Along the Ganges

The oarsman of our little rowboat steers the vessel so smoothly that I hardly notice us turning to avoid other boats.

As we watch dawn break over the Ganges river, he tells us that Varanasi is "the holiest place on earth... Always holy, 24 hours, Varanasi."

And holy things do seem to happen all the time here. People are always bathing in the holy river water, ceremonies happen every single night, and the smoke from cremation fires is visible at all hours. My favorites are the many older women who come to cleanse themselves in the Ganges--an d shave their heads in the process. There are bald ladies everywhere!

A well-stocked vessel pulls up to our little boat, its owner announcing, "Gangas Supermarket!" and offering us everything from necklaces to candles to sculptures (but not breakfast, the one thing we really want). Capitalism is as present here as Hinduism but even that doesn't dampen the spirit of Varanasi. The bald ladies, for example, don't seem to care that the barbers are hurrying them along in order to get to the next client. This is still a religious experience.

I like watching the old gals, but I'm always grabbing at my own ponytail, just to be sure it's still there. The sacredness is palpable here, but it isn't mine.

And I'm not the only outsider. There are more policemen here than just about anywhere else I've been (My dad pays special attention to this because he likes to temp fate by sneaking photos of them--the scalawag!). They're guarding against violence between Hindus and Muslims, their presence a reminder that religion isn't all mantra chanting and pretty flowers (or shaving razors).

As I strive to make sense of all the faith around me, I'm drawn to Yann Martel's description of life without it. Discussing agnosticism, he says: "To choose doubt as a philosophy of life is akin to choosing immobility as a means of transportation."

So, our little boat rolls on and, all around us, so does the Ganges.