A Pornography of Death

Pornography, to write about prostitutes, originally from the Ancient Greek porne (prositute) + graphein (to write); compare hagiography, to write about the holy, or hagios.

Varanasi has not disappointed. It is exactly what I expected to find.

Varanasi, the city where people go to die. For around 200 rupees, or about 3 and a half dollars, you can be cremated by the state of India on the banks of the river Ganges. For ten times that, you can watch people being cremated from a boat on the Ganges, surrounded by thousands upon thousands of other tourists in other boats, waiting for people to die so as to see them burn.

Varanasi is the city of Death, a city of filth, and a city of lies. It is a city of “holy” men, a city of beggars, of amputees and deformities, of Ganga-smoking hippies and mendicants, of loads of European and American tourists, of carcasses and entrails floating down the Ganges amdist the hundreds of daily bathers in the sewage-choked waters, of hawkers and swindlers, of street urchins and pilgrims, and of pimps and prostitutes of death.

“The boat ride will just be a nominal fee, maybe 120 rupees or so,” lied the man at the hotel.

The boat ride, at the dock, was quoted to me at 1500 rupees, though I paid significantly less since it became readily apparent that Raju, my ferryman, was out of shape and could not handle his oars, inter alia. I asked him ten minutes into the ride, after we had bumped a dozen other boats and nearly punctured a bloated corpse of a cow floating by with his oars, “Have you done this before? I mean, have you ever rowed this boat before this morning?” I asked him rather sardonically, not masking my annoyance.

“I will explain later,” he lied, somewhat sheepishly, not proffering an explanation while I was close enough to shore to jump ship.

As we plied our way down through the flotilla of tourist boats, or rather, as they passed us one by one, grazing us or us them due to Raju’s ineptness at the helm, I was able to let my initial annoyance subside as I realized it would serve no one any good. We headed upstream trailing the herd of dinghies to the small crematorium, which is primarily electric, though some traditional pyres are still used. Some time ago, the Prime Minister of India initiated a state-subsidized cremation service for the poor as people were wont to come to Varanasi to die in order for their corpses to be cast away into the river, to float downstream and become purified. In order to reduce the bobbing body count, this crematorium was constructed and for a truly nominal fee, one’s remains may be immolated along the sacred banks.

Just before the crematorium, there is a “holy man” school, which is the only modern building along the ghats, or “steps,” which all lead to the muddy, shitty, filthy banks. Outside, on the steps of the “holy man” school, young boys in saffron gowns are chanting in an awkward chorus line accompanied by two gurus with a guitar and tabla, chanting into a microphone, broadcasted out to the boats of gaping and aghast white people. Next to the chorus line, there is another “holy man” who is going through various gesticulations with a flaming trident, the sign of Shiva, an incense chalice, and various other gilded accoutrements. He is covered in ashes, presumably from the cremated bodies next door, his hair pinned up into a topnot and sporting a grungy, pointed beard. Pot-bellied and grinning foolishly from his Ganga “wake and bake” burn, looking rather non-Indian, and in fact, he looks suspiciously like a Jewish comic from New York as he clownishly waves to some of the people in the boats.

At this point, Raju, who is also slightly potbellied, unlike nearly all of the other trim boatsmen who had been cruising smoothly past us, takes a break as we turn around to head back downstream. Nota Bene, don’t hire a potbellied oarsman for an upstream boat tour.

He asks me to sit nearby to him, for his explanation. He amicably lies that one oar is weaker than the other, which explains his difficulties. The oars are identical. I used to row every morning for 6 miles on Town Lake in Austin, and had more than once been tempted to ask Raju if he wanted to swap places as he hit yet another “crab”. It was not in the oars.

He then complains about his boss and that he had just come in from New Dehli last evening and had to sleep in the boat. Having been in India now for two months, I know that nearly every word out of his mouth at this point is a lie to garner sympathy for money. He tells me not to be angry, to which I respond, “I am not angry, that would be a waste of energy. I was annoyed, but it’s not worth it, it changes nothing as I am already on the boat.”

He tells me some trivial facts about the ghats and the city. Some are urban legends that I have read about, others are blatantly misinformed, and some most likely have some truth to them. By now, we have drifted towards mid-stream as Raju has not touched the oars for some time, so after much effort, we manage our way back towards the bank into the slipstream.

Suddenly, having forgotten one of his lies, his evil boss turns out to be his uncle, who owns the boat, as well as a silk shop...I know where this is going. As we are drifting again downstream closer to the larger crematorium, where several cremations are in process, he is telling me about how his uncle’s place is much cheaper than retail stores. I smile and nod, feeling the annoyance creeping back under my skin. He then tells me about a customer from last night...er...last time he was on the boat. Another lie exposed, caught too late to rectify properly.

We pass the crematorium, turning back upstream, under much protest of Raju’s body fighting the oars. We pass close enough to see the stiffened feet sticking out from the pyres. Brown feet turning white, the smell of barbecued flesh rises. By ten, there will be many pyres lit as the mornings are for purity rituals, not Death. Raju assures me he can give me a special tour.

When we get back, Raju gives me his number so that he can show me around more later. He says that since I am a teacher, he will do it “free of charge.” He tells me again about his uncle’s store, bingo, I say, “I’m not interested in buying anything.” I have done my shopping in Madurai from people I came to know personally there. Raju’s face changes a bit, the “free of charge” and his amicability seem to fade from his face in an instant.

We sit and drink a chai from small, clay disposable cups. It is a good chai, though hard to enjoy without a measure of added guilt. All around, severely deformed people are asking for money. Theoretically it is illegal to beg in India now, however, people make exceptions for visibly deformed people and for the “holy men,” who, by the looks of many of them, are living up to the accusations of charlatanism and excuses to get high all of the time.

I see my cab from the hotel pull up. I give Raju several hundred rupees less for his overcharge and oversight about his ability to row this morning. I have also been here long enough to know that you never pay the full price quoted for white people, especially if the service is lacking. He is disappointed, but so was I at the beginning. It is a fair trade.

My cab driver had come back from the hotel. I had shared a ride from the hotel with two German men, who were only in Varanasi for a night and a morning. The entire time they were discussing money issues, so I had chosen to go alone on a boat instead of further sharing the cost with them, making it more expensive for me, but I had not wanted to listen to them bicker Teutonically for an hour and a half, which turned out to be two hours with Raju (which was fine, except for his constant protests about how “hard it was to row,” though I was the only boat with one person, being much lighter than all the rest). In Germany, prostitution is regulated by the government, so there are fixed prices, so they were expecting the same consistency in India I suppose. The Germans had returned sooner and did not want to wait, and the cabbie had gone back with them earlier, so it was just me on the way back to the hotel.

There is a long soup kitchen line along the main road away from the ghats. The cab driver told me that each morning, as part of doing morning oblations, a wealthy person can sponsor a giant caldron of the curry soup and rice for the poor who throng to the Man Mandir Ghat, the launching point for the grotesque ferry rides.

The cab driver asks me questions about my stay in Varanasi. At each thing that I mention, he says that he can drive me, for an enhanced fee of what it would cost me for the taxis that are just outside the gates of the hotel, and which I will be taking from now on. There is no interest in what I want to see, but rather, when I want to see it so that he can take me. I tell him I don’t have a phone, to give me his number and I will call.

I lied.

Lying is contagious here in Varanasi, the city where people go to die.

The city of pimps and prostitutes of Death, and I’m just another paying John.

Spot the Cow?

An effigy of Kali, goddess of Death from a Diwali festival

Spot the Tourists?

Small, state-subsidized crematorium

Large Crematorium