Varanasi, Part III: Where Lamps are Lit
The Magic of the Ancient Aarti Ceremony
Later that evening, after a brief rest, my travel companions and I descend the steps of our ghat to find a wooden boat waiting, ready to take us along the river to see the ghats at sunset and then to the nightly Aarti ceremony at Dashashwamedh Ghat. One of the most legendary ghats in the city, its name evokes a legend of Brahma performing ancient Vedic rituals to welcome Shiva. It sits near the Kashi Vishwanath Temple, also dedicated to Shiva, which we’ll visit tomorrow.
The Aarti is a stunning ritual, performed in synchrony by several priests facing the river; chanting, singing, and offering fire to the sacred waters. Along the shoreline, I can see several elaborate altars and the crowd of viewers that has begun to gather.
We’re in a medium-sized wooden boat with four other guests, tightly wedged into a vast sea of surrounding vessels. One is tied to ours; another drifts in behind, followed by yet another, forming a continuous stream of arrivals. We’re tethered too, connected by frayed ropes to boats we don’t know. Within moments, at least a hundred are joined together. I look up and trace one tattered line to a faded red bow just beside us and realize: we’re no longer separate; we’re all connected.
Together, the boats create a patchwork of floating stepping stones, which local vendors nimbly navigate, hopping from boat to boat with worn silver teapots of masala chai, woven straw trays holding paint pots for blessings, and small offering baskets called Ganga diya: a candle nestled in leaf bowls, dona, surrounded by flower petals.
For our group, I buy four from a young girl before I realize that two are from her brother’s basket. He demands his own pay, but his sister has already jumped ahead and I have no more change. I return two. He shrugs and moves on, following her to the next boat.
Despite our early arrival, we remain far from the ceremony itself. Still, I can see the priests at work: preparing their ritual trays, the puja thali, and accepting what appears to be a blessing, an offering of water; a silent prelude to what is to come. I count seven priests, along with attendants, moving between the raised platforms where they’ll soon begin the ritual in unison.
From this distance, I can make out their golden robes and sashes but not their faces; only the flurry of sacred preparations as dusk gives way to darkness. In the fading light, I catch a flicker of movement near my feet: water beetles have joined us in the boat, drawn to the remnants of the offerings - wax, wilted petals, and ghee, the clarified butter often used in ritual fire. I take a quiet breath and shift slightly, hoping my discovery goes unnoticed.
Beside me, one of my travel companions begins to recite the invocation to a puja, the opening Sanskrit lines of a ceremony meant to connect with the divine; expressing devotion and invoking blessings.
“Apavitraḥ pavitro vā, Sarvāvasthām gato’pi vā...”
I’m surprised to hear these words, but I quickly remember: having studied meditation years ago with a Maharishi of the Shankaracharya tradition, he is recalling those words now, returning home to his own history. This deepens the mystical atmosphere, and once again, I realize how much I do not know.
Around me, the atmosphere is festive; noisy and celebratory, yet still reflective. The priests form a line, palms pressed together at their chests, while something is poured from a large urn. Off to the side, another scatters what appear to be orange carnation petals.
As the final preparations settle, one priest steps forward and picks up a microphone. Beginning a melodic chant of an ancient tradition, his single voice breaks through the dusk: resonant and clear, amplifying as it rises, echoing endlessly across the water.
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