Life and Death on the River (India)

Shiva, one of the main Hindu gods is especially revered in Varanasi. He symbolizes the destroyer, but whom without creation wouldn't be possible. Varanasi is considered the oldest city on earth that is still inhabited, the city of Shiva and one of the holiest cities in India. It is fitting then, that life and death are auspiciously thrust into your face in the city of Shiva.
It is a typical city in India- choked with bustling life, bursting from every inch of space. At times in this country it feels like the world puked every bit of humanity into a too-small space so everyone clamors around each other, swarming in a chaotic dance, filled like the Pillsbury Dough Boy trying on a baby's shirt. But as full of life as Varanasi is, it is equally full of death. Where I am staying is near the cremation Ghat, the smoke from the burning bodies is relentless, all day and night.
As I walk the narrow passageways, the tangle of the old city that makes navigation completely haphazard for visitors, everything is so out of place that I am surprised by nothing. The alleys are stuffed with waterbuffalo, bony children, cows, men that hassle me, samosas, goats, shrines, candles, flowers, and women in saris. Tarps cover the narrow streets that are lines with dilapidated buildings, nooks and crannies, coves and holes, creating a carnival-like atmosphere.
Approaching the burning ghat, I am confronted by fortresses of wood- imposing and harsh. Smoke fills my lungs. The fires are tended by the untouchables, the lowest caste who usually live in tarp tents staked down by rocks, owning nothing, some of the poorest people I have ever seen. These emaciated men are dwarfed by the logs as they strain with the heat, sheer weight, soot in the air and ferocity of the fire. In the open fire area itself cremations in all stages are taking place constantly. There were some with bodies waiting to be burned, others nothing recognizable but the skulls. I saw my first dead body- a woman with cloud-white hair, her face painted, mouth agape. I watched as she seemed to float above a halo of red coals, the halo engulfing a lifetime of work, wrinkles, tears, laughter, joy and suffering as men in white turning black with soot looked on. Flowers littered the wood and coals as they do in the Ganges river just feet away where other people are using the cleansing properties of the water for healing and renewal. There is no ailment the holy river cannot cure, the Indians believe, as they pray and dunk themselves downstream from where the bodies continually burn.
I went past a group of children in cheerful rags who were playing a game where they hold hands and run and try to kiss each other. Once one is kissed they join the chain and try to get more. Past the cows and baby goats, men sleeping on basic cots in dirt-floored homes, to one of the ubiquitous sweet shops.
I was looking through the glass at the alarmingly green and orange sweets, balls of fried dough and yellow cookies all lined up behind glass, neatly in a very un-Indian fashion when I was pushed to the side. Another funeral procession was winding its way through the streets. The body on a board, hoisted above the men, followed by a line of people. I wouldn't call them mourners, ringing bells and chanting. The body was a stillness above writhing life, a stillness not often found in India, a moment of rest. They passed, revealing a small girl, knobby knees and elbows digging through a pile of trash. The shop owner cleared his throat, wondering what I found so curious in the mundane, the city where life and death constantly meet, filled with everything in between.
In the morning, I went for a boat ride along the Ganges to watch the city wake up. We wandered along the streets in darkness, lit only by a flashlight, a rare glimpse of peace that lasted about 5 seconds until we began to bump into boatmen. Floating along the Ghats, the wooden boat oars being dipped into the water, drizzling drops behind us, we wanted the morning rituals. Pilgrims come from all over to pray, meditate, wash away disease, and dip themselves into the sacred river. The rituals are done in public, men in speedos of sorts, all shapes and sizes, lounging on the Ghat steps, surrounded by bells, chanting, women in a rainbow of saris, temples and colored flags that change hues as the sun rises.
I'm almost tempted to see if the river really is as healing as they believe, I like to do what the locals do, and lord knows I could use it, but the water is completely septic, meaning there is no dissolved oxygen in it. Not only that, but water that is safe for bathing should have no more than 500 fecal coliform bacteria per 100ml, while by Varanasi, there are 1.5 million per 100ml. This is hardly surprising as there are 30 large sewers that feed into the river and it is visited by around 60,000 people each day along a 7 kilometer stretch. I decided to leave the chocolate milk bath to the others and watch from the boat. As we rowed back after the sun hiked itself up into the sky, the Ghats began to flow with people. All around me were people being renewed by their holy river of life as I breathed in the smoke from the crematorium.