Varanasi- A Collection of Random Thoughts

My grandfather tells me of the age when three rupees was all it took to buy a month’s food. When I go home during vacations, I tell him people here need just a few more. Varanasi, in many ways, reminds me of my grandmother’s tales of villages and rivers, of subsistence and happiness, and of a life of undiluted peace and calm.
When the Sensex yo-yos, so does the pulse of the entire nation. Men are accustomed to having their heart, instead of food, in their mouth. Varanasi, though, remains calm. Men still squat on the road with their kulhar of tea and two samosas. FIIs can sell out all they want to, the Federal Bank can double its rates, Earth may be stripped from the list of planets, the Al-Qaeda may blow the country away if they like, Varanasi may be declared part of Pakistan- nothing will perturb the devotees of Baba Vishwanath who bathe in Ganga Mayya. (People do a lot more than just bathe in it. But the holy river’s supposed to give you relief from all kinds of pressure.)

Varanasi is a misfit in the popular image of North India- business-minded, profit oriented, selfish. While people come here to soak up some ancient mysticism, they also learn to love the city for the way it is- dirty, congested, pot-holed; all-in-all, an urban nightmare. They say the spiritual enlightenment one obtains here overrides petty concerns like lashing cow-tails, traffic, floods, etc. I haven’t reached that stage yet. I still positively detest Varanasi for its refusal to change- for its people’s reluctance to change- fearing possibly that the new wave will undermine their existence. They’re scared of the day when priests will preach online, when Ustad’s shehnaai will make way for Metallica, when sub-ways will replace samosas, and when Café Coffee Day will overtake chai-stalls.
The tourism department doesn’t mind this. Why should they spend to clean the shit foreigners love to smell? I’ll tell them why. I’ve met a number of people who’ve toured Varanasi once. They said they’ll never go there again. Cluttered dwellings, dusty roads, and crowded marketplaces look ‘natural’ and ‘real’ on TV. But when you’ve to eat a samosa at the pavement of that very market, the reality hits you. The revenues from tourism might be enough for the state to keep bulldozers away. Makeovers cost a neat packet, and UP isn’t the richest or the most thinly populated state in the country. Devotees will visit the temple even if they have to tunnel through mountains of dung and filth. But I am not a devotee. I am a resident of this unholy city, and I don’t want to tunnel through mountains to get to a vegetarian restaurant or to buy a bloody magazine.
There’s something here that strikes you at once as charming and naïve. Vendors don’t mind if you say you’re broke and will pay them later. It might be for a cup of tea; it might be for an entire meal. I am not talking about big restaurants, where professional etiquette goes hand-in-hand with customer mistrust. I am referring to the petty tea stalls for whose owners the money from a single meal goes a long way. Call this blind trust, call it stupidity, call it what you like. But it does shatter the myth that man has become a profit-making machine. If ever a motion is initiated to revamp the city, I’ll be its most vociferous supporter. But some things are better left alone.