2010.12.28: A Heart To Give

There are wonderful things one could write about the old part of Varanasi. It’s a labyrinth of small alleys and full of shops selling all kinds of exciting exotica. Behind every corner new surprises patiently await discovery. There are many houses of worship; most shrines are of a staggering beauty. Even so, it’s only a matter of time before your eyes start to gaze upwards, where attractive old facades are waiting to please your sense of beauty. Some have magnificent colored ornaments and in between the residences a few trees have managed to grow in most unimaginable ways.

Sooner or later one is bound to encounter the Ganges. Flowers and candles seem to float above its holy water; they drift past temples, Hindus performing bathing rituals, and palaces where maharajas used to splendor. At the Ganga, as natives call it, two places are especially sacred. They’re where pious Hindus spend their last earthly moments. They do this for one simple reason: Everyone who’s cremated at these spots has a non-stop ticket to heaven. It’s said Varanasi is a city build by Gods; nowadays everyone is able to see the evidence.

My main flaw, concerning Varanasi, is that I’m not really religious — I cannot spiritually indulge myself in its holiness. Without those colored glasses I saw something quite different than what I would’ve liked. Yes, the first two paragraphs are a lie. They’re an imagined mix of omitted facts and memories covered in thick layers of make-up. Of course, I would like the city to be as I described, however, there are two prerequisites: The town has to be uninhabited and the Gods will have to wake up; they must begin maintaining what they once started.

Reality, as I strayed through the labyrinth that is the old town, made my mind wander off to Greek mythology. Do you know Thesues? Amongst others he voluntarily goes into a maze where a monstrous Minotaur roams; the creature is hungry and waiting for his prey. But Thesues has no intention of becoming an afternoon snack. On the contrary, he succeeds in killing the beast with his sword. And our hero is able to find his way out too, because of Ariadne, the Minotaur’s sister. She’s madly in love with him and thus gave him a cord before he entered the labyrinth. After a job well done, the rope enabled him to retrace his steps, back into her arms. Take a deep breath… Good… You’ve just been introduced to Walt Disney versions of Theseus, Ariadne, and the Minotaur. It doesn’t do justice to the real story. The original drama is cruel and wonderful. It must be read.

For now the point is that our Greek hero had a much easier time than I had. I didn’t have a sword, or had met Ariadne. Instead, I had found a Russian; he was just as confused as I was. Not one, but many Minotaurs chased us. They came in the form of motorcycles, which would just fit through the narrow alleys, if nothing stood in their way. And let’s not forget the shopkeepers and drug dealers; they would scream in all of my hundred ears if I had them. We found our way out by sheer luck and paying a kid to lead the way.

Some of you readers might say, or at least think: “You’re in India, shut up and enjoy it. Please, let from now on your imagination do the writing.” I would agree with you, if it weren’t for what I’ve experienced today. As I was lost as usual, guessing my way to the main road, I stumbled upon the Ganges. Specifically, I stumbled upon Manikarnika Gaht, the prime and largest location where deceased Hindus are cremated. I was standing on a platform overlooking the fires — with a certain distance between the deceased and myself — I decided to observe the ceremony involved with their funeral.

It only took a few seconds for a self-pronounced guide to present himself to me. He explained he was a volunteer and didn’t expect any money for his services. I told him: “I think. There are. Other tourists. Who will. Appreciate. Ehm… I. Mean. Like… Your story. A lot more. Than. I will.” Of course he denied this and I was conflicted: I did want to hear his story, but I didn’t trust his appearance. My curiosity got the better of me and I allowed him to talk to me. I even asked a few questions about the funeral ceremony. In the end he told me: “Burning is learning about life.”

Mostly though, I learned about his and his boss’s life. They ran a hostel that provided shelter and food to all the old and poor people who came to Varanasi to die — to be cremated along the Ganges. Everyone lived a very sober life; donations would only be used to buy wood for the ones who were ready to be burned. After a while my guide insisted on taking me to one of the hostels. “If. I. Want. Can. I. Make. An. Official. Donation. There?” Yes, that was possible and off we went. I was brought to an empty room.

Inside an old man jumped up and walked rapidly towards me; straight away I was asked for money. While my guide explained this man was about to die, an old woman came running up the stairs. I was informed she was more dead than alive too. “Now you can give money to them directly.” This wasn’t what I had asked for. The man and the woman came very close to me; she clawed one hand into my arm and he was kneeling on the floor. That moment I stopped feeling pity for them; I was just afraid to be pick-pocketed. The guide noticed my unwillingness to give and started to repeat the same phrase over and over again, using an astonishing amount of different intonations. “Give what’s in your heart.” “Give what’s in your heart.”

My heart was filled with irritation. I was emotionally and physically abused for something I didn’t ask for. A much as I wanted all the stories to be true, my instincts were telling me something fishy was going on. It got me agitated and I wanted to get it of my chest. It felt horrible to be treated in such a way, especially on a place as revered as the Manikarnika Ghat. However, telling this to the three people surrounding me wouldn’t change anything. So I lied. I told I would make a donation if the boss would see me

One minute later the volunteer brought me to the boss. He turned out to be a man sitting in a plastic chair, in between a few other men. Regardless of anything I wanted to tell him how I felt about the treatment that had been bestowed upon me. He understood only little English, but I carried on: I told him I didn’t trust him or his crew. I think this distrust is natural for most tourists — but it doesn’t belong at Manikarnika Ghat. Why didn’t he have a donation box and receipts to give? I didn’t get the feeling he understood me. Neither did anyone else in the small crowd gathered around the two of us. So I did it once more, slower and with easier words. There was a little more response, it came mostly from men who had been sitting next to the boss; they pulled their wallet and started giving money. If it wasn’t a trick, then I had just raised more money than I ever would’ve given.

It was also the moment I left. Only the volunteer followed me. He decided that a proper goodbye would be: “No donation… maybe tip for me?” Maybe I shouldn’t have been surprised but I was. Speechless. Only after a few seconds, as he kept gazing up to me, I managed to say: I’m done with you. Still, I don’t think he understood me. But I also started to question myself: Had I understood what I had been doing?

In The Netherlands I would never attend the funeral of someone I don’t know. Here I had precisely done that. And I wasn’t alone. I had seen backpackers standing next to fires, less than two meters away from a son and priest performing rites. Foreigners had been making pictures. Shady characters might hunt tourists, but tourists are haunting the death. Fulfilled with an eagerness not to me miss out anything — to experience everything they want — tourists replace what decency they might display in their home country with self-righteousness. Do, because of this, tourists deserve to be harassed? No. Gandhi himself explains this best: “An eye for an eye makes the whole world blind.” However, I believe it’s not the scam artists, but the tourists — it’s I — who with opportunistic behavior ruin wonders. I say Varanasi is a city spoiled by tourists; nowadays everyone is able to see the evidence.

Varanasi, Ganges at sunrise

Varanasi, Ganges at sunrise

Varanasi, Ganges at sunrise

Varanasi, Manikarnika Ghat

Varanasi

Varanasi

Varanasi, I was watching a ceremony and this kid was extremely fascinated by my camera

Varanasi, Ganges at sunrise

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