Hindus come to Varanasi to die. Many old or sick take up a place in one of the famous ‘death hotels’, and wait for their time to go. They believe dying in this city, and having your body burnt on the banks of the Ganges, will release you from the unending cycle of rebirth and death, and allow you to gain salvation. Some locals tell me Lord Shiva created Varanasi; the oldest and most holy city in India. Coronavirus will never come here, they say; Shiva will protect us.
It is March, but cool. This is usually the time the heat is ramping up in the Indian plains, but this year is different. As I walk along the ghats, the steep, stone steps leading down to the Ganga, and the sky is dark; the sun is failing in its struggle to shine. One boy interrupts his cricket match to try and sell me an evening boat ride. I reach the first ‘burning ghat’ and pause. A body, draped in cloth, has been placed on the pyre. Wreathes of orange marigolds are piled on top. The male members of the family are circling the corpse, crying, being instructed by a Brahmin priest on what to chant. I turn around and head back to the relative safety of Assi Ghat. Not today.
Two days before, India stopped issuing new visas in an effort to stem the spread of coronavirus that has taken hold throughout much of Europe and the US. Every day brings news of a new lock-down; every day a new country shuts its borders. I am watching India’s currently low count ticking up. I sit in one of Varanasi’s many vegan restaurants, listening to a group of tie-died elderlies discuss how they are going to get home. It is my first day in the ‘city of death’ and I am finally waking up to the impending crisis.
Cricket on the ghat
I go out for dinner, hoping to beat the imminent thunder storm. I make it half-way to Assi Ghat as the deluge is unleashed. Sheltering in a flimsy dhaba, I am given a seat and chai by strangers. We all jump at the stupendous cracks closely following the flashes of light. The Hindi pop is turned up. In matters of minutes, the streets flood and I am ushered into the grimy kitchen for roti and subzi. The power goes off and mosquitoes attack my legs; I am eating by the light of my Iphone. I leave the restaurant, removing my fake Birkenstocks, to walk home up the flooded street. I tentatively feel for concrete beneath the murk. This really is the Kali Yug, the Hindu epoch of destruction, I think to myself.
The next day I attack the galis (lanes) of Varanasi, looking for an easing to my tensions. Indian cities always feel like they need to be attacked, at least in the first few days, until familiarity is won. With familiarity comes comfort, but first I have to steel myself. The old town of Varanasi is famous for its narrow galis, housing weavers and artisans. The surrounding buildings actually only date from the 18th century as Moghuls continually razed the city to the ground during their centuries-long rule. In the narrow pathways, most women are covering their face with their dupattas and the men are mainly wearing masks. But, social distancing is simply not possible.
Varanasi and the Ganga
I never make it to the heart of the old city, the large burning ghat or the legendary Blue Lassi shop. I find anxiety and the freneticism of Indian streets do not mix. I nurse another chai, and try to clarify my thoughts. If to go, where to go, when to go. Perhaps it would be have been better never to have seen Indian hospitals. But unfortunately I have seen everything; the lack of doctors, the dirt, the crowds, the ease with which life slips away. No-one looks after you in these places. I cannot imagine the scene of the oncoming Covid-19 carnage.
That evening I brave Sanchat Mochan temple, one of the most important temples in Varanasi. The mahant, or high priest, tells me more people are coming than normal, looking for some sort of comfort or reassurance. Indeed, there is constant stream of people pouring into the temple, circling the inner shrine, and then climbing onto the raised platform to take darshan of Hanuman, the monkey god. Hundreds are squashed around the idol, drumming and singing. The mahant is under pressure from the local authorities to close the temple, but is worried about taking away this place of escape from those who have little else. He is trying to install a thermal screening, in an attempt to make it safer.
A waiting boatman
Praying at sunrise
Over the next few days in Varanasi, I develop a routine which I have never needed more. Every morning fewer and fewer faces are coming to Mark’s Café, and among those of us that are left, there is only one topic of conversation. Who has gone home, who is going home, who is going to hide out in an ashram in Rishikesh. Every day I leave stressed, my resolve to keep calm and monitor the situation rationally destroyed. Every afternoon, I make myself stride along the ghat to my Hindi class at Raju’s, reasoning that sitting in front of him forces my brain onto something other than Covid-19.
As I walk along the ghat, I get the taunts of ‘Coronavirus’, or worse. I expect it now, although this anticipation does little to prevent further attacks on my morale. Recently, a group of Italians were found to be infected with the virus in Jaipur, so it has now been labelled the white person’s disease. The hundreds of Indians that also returned from abroad with the virus is a narrative that is not heard. Sometimes I get angry, sometimes I joke. ‘Who has coronavirus?’ I ask. “You do?! Stay far from me!’ I shout. Some offenders laugh. Some apologise. But in some eyes, I can see real fear; they sprint away when I turn to challenge them.
In India, the cases are still drifting up, in what I feel is the calm before the storm. What is most concerning is that they are spread all over the nation, popping up in small villages in the furthest-most corners of states. This pattern implies the invisible enemy is everywhere and anywhere. There is only one way this curve is going. After six days in Varanasi, I wake up to the news that this evening Modi is to address the nation and I know I need to move.
Taking a swim
Over the years I have watched as Modi has done the unspeakable. Overnight, he removed the majority of cash from circulation, leaving months, if not years, of confusion, queuing, economic decline and deprivation. Just last summer, he crushed the laws safeguarding tormented Kashmir’s fragile autonomy, locking up all Kashmiri politicians and switching off phone and internet; Kashmir today, 8 months later, still only has 2G internet. Significant human sacrifice is always made in his sudden and far-reaching decisions, and I fear this will be no different. Tomorrow, I know I may not be able to travel to Delhi; my Indian friends agree.
Unusually for me I visit the local travel agent, as the hostile atmosphere has extinguished my energy for traversing the city. Tonight’s train is full but Sonu assures me he will get me a bunk through the wait-list and for some reason I have faith in him. I sit in a now empty Paul’s Café, trying to write but my brain and my hand cannot coordinate. The letters are illegible. After saying goodbye to Raju, I return to Sonu, my ticket has not come through. It is 3pm and I am twitchy.
Locals on the ghat
Confirmation of my seat arrives at 5pm and an hour later I leave Varanasi in the dark in an autorickshaw, accompanied by one driver and of course one friend along for the ride. People are cascading out of temples and mosques onto the narrow lanes. Coronavirus warnings are being barked from the public loudspeakers. “If you have a fever or cough, declare yourself to the hospital,” I make out. Groups of police, in their lycra-tight uniforms, patrol the streets, waving their lathis (large sticks) at inconveniently parked traffic or an unlucky cow.
The train is actually at the platform and I allow myself to feel some relief. I relax a bit more when my cabin companions appear unperturbed by a foreigner. They are further put at ease when I tell them I have been in India since November, conclusive evidence of my good health. We chat about the virus and the bahut kharab halat (terribly bad state of affairs). I am getting bombarded with texts. Come to Delhi now! Varanasi is closing, one says. Flights out are stopping in two days, says another. The train jolts forward and rolls out the station. I lean back and Whatsapp my mum and my friends. I am moving.
Sab kuch uperwale ke haath me hai (Everything is in God’s hands)