainty - that Varanasi is a Mecca for foreign India-philes. Lovers of India believe that Varanasi magically holds the answer to this vast, diverse country’s secrets. In all honesty, I am no different. I believe that visiting the holy city by the Ganges will help me make sense of Hinduism. I ride the train from Delhi to Varanasi, and I drag my Indian friend Rahul along.

By now, I have read enough to know that Hinduism is hardly a religion. Arabic texts, the first to mention the word Hindu, use this to term to refer to inhabitants of the Indian subcontinent, the land across the Indus River. In these writings, the word Hindu has no religious implications. To the British, Hinduism was all that was non-Muslim and non-Christian. Although "Hindu" sects had distinct and independent origins, the British lumped them together in the same category. With time, Indians also began labeling themselves "Hindus." But, in essence, Hinduism is a conglomeration of religions, philosophies, cults, deities, rituals, and practices – with different histories and origins – consolidated into a big -ism.

I get my first shock during the train-ride to Varanasi, across the Northern Indian state of Uttra Pradesh. I grew up on a farm in Northern Mexico, and I enjoy traveling across the country, but the rural landscape before me can hardly be called countryside. Every inch of land is used for either farming or grazing. There is no wilderness. There is no empty space. Not one kilometer passes by before I see more people. The Mexican countryside where I grew up is impoverished and dry, but this landscape is shockingly scarce. It is rural in all the awful ways: no electricity, no schools, no jobs, no opportunities, but it lacks the natural beauty and peace of the countryside. It is overly-crowded and over-cultivated.

I reach Varanasi - the city that I believe will help explain India to me. The sight is all movement, all colors, all chaos. Cars, rickshaws, motorcycles, pedestrians, and cows flow in every direction. Vegetables and vendors in every corner. Bright saris right and left. It smells of putrid water, incense, and cow dung. And the noise. The noise is endless. Honking. Chattering. Yelling. And more honking. And then more honking. I find myself feeling nostalgic for Delhi – even its hectic Chandini Chawk feels peaceful in comparison. Rahul, my traveling companion, reminds me that this is a low season and that the city is a lot more crowded during religious festivals. I look around and wonder how Varanasi could possibly fit one more person.

In spite of the chaos, in spite of the filth and the noise, there is a certain charm to this ancient city. Or perhaps not in spite of, but precisely because of the commotion there is magic to this place. Varanasi is a place where people come to die. Dying here guarantees moksha, liberation of the cycles of birth and death. I see funeral processions left and right and bodies are cremated on the river's shore. They say that Varanasi is the city of death, and yet, to me, this city seems overflowing with life.

Early the next morning, I start my temple visits. After all, I came to Varanasi to understand Hinduism, and temples, I think, are a good start. Before leaving Delhi, Rani auntiji told me I must visit Kashi Vishwanath Temple because it is one of the holiest and most auspicious temples in India. It stands on the western bank of the Ganges and is dedicated to Lord Shiva. Rani Auntiji warned me, though, that I might not be able to enter because access to non-Hindus is restricted.

"But maybe you can blend in. You are almost Hindu, anyways." she suggested.

I was not sure what she meant by either comment, but nodded in agreement.

I decide to first test my luck with the Kashi Vishwanath temple. Outside the temple's alley, a young woman in a worn green sari approaches me. She shows me her new born baby and asks me for money. I never succumb to beggars. I do not believe that giving money out in the streets makes a difference. The baby cries incessantly. The young mother looks my age, and I don't have the heart to walk away. In my pidgin Hindi I ask her to follow me. Rahul looks at me, baffled. I explain that I want to buy milk for her from a chai-wallah (tea seller) inside the temple's alley. The woman follows me, but before we can enter the alley, armed guards stand up, hold their rifles high, and yell at us. I try to understand their screams, but can only decipher a few words. Rahul approaches me and explains that the woman with the baby is not allowed in the alley because it is too close to the temple.

"She is an outcaste," he says softly.

I am too shocked and confused to make sense of the situation, but I notice embarrassment and something else, which I later understand to be coveted indignation, in Rahul's composed voice.

I walk into the alley alone. The woman in the green sari and Rahul wait outside. The chai-wallah refuses to sell me milk because he does not want the woman to drink out of one of his cups and pollute it. Anger flows up in my chest like a case of awful heartburn. I try my best to stay calm. I empty my water bottle and tell the chai-wallah to fill it with milk. I pay him, walk out, and hand the woman the bottle with milk. She thanks me profusely in rapid Hindi, but I cannot look at her.

The guards adjust their rifles and giggle to themselves as I walk by them once more on my way to the temple. I am furious. A million thoughts run through my head. A large sign in front of the temple announces: only Hindus allowed. Nobody questions or looks at me twice. I enter the temple and walk through it like a zombie seeing nothing, feeling nothing. I try to pay attention to the rituals. I remind myself that this is one of the holiest temples in India and that I should appreciate my visit. But I cannot stop re-living the event in my mind: the woman's desperate eyes. The screaming guards. The chai-wallah who refused to serve her milk. Thoughtlessly, I pay homage to different deities. A priest offers me a blessing, and I pay him for his services.

Rahul waits for me outside the temple. When we meet again I request he ask the guards why the woman could not walk into the alley for milk.

"You know why. What is the use of asking and making a fuss?" he tells me in that soft, composed voice that I am starting to resent.

"I want to hear it from them," I plead, although deep down I know Rahul is right.

The guards, in between giggles, give a short and sweet answer: "She does not have a husband."

I understand, and don't need a translation. Outside the temple an old woman digs through a pile of rotten fruit. The putrid smell is overwhelming and makes me feel nauseous. But I sense that it is not really the fruit that makes me feel sick, but that awful feeling building up inside of me. Rahul and I walk away in silence. I know that he is as hurt and angry as me, and I resolve to say nothing to him.

Later that night, I meet Adriana, a Spanish tourist. We are both delighted to speak Spanish to each other. I tell her about the woman with the baby and about my unpleasant experience outside Kashi Vishwanath Temple.

She shrugs her shoulders and says, "India has its castes. It is the way society works."

She also adds that she is shocked I was able to enter the temple. Our conversation leaves me angrier and more frustrated. If Adriana judges discrimination in her own country, she must judge it here as well. In Mexico, in Spain, in the U.S, and in India - discrimination is just that - discrimination. I remember a conversation I had with an activist-lawyer in Ahmadabad, Gujarat, India. She had interviewed female victims of the 2002 riots and told me that the apathy that followed the crimes was as hurtful as the crimes themselves. Her words stuck with me: “silence is as powerful and sometimes as pernicious as violence itself.”

Rahul meets me at the ghats by the river. We watch the sun set on the Ganges. The day is scorchingly hot and the night breeze is a welcome relief. Perhaps two hours, perhaps five minutes pass by. We lose track of time watching the river absorb the sun's fury. The water bulls relax by the shore. A man sings a mantra. The night whistles a soft tune.

Something feels ageless about Varanasi. In this city of death, life flows in circles. It flows around us, above us, inside us, and beyond us.

I open my bag and take out my pen and journal. And there - by the ghats of a timeless river in a timeless city – I write. I refuse to remain silent.