As the day comes to an end dusky colours are cast over India’s holiest site, the River Ganga.
Pink, orange and purple rays bounce off the ancient buildings that tumble down from the Old City of Benares to meet the silt filled muddy water that is revered by Hindus the world over.
Boats silently glide through the water, save for the rhythmical splish-splash of the oars. There is an air of tranquility on the river, a far cry from the bustling chaos on the banks of the Ganga.
Men, women and children are cleansing themselves of the dirt and grime of India’s streets, cooling their bodies from the intense heat of the day, for the long awaited monsoon has still not appeared. Dhobi wallahs (India’s laundrymen) pummell boldly coloured materials with stones and soap, magically making them clean in the seemingly filthy water they wade in. Sadhus (holy men), stroll along the Ghats wearing striking orange robes, and little else. Their faces are heavily painted with tikka, their nomadic existence evident by their sinewy bodies and matted dreadlocks. 
Goats, dogs and cows rummage in the hot stinking piles of rubbish gathering on the ghats, children run and play, flying kites high in the air. Their laughter is carried to us in the wind. Buffalo meander up the ghats, weaving their own path through the throngs of people and making it perfectly obvious that it is there space that is being invaded by human presence.
Chai wallahs, boat wallahs, dhobi wallahs, bypassers, onlookers, tourists, Burkha clad Muslims, Hindu pilgrims, Sadhus, beggars, children, goats, dogs, buffalo, cows, groups of older men putting the world to right, groups of younger men touting the area for business, selling silk, musical instruments, postcards. Hundreds of lilting sounds, different colours, smells and activities. Everything is vibrant. Energised. Alive.
We approach the burning ghats, the most auspicious place in the world for a Hindu to be cremated. As we step off our boat and climb the stairs we observe the group of tourists standing on a boat, all in multicoloured polo shirts and white socks and sandals craning their necks for a better view of the ceremonies that are taking place in front of them. Some look revolted, some pensive, some awestruck. It strikes me as insensitive and obtrusive but then I have to ask myself, am I really any different to them?
Watching a body burn on a pyre I am aware of a lack of revulsion or negative emotion that I’m sure many would expect to feel. Watching a body turn to ashes and rejoin the earth is so demonstrative of the fact that it is exactly that, a body, which feels no pain, no suffering and no sorrow, and which really was just a vessel to carry the now departed soul through this life.
But the emotion comes soon after as we climb the ghats and are met with an overwhelming scene.
Groups of men wearing white robes, and with shaved heads (part of the mourning ritual) are huddled round the bodies of their loved ones which are swathed in white sheets and covered in flowers as the last rites and rituals before the cremation ceremony are performed.
The noise is deafening. Bells toll, horns blow and chants fill the air. Clouds of smoke from the funeral pyres swirl around us, stinging our eyes and catching in our throats. Incense burns heavily, as if to mask the smell from the cremations, but instead, blends with it creating a pungent aroma that clings to our clothes and our nostrils.
A distraught family is led up the ghats, an elderly woman wailing beneath the scarf of her sari, and a young boy sobbing in his fathers arms as they miss the person they love. A mother, a daughter, a son. I have no idea. But all at once I am overwhelmed with the realisation that this is very real for a family. That they are not detached from emotion through lack of identification with the deceased, to them it wasn’t just a shell, or a vessel. It was their loved one. It wasn’t just an interesting cultural experience, or an amazing religious event. It was saying goodbye to someone they will miss. It wasn’t just another thing to check off the list of 100 things to do before you die, or to try to sneak a hip shot photo of to show folks back home. It was hurting and grieving and accepting.
Tracey, one of my wonderful yoga teachers in Thailand talks about how all things in life move in cycles. Day and night, life and death, the seasons, the cycle of the moon. I love this concept and think of it often. I first visited Varanasi in October 2006, my first week in India. I can’t even begin to describe the spiritual and emotional changes that have occurred in the 3 years that have gone by since then.
And now as I watch the full moon rise over the buring ghats in Varanasi one week before I leave India to return to the UK I realize that I too have completed my own cycle. I smile, because it has been an incredible journey. And I’m ready for whatever is next. . .
