Spiritual Frequency

If Varanasi were a temple, Mama Ganga would be the guru and the sunrise would be her dharshan.

As the sky gets lighter, vibrations get faster. A pink and yellow ball rises over the haze of the river. From the outside it would seem that I’m in suspended animation - paused in meditation. But it’s only the magnetic pull of the sight before me that holds my gaze. Internally, I’m in a frenzy. The colours cascade from the willful hand of the sun onto city. The Ganga’s waters flow golden and the warm tones saturate every scene. This paints a pink hue of movement across the coolness of the dawn.

Chanting, singing and choruses of mantra pull the sun further into the sky while waking city into full commotion. Giant bells are ringing is incessantly; drums beat a rhythm, pounding hard. I feel like they are beating me into consciousness. My head bobs in unison with my chest. Here, the holy music that welcomes the day isn’t made for any choral ensemble I’ve ever heard in church. It’s not like any mosque’s solemn call to prayer. It conjures something tribal and raw, a familiar rhythm, like an awakening of your true self.

The reverberation between the heaven and earth has never been more apparent. The connection of everything internal and everything transcendental seems amplified at this waking hour.

Varanasi’s first rush overwhelmed me with its unbridled life force in the people and the unabashed living conditions of everyone. But the intensity soon wore off leaving an ‘aroma of spirituality’ in the air, that you can’t help but inhale deeply into your lungs.

People from all over the world come to India for a spiritual awakening, searching for themselves or trying to develop an understanding of ‘meaning and purpose’. They visit sacred sites and temples, speak with sadhus, visit ashrams and embrace foreign blessing rituals believing that this will bring them closer to attaining the feeling of oneness with all things. The people of this city aren’t following any ashram timetable for meditation, prayer and yoga. These are as much a part of daily life as reading the newspaper or a morning chai. Whether there are speakers and lights at the main ghat or not, the intricate daily puja ritual from 7 to 8pm will still go on. The man who sings alone to idols of Hanuman and Shiva at a small shrine nested in one of the more quiet ghats does not need an audience. He’s singing for the gods. External recognition or validation isn’t necessary for him.

As the sun rises over the city and your body is submerged into the heat, life across the ghats is in full swing. Making my way through the daily chaotic activity, I see peace and purpose in every walk of life.

This is a city that bares its soul. It’s place that gets you and I can see why it’s a magnet for spiritual pilgrims, artists and the culture curious. Varanasi inspires. Like mirror reflecting thoughts and questions about life and beyond, the city and its people feed and force a reaction from within. 

 

Art Book

Royal Enfield

Varanasi In My Veins

To sharpen your senses, take a dose of Varanasi.

On exiting the train station, y­ou are assaulted by the heat, the touts, the traffic, the odours, the loudness in all its forms... A frantic chaos giving way to a harmony of cultures and religion underpinning this place… The oldest living city on Earth.

I know I’ve written about chaos previously, but this city… This city takes the chaotic cake-cherry-on-top. If you haven’t learnt to relax and let India take a hold of you, suck you up and spit you out; let this city swallow you whole and gargle you on the way down. That’s what happens to you and the more you fight this process, the longer it’ll be before you can settle into Varanai’s rhythm.

Namaste! Namaskar! Hello! How are you! … Rickshaw Sir? Boat ride Madam? Cold water? Cigarettes? Chillum? Chai? … No Nahey, No thank you, Not today… Which country? Where you stay? First time India? You need something?... No thanks, See you, Thank you… I give you good price! Hey! Hello!... And so on and so on until you turn a corner. And… repeat.  

The first walk through the lanes and around the banks of Mother Ganges (Mama Ganga) is impressionable. The jagged openings that make up the labyrinth behind the ghats are like the cracks left behind after seismic urban activity centuries ago, forming the Old City. I found myself constantly looking down as I took each stride, meaningfully placing my feet in carefully chosen spots as we cut through the laneways. Doing my best to avoid the wet bits, the cow shit, the other non-descript shit, the sleeping mangy dogs, the resting cows, other insect and animal-life, the rubbish and food scraps… But at the same time, also trying to keep my head at eye level to greet the friendly shop owners, passers by, and the police holding large semi-automatic rifles.

The tiny shop fronts, remarkably aesthetic, are worn away from generations of use and bubbling with life, lassi, every type of fried and so many other and foods as well as every trade you can think of. Even ‘city-farmers’ have their allocated small spaces, keeping their cows and buffalos in openings no more than a few metres wide and deep. I look up and through the curtains of light and shadow, and I see smoke, dust, power lines, monkey and human heads popping out of windows, inspecting the thoroughfare below from their perch in the layers of now crumbling colonial architecture, built on the foundations of giant sandstone slabs that were placed there by ancient inhabitants.

As I approach the Main Ghats, the number of babas and holy men increase as with the flow of the holy colours… Pink, orange, red, yellow… The colours dance through my darting eyes, trying to keep up with the input to process it… flower blessings, dhotis, saris, silk shops, souvenir shops, blessed faces… the list goes on.

All this, intermingles with brightly painted temples and steady human traffic, going or coming from puja or conducting Hindu rituals to idols, paintings and images of gods that line every passage. A family passes by chanting in lyrical Hindi. It’s a procession for a dead relative receiving a traditional Hindu burial. A small flock of people, swarm to the river’s burning ghat, Manikarnika, to see their loved be set ablaze and release them back into Mama Ganga’s arms to complete the cycle of death and rebirth. I can hear, see and feel the spectacle of the ritual from the inside, out. No one is crying. It seems as though all goodbyes have been said. Once the body is lit, people move away to let it be taken by the flames alone and watch from a distance.

To escape the clamour, I climb to a roof-top and look out… The glorious Ganges is said to be forged from Shiva’s own hair. It flows to the corners of my eyes and a holy vision of the city from above arrests me all over again. Kites and birds flutter around me and I can hear murmurs of animals, humans and machines co-exiting below. It calls for a few deep breaths to take in the reverence of this wild and holy place.

All this in the first few hours of arriving…

I like what I feel. More please.