Varanasi, Part II: In the Flow of the Living City

Exploring everyday life

It was midafternoon and hot, even on the rooftop where I was sitting, watching life unfold below on the ghats of Varanasi. Although I had welcomed the quiet after an overwhelming introduction to the city, it wasn’t long before I became restless. Craving to explore, I found myself impatient to rejoin the chaotic, hectic energy in the streets below.

So, a short while later, my travel companions and I slipped out a side door and descended a steep staircase that led to a narrow, shaded alleyway. The river was to our right, but we turned left, upward, toward the city. The uneven stone shifted beneath our feet as we made our way up the incline, but the alley soon gave way to the clamor of the street. Shielding my eyes from the burst of sunlight, I quickly discovered that Varanasi is overwhelming, even by India’s standards: intense, chaotic, celebratory, and alive in every possible way.

Still, these sounds that encompassed me weren’t jarring, as they often are in the modern world. There was no constant assault of traffic, sirens, or engines. Instead, the noise here felt older, deeper; chaotic, but not random. Sounds that do not demand, only surround. An ancient order.

Other languages filled the air. Singing. The clatter of prayer plates, puja thalis, and the rhythmic hum of chanting surrounded me. Multitudes of voices echoed. Bells ringing: rhythmic, high-pitched, sharp, and sacred. People pressed together, crowding into temple spaces, navigating narrow passageways that were also shared with motorbikes, cows, dogs, monks, merchants selling their wares, women in sarees so immaculate and richly colored they seemed to belong to another world entirely, along with those sitting or lying on mats, begging; some with visible afflictions.

Every smell imaginable drifts past me as we walk: smoky incense, perfumes and spices, the acrid press of sweat, cow dung mingled with the aroma of food, along with the heady smoke of sandalwood, the putrid whiff of open sewer drains, occasionally softened by hints of marigold and rose garlands wilting in the heat of the sun.

Yet, as I moved through the narrow alleyways, crowded markets, and dusty streets, I realized that what looked like chaos is not at all what it seems. In spite of the movement around me, I am flowing. Letting go, I find myself unconcerned; it feels almost effortless, as if I were joining a dance whose steps I already inherently know. There is no need to worry; I simply connect with the others around me as I move along.

At a dusty corner of a narrow, frenzied street, I pause to gauge the movement, intent on making my way across. I see a potential break in the chaos and catch the eye of a young man on a motorbike, silently asking if he will allow me to cross in front of him. He returns my smile, then gradually inches forward in the surrounding mayhem, denying my request. I cross behind.

The flow of life.