Chapter 10
Mother Ganges Express
We boarded the train and it slowly pulled away from New Delhi. Our journey to Banaras, now called Varanasi by the modernists, would take us about 375 kilometers south of Delhi. It was an ancient city and the holiest in India. Pilgrims, by the tens of thousands, would visit each year to venerate Mother Ganges and bathe in her waters. Kali and I would play the role of American tourists and see the sights of the city. I wasn’t sure she could pull off the role because she wasn’t particularly loud or obnoxious, but we’d have to risk it.
We had our own compartment with a private bath. Before dinner, we enjoyed drinks in the nicely appointed lounge car. We both ordered wine and I told the bartender to put the drinks on Kali’s tab. No tipping was allowed on the train so I didn’t have to ask her to cough up a gratuity too. That was one unpleasantness out of the way. Anyway, she already owed me big-time for treating me like a piece of raw meat.
We were assigned the second seating at dinner. I complained since I was a first-class passenger, but my plea made no difference with the waiter. He gave us starched napkins and an equally fixed, starched menu. Tonight, the fare was rice pilaf, followed by Rice-A-Roni, followed by rice pudding. We had Sake for an aperitif.
Smoking turned out to be a serious problem on the train. It was a problem because I couldn’t. It was prohibited, banned, and otherwise not tolerated inside the confines of the cars. The nasty habit; the ban I meant, was picked up by the Indians from their former British masters. The trainers were ruthless in its enforcement and sticklers for detail, right down to the letter of the rule with no ifs, ands, or butts allowed.
I had to somehow overcome this little inconvenience before I went totally bonkers from nicotine withdrawal. It would be like trying to solve a riddle, inside a puzzle, inside an enigma. I liked working the Sudoku games. Like those brain teasers, the answers were obvious, but the solutions more difficult and I enjoyed the Confucian dichotomy. That meant I didn’t have a clue what to do.
The pragmatic, Western answer was I would have to smoke my Marlboros outdoors so I opened an exterior door and gingerly straddled the couplings between the cars like I was riding bowlegged on horseback. As the train swayed back-and-forth, to-and-fro, and hither-and-yon at 50 miles per hour, I puffed and coughed to my heart’s content.
The smoking workaround worked well until early the following morning. That was when I found that a kid had taken my smoking spot. He was scrawny and raggedly dressed; one who looked like a brown-faced character out of a Dickens novel. But please don’t be concerned with my angst over this situation.
It was a proven fact that Indian children were pliable and supple; and resilient to accidental falls from trains speeding through the desolate countryside. OK, I waited until the train slowed down at a sharp curve. In actuality, I had just saved the ragamuffin from inhaling noxious, secondhand smoke. I celebrated my benevolence by having an extra cigarette. Thankfully, I had just kicked another bad habit.
We disembarked about 10 o’clock and were met at the platform by a real Dumbo. He led the way to the taxi stand some distance away. By the way, he was definitely a male. I was envious and Kali was excited because she’d never seen an animal crap so much before. I watched where I stepped and wished I’d been as careful during my department career. We grabbed a taxi and headed downtown to our hotel; however, we didn’t take the first vehicle offered, but chose one at random as a standard security precaution. DS tradecraft must be practiced to be perfected. We had some reservations about our safety, but not with our hotel accommodations since we were confident, confirmed guests at the local Hilton.
Chester had briefed us on the city of Banaras, the cremation rites, and the river Ganges, but I picked up a pamphlet in the hotel lobby that tooted and touted the city’s horn and charm. It was written by the Banaras Tourist Bureau. I should get a fat royalty check for citing it here. However, it was important to understand and guard against the diversities and religiosity one might face in this holiest of Indian cities.
The name of the Ganges is known throughout India and much of the world. The river runs for 1,560 miles from the Himalayas to the Bay of Bengal. To Hindus, Sikhs, and Buddhists, it’s much more than just flowing water. The river is life, purity, and a goddess to the people of India. The river is Ganga Ma, “Mother Ganges.” Her name and story are known throughout the land. It is the story of how she poured herself down from heaven upon the ashes of King Sarga’s sons. Her waters would raise them up again to dwell in peace in heaven. Anyone who touched her purifying waters even today are said to be cleansed of all sins.
As soon as the day begins, devout Hindus begin to give their offerings of flowers or food, throwing handfuls of grain or garlands of marigolds or pink lotuses into the Ganges. Others will float small oil lamps on its surface. Every morning thousands of Hindus, whether pilgrims or residents, make their way into the holy water of the river. All of them face the rising sun with folded hands murmuring prayers.
The Ganges is a place of death and life. Hindus from all over will bring their dead to its banks. Whether a body, or just ashes, the waters of the Ganga are needed to reach Pitriloka, the World of the Ancestors. Just as in the myth with King Sargas’ 60,000 sons who attained heaven by Ganga pouring down her water upon their ashes, so the same waters of Ganga are needed for the dead in the Hindu belief today. Without this, the dead will exist only in a limbo of suffering, and would be troublesome spirits to those still living on earth. The waters of the Ganges are called amrita, the “nectar of immortality.”
Cremation anywhere along the Ganges is desirable. If that’s not possible, then the relatives might later bring the ashes of the deceased to the river. Sometimes, if a family cannot afford firewood for cremation, a half-burned corpse will be thrown into the water. For the living, bathing in the Ganges is just as important. Hindus will travel many miles to have their sins washed away in these holy waters. For years, Hindus have declared that there is nothing quite as cleansing as the living waters of the River of Heaven. Nonetheless, the Ganges is still the purifying waters for the Hindus of India.
River Ganges draws all kinds of people and life seems to continually be bustling at its side. On the platforms and ghats are barbers cutting and trimming hair, and children flying their kites. You may see young men wrestling, exercising, or in deep meditation. Launderers are beating their clothes on stones at the edge. Multicolored saris and all sorts of wet clothes are laid out to dry in the sunshine. A boy might be washing his dog while a mother is taking her yelling child into the Ganges for the first time.
However, here was my take of the river and its surroundings having experienced them firsthand. Mind you, I was a bit cynical and skeptical as you might have already guessed. I must apologize beforehand since it was impossible to relate my memories and thoughts in a clean manner. That was because the Ganges at Banaras was a wide, shallow, and horribly polluted cesspool; and that description captured the true condition of the river. (Cesspool must be French for toilet.) The seasonal rains helped cleanse it somewhat, but it was still terribly disgusting and filthy. It was an open sewer without the pretense of manhole covers. I suspected the River Styx would score much higher marks from the EPA.
As Chester had mentioned, people, both ritualistically and unceremoniously, bathed their bodies and clothes in the river’s sacred waters. Cleansing and purifying would be the last words that would come to mind regarding the Ganges. Some of the worst waterborne diseases imaginable also abundantly resided in its waters and along its banks: dysentery, hepatitis, and cholera were the better known and more pronounceable ones.
Ghats are steps or stairs or wide landings. In this case, they were very broad steps that led from the upper ground level down to the water of the Ganges. Houses, shops, crematoria, temples, and small open plots of ground lined the river. In Banaras, the ghats often served as open-air auditoria where the devout congregated. There, religious devotees of Lord Vishnu or Krishna or Shiva would gather to pray, chant and light incense. In contrast, the crematoria were gathering places where religious devotees of Lord Vishnu or Krishna or Shiva would pray, chant, and light the bodies of deceased relatives. In the city of Banaras, enlightenment was a popular virtue given the large number of open-air crematoria and the whole place stank of burning flesh and death.
Speaking of bonfires of the vanities, elder sons usually carried out the task of arranging for the cremation of a parent. It was a respected and expected duty one must fulfill as part of the Hindu faith. As a relative, especially a son, you couldn’t shirk the responsibility for all the rice in India. There were variations on the theme though. Widows sometimes committed sati or self-immolation on a dead husband’s funeral pyre. However, this custom shouldn’t be confused with the practice where a young wife of an elder son would accidentally be set afire by his angry parents. That act didn’t count as a bona-fide religious practice.
Kali and I had to discreetly reconnoiter our target. I think that was French for reconnaissance which was French for the English phrase to take a look. The act sounded much more important and elegant when spoken in a foreign tongue, despite being French. That meant we would play rude, American tourists to get a closer peek at the crematorium. That was important because later I planned to enter the place playing a credible, undercover role to fool the bad guys. At least I hoped it would be credible for my sake.
We had arranged for a guide to take us to the city’s famous waterfront ghats and on to the crematoria lining the river’s banks. His name was Puneet and he was born and raised in Banaras. He told us he never wanted to leave the place alive or in one piece and I didn’t doubt his sincerity one bit. He hired a boat and we slowly paddled down the Ganges for a mile or so. Puneet prayed at sunset and dipped his fingers into the river to taste its holy powers. He was a true believer who claimed he’d never come down with a case of Delhi-belly. I believed him as we were in Banaras at the moment and I suspected Banaras-belly to be a much worse fate.
As it was sunset, the sun appeared as a magnificent reddish-orange orb in the lower sky. We took a photo to prove I had been on planet Earth while I was away. I’d need it later to support my expense report. Proper documentation was everything in DS since the organization looked for everything under the sun to find error and fault. I was never a favored son as you might have already guessed.
We approached the most famous and largest open-air crematorium in the city. Its name was the Manikarnika, named after the ghat it occupied. It was our target, the place where Kris Amar worked and lived. We anchored about 25 yards off-shore and watched a most unusual religious custom. We witnessed a number of bodies burning on pyres on the structure’s three graduated tiers.
Manikarnika hosted up to up to 200 cremations each day and the whole and holy process was efficient and businesslike. Above the ghats were huge stacks of wood; the family of the deceased, according to their means, bought one of the many funeral packages offered, including a certain quantity of firewood, sandalwood, sawdust, ghee, other ritualistic paraphernalia, and a priest’s services. Dalit attendants set up the pyre, the body was placed on it, the priest chanted and performed the rituals, ghee (a butter and oil concoction) was poured on, and the pyre was set alight as the men of the family watched. Women were not permitted to be anywhere close to the body and it wasn’t anything personal. It was just normal, male-dominated Hindu custom and discrimination and nothing more.
If the fire didn’t catch-on well, more ghee and sawdust were added. If a family couldn’t afford enough firewood, the body’s torso was burned first, while the head and legs stuck out to be deftly pushed in by a pole after the middle part collapsed. The Dalits, who tended the fires and the bodies made sure that things were burned to a crisp and the resulting smells were offal.
A few hours later, a portion of the ashes and bits of bone would be gathered by the eldest son or a senior male of the family and consigned to the waters. There, Dalit scavengers would stand with wire nets to dredge up the ash and mud, hoping to find a gold tooth or nose ring that might have survived the fire. We were almost hit a couple of times by these little offerings tied up in small cloth sacks. Puneet said the deceased’s remaining ashes would be taken home by the family and mourned for a period of time before being tossed into the Ganges for all of eternity.
Hindu scriptures decreed that humans, with certain exceptions, must be cremated or their souls could not be released from the mortal world. They could not be reincarnated and would remain in a state of perpetual limbo for eternity or in perpetuity; whichever was the longer timeout period in the cosmic penalty box.
Not all who died were cremated. For example, children under five, lepers, pregnant women, and snakebite victims were offered directly to the river. Bloated bodies could occasionally be seen floating on its waters. The remains eventually sank to the bottom as the body’s gases were slowly expelled. It was a deflating experience for those mortals who watched the scene since people knew their turns were coming. However, they believed there would be a perpetual life-preserver to help them survive their journey down Mother Ganges. To them, it was simply a matter of faith that involved a certain amount of spiritual buoyancy.
The Dalits were the lowest class in the Indian caste system. Technically, that wasn’t true. They were so low on the totem pole that they were not even invited to the cast party. Even the untouchables refused to touch them. They even fell well–below the social standing of the pariahs who scavenged night soil for a living.
The Indo-Aryan root-word for Dalit meant “held under check”, “suppressed”, “crushed”, or in a looser sense, “oppressed”. It was simply the latest pejorative term for an outcaste in Hindu society. However, not all Dalits lived in India. Not surprisingly, many resided in the adjoining nations of Bangladesh and Pakistan. For example, there were 1.4 million ethnic Hindu minorities living in predominately Muslim Pakistan and sixty percent of them were Dalits.
Traditionally, Dalits were not allowed to let their shadows fall upon a non-Dalit caste member and they were required to sweep the ground where they walked to remove the contamination from their footfalls. Dalits were forbidden to worship in the same temples or draw water from the same wells as caste Hindus. They typically lived in segregated neighborhoods outside the main villages. They were relegated to the most disgusting, menial jobs in Indian society. The Dalits were the country’s scavengers, latrine and sewer cleaners, and removers and renderers of dead animals. Virtually every shitty, demeaning job that existed in India would be performed by a Dalit. It was simply an expected obligation and duty. Not to cast dispersions, but that was their predetermined lot in this present life.
While Puneet continued to inform us of the Dalits and their lot in this life, I flipped a spent cigarette into the water. It bobbed a couple of times before sinking into the river. My DNA had just conjoined with multitudes of Hindu believers and I was now one with the universe.
Given their lack of status, Dalits were also employed in the cremation trade. They arranged for the firewood, tended to the pyres, and cleaned up the ashes afterwards. In the Hindu religion, engaging in these activities was considered to be polluting to the person performing them. The pollution was considered to be contagious and therefore they were avoided by other Hindus: shunned, untouchable outcastes. An estimated 40 million people in India, most of them Dalits, were bonded workers with many working in slave-like conditions to pay off debts that were incurred generations ago. While overt discrimination against them had diminished over time, they still remained at the very bottom of the Hindu barrel.
I had seen and heard enough. We covertly snapped a few photos of the crematorium and adjacent buildings to help us later. It was getting late and I was getting hungry so we headed back to our hotel. As we paddled back to the dock, Puneet gave us small candles wrapped in aluminum foil shaped like tiny boats. We floated them for peace, prosperity, and good luck. More of the Hindu enlightenment stuff, I suspected. The river was filled with these twinkling lights and it was an unusual, eerie sight given the backdrop of the crematorium and its raging funeral pyres. Whatever floated your boat, I guessed.
I was sorry to report that I didn’t float so well since I wasn’t especially buoyant, either spiritually or physically. While stepping out of the boat, I slipped and fell into the water. Kali politely put a hand over her mouth while furiously snapping pictures with her digital camera. Good God, I had just made the cover of the DS Special Agent Association’s quarterly newsletter. But it would be a watered-down version of me this time.
Mr. Puneet was laughing his butt off and joked that I’d now been properly baptized in the name of Mother Ganges. I didn’t appreciate his Brahman bull one bit.
I was helped out of the drink by several friendly natives. The peer pressure must have been enormous because I was quickly extracted from the water. At that point, I was freaked out of my freaking mind and ran like a madman through the mass of humanity to our awaiting car. I took three vigorous, successive showers at the hotel. While they helped a little, Kali still refused to sleep with me.
She teased that she felt unclean and unworthy in my presence and maybe she had a point. I knew about the dysentery, hepatitis and cholera stuff. However, I worried that the river was also infested with cooties or the heebie-jeebies or something worse out of a Stephen King novel. In any case, I felt bedbugs crawling all over my body, even though I had left the night light on. I pulled my comforter over my head and finally drifted-off to vivid nightmares.
Sometimes those who served and protected had a burning desire to avoid those indignities usually suffered by lesser mortals.