Varanasi – City of Lord Shiva
Varanasi is the city of death. The life-giving river Ganges,
flowing past the Eastern edge of the city, here bears life
away. At Varanasi, the sacred river is halfway from its
birth in the Himalayan abode of the gods, to its absorption
in the Bay of Bengal. And this is the place to come and die.
The smell of death hangs over the city. Beside the new and
unused civic crematorium, the funeral pyres burn
continuously on the open bank of the river. Here in
Varanasi, it is said, you can have immediate release from
the cycle of birth and rebirth. Without passing Go, the soul
proceeds directly to its moksha, its liberation.
From all over India eldest sons come to Varanasi, bearing
the ashes of their parents, to scatter them on the great
river. For not everyone has the prescience to reach Varanasi
before they pass away, and having your ashes scattered on
the Ganges at this holy point is the next best thing.
In many cultures sex and death go hand in hand, and nowhere
more so than in Varanasi. This is the city of Lord Shiva,
known as the Destroyer, whose symbol is the unmistakably
phallic lingam. The funeral pyres symbolise Shivas dance of
destruction, leaping flames copying the frenzied ecstasy
which releases the soul.
Nearly two tons of beaten gold cover the dome of Lord Shivas
temple, called Vishwanath, in the old city. In the dark womb
of its interior, beneath enormous bells, stands the simple
black lingam, adorned with flowers, and gleaming with the
milk and honey poured over it.
And here, on the great night of Lord Shiva, when he is
married to the goddess Parvati, the earth is shaken to its
core, as the holy couple re-make the universe.
Mahashivratri, as that night is called, is the night for
love-making. Couples should remain at home, and with all
necessary adornments re-live their first night of
conjugality. Only the young men, waiting for their marriages
to be arranged, are on the streets. In their tens of
thousands they come, to sublimate their virility in the
ferocious religious drama of the night.
I followed the crowd that night. A mile from the temple it
was already thick. A wind band, screeching and tuneless,
hacked its way through, and allowed us to follow. Almost
naked sadhus, smeared with ghostly ash, lunged at us out of
the crowd. Spotting foreigners, they opened their straw
baskets and waved cobras under our noses, until they were
satisfied with our donations.
As we neared the temple, we entered the realms of barbed
wire and armed troops, for like its better known cousin,
Ayodhya, Varanasi is also sometimes the focus of
Hindu-Muslim tension. Narrow barriers kept us controlled
beneath high fences and barbed wire. The atmosphere is
tense. The crowd is dense and hot, and religious fervour is
heightened by drink and sweet smelling drugs. "Hari! Hari!
Bom! Bom! Hari! Hari! Bom! Bom!" The chant increases in
intensity as we approach the temples entrance.
It is a dangerous night to be out. Only the flower sellers
and the troops are unmoved. Suddenly, at almost the magic
midnight hour, we round a final corner, and surge towards
the temple entrance. Religious frenzy boils in the fetid
atmosphere. Young priests, naked to the waist, and streaked
with red powder paint, take it in turn to restrain the
faithful from throwing themselves onto the image of Lord
Shiva. Others shovel the thrown flowers out into the drain.
The crowd behind keep us moving. Darshan is no quiet
contemplation here, but a struggle to catch a glimpse of the
holy image, and a struggle to breathe.
And that was it. Pushed unceremoniously outside again,
nowhere near where we had come in, we woke up lost, but at
least in a known world once more. We hurried barefoot
through the alleys, slipping through cow dung, and bumping
into sacred animals and soldiers smoking. Two men rounding a
corner with a saffron wrapped body on their shoulders nearly
knocked us over.
Half a night later, being rowed gently along the glassy
Ganges at dawn, we surveyed Varanasis teeming river bank.
Surya, the sun god, rose silently behind the far bank, and
acknowledged the thousands of bathing worshippers. Lord
Shiva, exhausted from the primal work of procreation, slept,
and a new and re-ordered world came miraculously into being.
© Kenneth Wilson
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