Dusk settles slowly at Dasaswamedh Ghat drawing the last of the summer’s day heat; heat haze shimmers from the cement landing, distorting the view of the Ganges River. The water shimmers with golden hues, as if some unseen painter has brushed the very tips of the ripples with pure golden paint, lightly and carefully in places, thickly in patches, making the river appear more alive, more surreal than ever.
The Mother River, as the Hindus of India know her, is a vital link to their spirituality, and the city of Varanasi is one of the holiest places in India.
As the last of the suns rays wash over the Ghat, the landings are awash with people, mostly Indian but many travellers as well; a lone white cow slowly makes her way through the crowd, ignoring the pats she receives as she ambles along in search of a quiet place for the night.
The darkness settles in, but the Ghat is alive with colour and light, fairy lights strung between buildings sway in the slight evening breeze, flood lights atop tall poles shine brightly down bathing the landings in a festive glow, drawing more people onto the landings and people closer together as all vie for a comfortable place to settle and witness the magic of puja or prayers – a nightly occurrence here come rain, hail or shine.
Every square inch of the landing is occupied, including the many steps that lead down from the city above. Extended families huddle together talking and children play amongst themselves until the chatter of the many hundreds of people dies down to a low murmur almost instantly, as if some unseen force has asked them all to quiet down.
All eyes now face the river; in particular the seven white clad men who are taking their places on seven individually raised platforms, each side by side and about a meter apart.
Bells that sit high above them, strung between coloured neon umbrellas and flags of India begin to toll, attached by long ropes that disappear into the crowd, rung by those fortunate enough to be closest to the platforms.
The air is thick with the smell of incense, huge candelabras between each platform glow warmly with many small individual flames that unify as one. The platforms where the holy men now stand are alight with small candles housed in beds of flowers. They are placed in neat straight lines around the borders, thousands of pink petals make an inner border surrounding the golden mats that each of the holy men stand upon. Behind them in a neat, regimented line are many brightly dressed girls. Their dresses are beautifully made and woven with bands of gold, and the headpieces that they each wear make them almost nun-like in appearance. Each one silently holds a golden tray alight with little flower candles burning cheerfully away.
In one fluid, mirrored motion, the holy men begin puja. They chant in a unified voice, raising and lowering their pitch as they move dance-like in controlled fluid motions around their platforms throwing fresh flowers and burning embers from golden trays into the dark and silent water of the Ganges. The respect they have for her is obvious as they intently and lovingly give their offerings.
The river graciously accepts; flower petals and burnt embers dance in the river’s currents and sail slowly off into the darkness, intermingled with hundreds of tiny candle boats that gingerly float about lighting their own way under a silken black sky. The bells continue to toll, drums are beating and the chanting is all around as people in the crowd begin to join in.
Many heads are bowed and the mantra like chanting from hundreds of individuals rises up and surround the Ghat in an auditory bubble making the atmosphere intensely electric. My body begins to break out in goose bumps from the penetrating auditory assault, it is felt deep inside and judging by the beaming smiles of those around me I’m not the only one feeling the ethereal power here. You can almost see the sound as the holy men continue on, now waving golden jugs in high arcs in the air, sweet smelling smoke billowing out of them leaving thick trails dancing behind. The bells, drums and chanting reach an almost deafening crescendo as the last of the offerings are thrown to the river, then… silence!
The holly men bow respectfully to their mother; puja is over for the night yet the crowd remains still and silent for a moment, as if hypnotised by what they witnessed here tonight. Then, as if woken from a sweet dream, people begin to sleepily stir again, looking content and relaxed as they mingle and chat with their neighbours once more.
I am told by a friendly local that the same puja is preformed here every night to ensure that the sun will rise in the morning, and that the people always come no matter what the weather.
The magic that is felt here is empowering; it touches you deeply, almost addictive one might say, and judging by the amount of people that attend this particular puja on a nightly basis, the addiction runs deep. Hindus from all castes, from the rich to the poorest of poor; briefly all come together as one to offer their respect to their Mother River. Everyone is welcome to attend and participation is hard to resist. This is one form of drug I could happily, willingly and even proudly become addicted to.
