Varanasi
The chest cough I’d had for two weeks wouldn’t budge. I visited a Guardian pharmacy while we waited for our connecting flight to Varanasi and explained my problem to the chemist there. He sold me two boxes of tablets and assured me the problem would clear in a few days. It wasn’t until I checked my bank statement a few days later that I realised he’d billed me over one hundred pounds!
Note from my journal: My head aches, and my throat is really painful. I lay awake last night wondering if I should contact the travel insurance company for treatment, as it’s been nearly three weeks since the cough started. Felt down for a couple of hours especially as I know how much Ron relies on me when we’re travelling.
He’s also struggling with a dry cough and now has a problem with his big toe, which has gone numb and is painful when he walks. What a pair!!
I know Ron’s putting on a brave face. If he could get a plane back to Ecuador today, he’d go!
I hope Varanasi doesn’t have the same pollution problems as Delhi, where schools have been closed and trucks prohibited from entering the city.
Varanasi is said to be the oldest city in the world. Standing on the banks of the Ganges, it is a holy city with historic sites that date back to the 6th century BCE.
We arrived at our accommodation, KS Paying Guest House, in the Old City, an hour from the airport. Our taxi driver was a little uncertain of its location, so I called the guest house, and they told him they’d meet us at Sonapura Crossing, near the Gauri Kedareswar Temple.
I’m pleased they did; we’d never have found the place! Our hosts were waiting for us and once we’d paid the taxi driver, we walked up a narrow lane (no room for cars or tuk-tuks, only motorbikes or pedal bikes), our hosts carrying our bags. Ron and I looked at one another. I knew what he was thinking – he was on the point of giving up, going home.
The reason we both doubted we’d stay any longer than it would take us to change our flights was the state of the pathways – litter was everywhere: paper, rotting vegetables, plastic bags, plus the odd cow pat and dog droppings.
When we arrived at the guest house, we were relieved to find our room exceptionally well-appointed and clean. Our hosts were lovely and went out of their way to ensure we had everything we needed and that we were happy with our accommodation.
With no restaurant at the guest house, we had to find somewhere for our evening meal. I checked TripAdvisor and discovered a café not too far away, the Aadah-Aadah cafe. I set my phone and followed the GPS directions, stopping only once to ask for help.
The café above the Baba Guest House was up a small alley and three flights of steep steps. Once we’d huffed and puffed our way to the top, the view was definitely worth the climb, with panoramic views of the Ganges in both directions.
The menu was varied with a choice of Indian and Western food. We ordered a biriyani and coconut curry; both were delicious. We finished with two large cups of ginger, lemon and honey tea before walking home again. It became our go-to destination for meals.
Ron’s foot was getting worse, red, hot and unable to take any weight – he spent the following day resting, taking only a short walk to another well-reviewed café, Mona Lisa, for meals.
I was up early the following morning. I’d discovered a walkway along the bank of the Ganges and wanted to watch the sunrise. A set of steps across from our guest house led down to the water’s edge. People were up and doing the same as me, walking in the cool air, sitting and chatting with friends or taking a dip in the river (something I wouldn’t attempt knowing what was floating there).
Gradually, the sky lightened, giving the stone walls and ghats a dusky, rose-tinted hue before the sun peeked above the horizon, a dark orange orb of light.
My slow walk brought me to Dashashwamedh Ghat. A single priest had begun to perform the morning aarti, Subah-e-Banaras – a prayer ceremony to greet the new day, thank God for his presence and providence and pay homage to the four elements – earth, water, sky and fire.
Seated with a few others, I watched the priest’s intricate movements in silence, captivated by the experience and the spiritual feeling of peace.
Walking among the crowd afterwards, a woman approached me with a tray of small earthenware bowls, each holding orange marigold flowers and a tiny candle. I told her I had brought no money with me, but she insisted I take a bowl – her gift to me. She lit the candle and indicated I should take it to the river’s edge and place it on the water.
There was only one problem – I couldn’t bend far enough to reach the water. A young woman nearby saw my predicament and offered to take my offering for me. She placed the delicate ‘boat’ on the water, and then said a silent prayer.
I watched as my offering to the Gods floated slowly away on the river’s currents. It was such a special moment, so uplifting. I turned for home with love in my heart.
Returning to our guest house, I was pleased to find Ron up and in much less pain than the previous day.
Having got my head around Varanasi’s ghats and narrow, cobbled stone alleyways, we decided to walk to one of the many roads on the outskirts of the old city and take a tuk-tuk to Sarnath – said to be the place where the 35-year-old Buddha gave his first sermon.
I hadn’t realised how much technology had moved on since Ron and I backpacked around the world in 2009! It transpired we could only gain entry if we purchase tickets online, something we only found out when we arrived at the site.
We made it a habit never to go out with anything other than enough cash for the day’s food and expenses – no credit cards, no wads of cash.
So, unable to get into the site, we wandered around the gardens opposite the entrance, took photos of the Buddha statue and visited a small temple before finding our tuk-tuk driver and returning home.
Disappointed not to have seen the site at Sarnath, I planned to return the following day with my online ticket, but fate had other ideas.
The chest cough that had plagued me since our first week in India had been getting worse, so much so that I found climbing the three flights of stairs to Aadah-Aadah impossible that night. Worried, I decided it was time to do something other than take cough medicine. I phoned the travel insurance company.
They arranged for a doctor to visit me at the guest house. He was a very polite, middle-aged man who spoke good English, prescribed a chest infection and hooked me up to an IV through which he pumped five different solutions while praying for God to help my recovery! An hour later, he left, promising to return the following afternoon to repeat the treatment.
Unfortunately, I began to experience heart palpitations an hour after his departure. I called the insurance crowd, and they immediately arranged for an ambulance to take me to a hospital.
The guest house owners escorted me to the crossroad where the ambulance was waiting.
After a very uncomfortable thirty-minute drive, we arrived at the hospital. Brand new and very well equipped, a group of ten doctors, nurses and attendants were waiting for us in the Emergency Room – I felt like royalty!
The doctor requested X-rays and ECG – the prognosis I had a severe infection in my right lung. The doctor thought the IV concoction the previous doctor had administered had probably caused the heart palpitations.
Two hours later, a hospital driver took Ron and me home in a very comfortable car! I had yet more tablets to take but felt confident I’d soon be feeling better.
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We were lucky enough to be in Varanasi for Diwali – the festival of lights that signifies the triumph of light over darkness and good over evil.
Our hosts at the guest house couldn’t join in the celebrations to the full extent that year as their father had passed away a few months before, and celebrations were limited. However, they did make sure we were included in the sharing of pasty delicacies and presents and were happy to explain the rituals and sights we should see.
Ron and I walked along the riverbank to Dashashwamedh Ghat for the evening Diwali aarti. Crowds began to gather well before dusk, our space on the stone steps shrinking as more and more people arrived.
Glancing around, I took in the colourful scene with women in bright saris and shawls and men smartly dressed in traditional shirts. Chai Wallas wove their way along the stone steps, with kettles precariously balanced on small paraffin stoves, selling hot aromatic chai.
With night descending, lighting illuminated the platforms where the priests performed the aarti and bells from buildings around the site began ringing out. The priests then took their positions. When the ceremony began, the crowd clapped in time with to the rhythmic music, while on the water, hundreds of tiny candles danced to the tune of the bells.
For twenty-four hours, fireworks vibrated through the air, the crescendo being at midnight when sleep was impossible and there was no option but to join everyone celebrating on the streets.
It took a while to get used to Varanasi, the narrow lanes that crisscross the old city were sometimes hard to take with the rubbish, cow poo and disgruntled dogs, but there was something about walking the ancient, cobbled streets that gave me a sense of the history of the city – the spirituality of the ghats and a deep sense of peace.
I wish I could have stayed longer, but our time in Varanasi was at an end. Maybe one day, I’ll get the chance to return, visit Sarnath and explore more of Varanasi.