On the roof of the "Old Yogi Lodge," we listen to the symphony of the night, explosions in the distance - fire works from weddings, bells chime, cars and rickshaws endlessly honking their distressful communications. Temples and mosques lit up in the distance. Old dusty buildings create a labyrinth of narrow passages. Cows, monkeys, goats, dogs, Indians, and the occasional elephant coexist on these streets. Traffic is utter chaos.
I realize my self in this ancient city of Shiva, who fell asleep in the form of the ganga after he created the world. 365 respective gods are worshipped here, a holy city for Hindus, Muslims, and Buddhists. A sadhu told me that the Hindus and Muslims don't fight here because it is a holy city. The only battle here is for who gets our rupees in this desperate, hot season tourist economy. You can hardly walk 5 feet here without getting hassled by somebody begging, trying to sell you something, or a rickshaw ride.
Sunrise over the ganga through the thickness of humidity. Hindus and Muslims gather at its banks to bathe in the holy river. An Indian man rows us along its banks to observe. We float by the many temples and "ghats". "Ganga is boon to inhabitants," written on many pillars. We float by the burning ghats where bodies are cremated and the ashes spread in the ganges. And from a loud speaker, "OM Namah Shivaya ... hare hare bole..." rings out to the ganga over and over again.
Steve Harkless
Last modified: June 20, 2003
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