Varanasi is broken

“CHAI?”

“ BANANA FRY?”

“ BOAT, MADAM?”

India is not the kind of place that lets you forget where you are.

Unless you’re in Goa.

Dragging your heels across sandy beaches and sipping Coke by the resort pool washes away all the stinging memories of squatter toilets and wall-dwelling lizards.

It was on the beaches of Goa where I met Stephan the German, who declared his disdain for my current home, Varanasi.

Stephan knew hardly a lick of English, and succumbed to silently smiling and nodding agreeably to most things: cashew liquor, King Fisher beer and butter fried prawns.

But Varanasi – there was something to be said about Varanasi.

“Varanasi!” He sputtered, searching for his next words. “Varanasi…kaputt.”

I looked at him blankly. He whipped out his pocket German-English dictionary to look up the word.

“Broken. So broken. I don’t like Varanasi.”

It makes sense that the land of Lord Shiva – the god of destruction -- is broken. Crumbling century-old buildings line the gullies, uneven steps walk down the ghats and rickety boats float along the Ganges river.

And on most days, fires burn brightly on the ghats, deteriorating dead bodies in public cremations.

But while death and destruction is so unapologetically on display, so is the city’s undeniable life and energy.

It’s half past five on a Sunday morning. I popped two Tylenols before rolling out of bed to combat a migraine and cold. I’m annoyed at my friends who dragged me out for a boat ride over the sunrise, and at myself, for agreeing to it. We have diyas --small candles surrounded by marigolds in a leaf cup. Once lit, you make a wish and float it in the river. My candle won’t stay lit, and our boatman has to stop paddling to light it for me. I release it in the river with my left hand, cursing myself later upon remembering that it is only sacred with the right.

As the sun crawled out of a dusty slumber, so did hundreds, maybe thousands of Varanasians, who emerged to bathe in the Ganges. Washing in India’s most sacred river is supposed to wash away your sins and cure your ailments.

“What country, Miss?”

The waters were crowded with shirtless young men, swimming, splashing and teasing tourists in boats. Older women, swathed in soaked, vibrant saris, scrubbed away aches and pains, faces tattooed with disgruntled expressions. A children’s calisthenics class had commenced, and dogs and goats lapped at their feet. A father held his floating daughter, teaching her how to swim, only pausing to instruct her to wave at us.

The whole city was out to play.

Hours later, back on solid ground, shop keepers finally opened their gates. Chai stalls started brewing spicy milky tea and other than the buffalos taking a bath, the river and ghats were quiet and still.

On the way back to my guesthouse, remnants of a clay chai cup that had been smashed to pieces lay on the pavement that led the way home.

Varanasi may be broken, but it sure doesn’t need fixing.