The Indian Equator

by Ian Strathcarron

  An uncannily accurate description of what one finds there now with one, overwhelming exception: monkeys - and yet more monkeys, hundreds of them, squabbling, stealing, frightening and out of control numerically and behaviorally. If one finds the Venetian pigeons are ruining St. Mark’s Square the same can be said of the Indian monkeys in the Golden Temple.

  Elsewhere in Benares too Twain found that “There are plenty of monkeys about the place. Being sacred, they make themselves very free, and scramble around wherever they please.” Again true, but now much more so. Most animals we humans meet day to day are afraid of us. Not the Indian monkey; as they have become more and more numerous and confident they can see we are more afraid of them than they of us. They must think we are just another breed of monkey - and let’s face it we must look as much like monkeys to them as they do to us - some of us more so than others.

  The breeding rate of these urban monkeys is now far outstripping the human rate and the Hindus will do nothing about it, for not only are the monkeys alive and therefore sacred but each time a Hindu sees one he is reminded of Hanuman, the monkey god, the most accessible god of all and to kill - or even interfere with - a likeness to a god is simply unthinkable.

  Here in the Golden Temple I ask Shailesh what can be done about them.

  “Nothing, it has really become their temple. We call it the Monkey Temple in Hindi. Every time a worshiper brings an offering he is, at second hand, just feeding the monkeys. They are in paradise but you wouldn’t think so by the racket they make squabbling with each other. I’m told that about fifty years ago they contracted a plague of sorts and most of them died.”

  “Not that I wish them any harm, but...”

  “Bring back the plague,” Sita suggests.

  “Well, the Indian way is not to persecute them but then not to help them, just to leave them alone,” says Shailesh.

  “So no vets come the plague?” asks Gillian.

  “No vets come the plague,” he confirms

  As one monkey flies across my face and three tiny monkettes scamper around my feet we head for the exit, and then through more frisking coming out. Looking back into the temple - and in spite of the reality of ape terror and the threat of Islamic terror - one has to be impressed by all the outpourings of gold that give the temple its name. Like a local population census, no-one is at all sure of the exact weight but something like eighteen hundredweight of pure gold went onto the temple roofs. It was donated by the Maharaja of Lahore, now in Pakistan, an ironic twist to the terror tactics against the object of his largesse.

  It’s a relief to be back in the unpoliced alleys, twisting and turning this way and that, dodging the cows and stepping around their pats as we make our way to Twain’s next stop, the Kameshwar Temple. It’s only about a minute away but that minute in the eccentricities of the Benares Chowk provides the usual hour’s worth of entertainment.

  This temple is the very opposite of the Golden Temple, being no more than extension of someone’s ramshackle house. It’s the shabbiest temple we have seen in all our time here, but then the immediate area all around it is equally shabby, including the old Honda motorbike parked right up close to Shiva’s gate.

  A lovely old man, wrinkled and stooped and dusty-orange-robed, emerges from the adjoining house and shows us around while Sita translates Mark Twain’s notes to him: this temple was to Shiva in his guise of the Lord of Desires and one should, “Arrange for yours there. And if you like to look at idols among the pack and jam of temples, there you will find desires enough to stock a museum.”

  The temple and garden are indeed packed with the pantheon in miniature I am almost expecting a garden gnome to be in there somewhere. We take chai with the temple keeper, make a small donation to keep Shiva in desire fulfillment generosity and move on.

  We now leave the press of the Chowk alleys and suddenly walk into bright light - and a thick haze of flesh-tinged wood smoke. We are above and looking down on Manikarnika Ghat, the main cremation ghat and the most auspicious place for rich or high-caste Hindus to be sent on their way to the next incarnation. We shall return to this fascinating, gruesome, unstoppable-watchable site later on, as Twain did, with an even better view from the river, so we turn inland and there find the Well of the Earring, where as he noted, one can find “Temporary Cleansing from Sin”.

  As we have seen and will see again, holy sites fall in and out of fashion and fashion has rather shunned the Well of the Earring of late. Shailesh confirmed Twain’s view that at the time it was “unutterably sacred. It is, indeed, the most sacred place in Benares, the very Holy of Holies, in the estimation of the people.” It is still “a railed tank, with stone stairways leading down to the water. The water is not clean”. But whereas he saw “people always bathing in it. As long as you choose to stand and look, you will see the files of sinners descending and ascending - descending soiled with sin, ascending purged from it”, now it looks like an empty and unloved municipal swimming pool out of season. One really needs a Japanese-style face-mask to descend the steps and peer into the stagnant bathing pool which is so filthy and trash-strewn that even the most unquestioning devotee must think twice before dipping into this particular sin-cleansing bath.

  Shailesh sees I am verging on the horrified and says, “It’s not always this bad. In the rainy season the tank fills from below and some people swim in it.”

  “Some people?”

  “A few.”

  “But surely it must just back up with sewage?”

  “It’s a question of faith,” he says and shrugs.

  It’s now time to leave the Chowk and into the heart of the new Varanasi town. The smart move is to stay on the river and walk north along by the ghats. Most tourists - and Indians - go no further north than Manikarnika Ghat and the cremation show there. As one walks north the population thins and the ghats are no less interesting than the ones to the south - if you like that sort of thing. After an amble of twenty minutes one comes to Gaya Ghat and a quick turn inland brings one to the main road for a short assault on the eardrums in a rickshaw to the main post office. A hundred yards to its north and south respectively are our next two stops, the Dandpan Temple and the Briddhkal Temple; the former houses the Well of Fate and the latter the Well of Long Life.

  In many ways I find this diversion into new Varanasi the most interesting part of the tour, away from the obvious tourism and into scenes of day-to-day life for Varanasi’s day-to-day citizens: human, primate, bovine, canine and avian. The buildings are newer, certainly newer than Twain would have seen, but are already decaying; the open sewers either side of the road are as he would have seen them, albeit less foul.

  The back road to the Dandpan Temple is also the main thoroughfare for motorcycles and water buffalo and it makes for an amusing spectacle to see the competing road users go about their business: the water buffalo sway serenely along impervious to all the chaos around them; the dogs just sleep where they feel like it, knowing that somehow the water buffalo and the motorcyclists will not step on or run over them; the motorcyclists weave in and out of the bovine and canine chicanes, the horns on the bikes as permanent as the horns on the buffalos; the humans survive as best they can, pressed up against a wall or sidestepping buff-pats or sometimes both at the same time, all done with endless patience and good humor.

  Opposite the Dandpan Temple are stalls selling temple offerings: garlands, leaves, petals and small clay urns of Ganges water. Shailesh takes us through the dense crowd shuffling and pushing for position near the sacred tank which has replaced the sacred well. We see an evolution of Twain’s ceremony. He “bent over the Well and looked. If the fates are propitious, you will see your face pictured in the water far down in the well. If matters have been otherwise ordered, a sudden cloud will mask the sun and you will see nothing, not a good sign.” Now we see a Brahmin conduct a highly complicated routine of Ganges water management,
whereby he pours Shailesh’s watery offerings into a tank full of soaking garlands, leaves and petals and ladles some of it back into Shailesh’s cupped hands. Shailesh in turn pours it back into the tank and then touches his wet palms onto his forehead; this is repeated three times to ensure that the fates are positive. I ask Shailesh how he feels, fate-wise; he shrugs fatalistically and says “only time will tell”.

  We now head back past the post office to our next temple, what Twain called “the mouldering and venerable Briddhkal Temple, which is one of the oldest in Benares, the home of the Well of Long Life”. The good news - practical news rather than divine - is that I’ve learnt how to cope with the traffic in the interconnecting thoroughfare; one walks between a pair of water buffalo. Wits are needed: too close to the one behind might mean a shove in the bum, too close to one in front might mean... well, yes. The motorcyclists aren’t too happy as one has spoilt their slalom course but overall it works and at a pleasant, stately pace to which one can soon adjust one’s gait.

  Thus promenading we arrive at the main road next to post office. The water buffalo, to a beast and for reasons known only to themselves, all turn left and join in that particular melee. We need to dodge death across the road and soon find ourselves in another sewageway and then promptly upon the Briddhkal Temple and its Well of Long Life.

  Shailesh leans low to squeeze under the lintel and rings the bell above his head. Gillian, Sita and I kick off our shoes and follow close behind. Unlike the Dandpan of twenty minutes ago the Briddhkal is empty. The Brahmin in here is decidedly grumpy, whether the cause or the effect of the emptiness is unclear. Shailesh is a little sheepish admitting that he has never been here (“but you see there are over 11,000 temples here”) and receives his instructions from Mr. Grumpy Brahmin.

  Inside the entrance is the well. Everything is painted orange: the well itself, the grating over it, the pail that goes down it and the wheel around which the rope revolves. Shailesh lifts up the grating, lowers the empty pail, raises the full pail and hands it to the Brahmin. The latter takes a small swig and hands it to Shailesh who takes a longer draught. Only then are we allowed to look down the well at the water far below. God knows what’s in it.

  Outside I say to Shailesh, “Well you got off lightly.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You only had to drink it, not bathe in it too.”

  “Mark Twain, I suppose? Go on, what happened?”

  I read from Following the Equator: “In here you will find a shallow pool of stagnant sewage. It smells like the best limburger cheese, and is filthy with the washings of rotting lepers, but that is nothing, bathe in it; bathe in it gratefully and worshipfully, for this is the Fountain of Youth; these are the Waters of Long Life.”

  He says he’ll let me know and, brave face and saving face, doesn’t say much else for a while.

  Again we take the least traffic option and head back south along the ghats until we reach the midway Dasaswamedh or Main Ghat. This is split into two adjoining ghats and we want the second or southerly one - the site of the latest Islamic bomb in only December 2010.

  It is also Sadhu Central. Sita insists they are all phony. “Not that there aren’t real Sadhus. Of course there are but they are out wandering around teaching and learning as they should be - not sitting here posing and smoking hashish all day long,” she shudders.

  It’s clear from the number of gullible young Westerners who think they are the real thing that a Sadhu franchise along the river front is not such a bad thing to have. Nothing much has changed there: “A good stand is worth a world of money. The holy proprietor of it sits under his grand spectacular umbrella and blesses people all his life, and collects his commission, and grows fat and rich; and the stand passes from father to son, down and down and down through the ages, and remains a permanent and lucrative estate in the family.”

  Here, at our next stop, we are in for a nice surprise.

  The temple Twain described is, or rather was, “Dalbhyeswar, on the bluff overlooking the Ganges, so you must go back to the river.” It has since been washed away in one of the floods and has now become a kind of unofficial wedding ghat and if you are lucky - and the bride and groom need an astrologically auspicious day to marry - you will see a constant colorful procession of splendidly dressed young Indians go to and from the water’s edge. In a ceremony with the Brahmin standing in the Ganges and the couple just in front of him on the shore, surrounded by the newly extended family, they bow and scoop up the Ganges water, pouring it over the hands and face and yes, drinking some of it too.

  It is quite a sight. Indian women always dress as well as funds allow and in their wedding sarees they glitter and shimmer in a dazzling display of extravagance and finery. They accessorize with a vengeance too as a matter of course and for high days and weddings replace the trinkets with costume or real jewelry that leaves barely an inch of skin unadorned. The grooms look equally splendid with dress turbans and sequined long coats and trousers, bottomed off with inlaid khussa shoes.

  Feeling full of good cheer we now climb the steep steps up to the nearest temple just a touch further south, the Sitala Temple. The bells will guide you there; there are dozens of them and most of them seem to ring most of the time. Shoes off and in we go. Ding dong ding dong. It’s quite a racket, as loud as the horns heard in the back of a rickshaw, and I head back out more or less immediately counter-clockwise against the flow. Twain reckoned it wise to pray “in the temple sacred to Sitala, goddess of smallpox. Her under-study is there - a rude human figure behind a brass screen.” Looking back in through the bars I can see a figure there but he’s not very rude - in fact he’s downright handsome and certainly has seen no smallpox. A few minutes later the others reappear, having done the circuit. They all look a bit bell-shocked but don’t seem to have caught the pox, small or other wise.

  Our last stops are two in one, both at the next ghat to the south, Kedar. First we climb up the red and white striped steps to the red and white striped South Indian Kedar Temple that Twain called the “Cow Temple”. Shailesh feels sure that by “cow” he means Nandi, Shiva’s bull vehicle and to which then and now the Hindus pray for relief from hunger.

  It is not quite so atmospheric now as it was then. “The temple is a grim and stenchy place, for it is populous with sacred cows and with beggars. You will give something to the beggars, and reverently kiss the tails of such cows as pass along, for these cows are peculiarly holy, and this act of worship will secure you from hunger for the day.”

  Inside today there are no beggars; they are outside, more than a dozen of them in various stages of desperation. You give accordingly and enter what resembles a rather shabby Turkish bath with cracked tiles for decoration but without the steam for relaxation and cleansing - and by now, several hours of the dusty, farmyard tour later, a bit of cleansing would do no harm. The priests inside are less supine than the beggars outside, crying “give rupees, give rupees” as you wander around from manger to manger. There are no cows or bulls now but there clearly have been; Shailesh reckons they overnight here. Stenchy it is too so maybe the lack of steam isn’t such a bad idea. Eventually one see the great Nandi himself, Bull One, covered in garlands. The devout do kiss his tail and none of them looks too hungry as a result. It’s time to leave; this has been the least agreeable temple, even if one of the more eccentric.

  A quick trot down the ghat steps brings us close to the river where “half way down is a tank filled with sewage. Drink as much of it as you want. It is for fever.”

  The tank, and it is a tank, is empty now but when the river floods it fills back up and when the water reaches the rim people do indeed bathe in it. Sita holds her nose and pulls a funny face. I know what she means: bathing in sewage to ward off fever does seem a hostage to fortune - but then at least three out of the four of us don’t have the benefit of faith and I feel our Pandit is just playing along for our b
enefit.

  ***

  The day is moving into the afternoon and as we only have Shailesh for the day I am going to suggest a variation on the usual tourist itinerary. It is standard practice - and quite rightly so - to take the dawn boat trip down the Ganges. In fact one doesn’t need a guide at all for this transcendent, wordless scene as the pink, then golden, dawn rays from the empty plains across the river fall horizontally onto the venerable old waterfront. The ghats and the temples glow and reflect timelessly back upon the river and the early morning dippers’ ripples deflect the reflections. “We made the usual trip up and down the river, seated in chairs under an awning on the deck of the usual commodious hand-propelled ark; for, of course, the palaces and temples would grow more and more beautiful every time one saw them, for that happens with all such things; also, I think one would not get tired of the bathers, nor their costumes, nor of their ingenuities in getting out of them and into them again without exposing too much bronze, nor of their devotional gesticulations and absorbed bead-tellings.”

  Most of the “commodious arks” are still “hand-propelled” but I suppose it was just a matter of time until someone discovered the joys of the internal combustion engine. Of course they don’t fit some nice quiet, well-insulated, catalytic converted Japanese or Swedish diesel engine but an old outdoor thump-thump ex-generator you hear everywhere when there’s a power cut. The first time I heard one - and I was in the safety of our palace - I thought there was about to be a crash landing from the Indian Air Force. Steadily, inexorably the hand-propelled arcs are becoming the propeller-propelled - and pretty soon I suppose they’ll all have horns.

  All that will wait for tomorrow’s dawn. Today though we will walk ten minutes further south, to beyond the second cremation ground at Harishchandra Ghat and then take an afternoon boat back down to Manikarnika Ghat to see the main cremation site from the river and then turn around back down south again in the twilight to see the nightly evening son-et-lumière at the midway Dasaswamedh Ghat.