The fragrant stench of Varanasi seeps into my bones and flushes out all that has been there before. Babas with beards, kids with candles and goats chewing on temple offerings. Pink tourists in white, a bicycle still in its shrink wrap being pushed along the ghat. A horned goat gets the horn and mounts a beggar from behind. “There is problem”! Tennis ball bounces in from the cricket game by the temple. Holy chanting. Offerings offered and produce proffered. “Chai, chai!” And it is hot! A baba has his monkey on a chain. Or is it really the other way around? Saris and mobiles. Water pails in the sunlight. The growling baba pulls up on his motorbike before setting up to request alms with a minimum of clothing and a maximum of necklaces. Holy cow struggles to walk down the raked steps and stops to munch plastic on the way. And the Ganges sparkles in the morning light. It glistens too. The glistening Ganges listens to the poetry of itself in an inner silent cacophony of depth.
Sue Do Neem
March on Varanasi 2011
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