This city is a foreboding maze. A crumbling labyrinth from the banks of the Ganges River; though, it can maintain itself through testy power circuits, never-ending infrastructure, and the millstone that history must precede itself here.
Pt 2. The Ghats – Varanasi, India – Thursday, August 6, 2009
It seems that there is not a point in time here when convoys of vehicles and caravans of people going to and leaving their first destination does not exist. The incessant, abrupt noises and overwhelming heat makes trying to get a full night’s rest impossible and every morning feel like a hangover. India.
This is a difficult city to embrace in a short period of time. It has been from the rooftops and open doorways that I have seen the most alluring points of peoples lives. – A line of ten men moving bucket after bucket from the front steps of a home to the roof, filled with what I don’t know. Being woken up by the loud chants of holy men, and the babbling, crying yells of children, to see out my window a mother hanging laundry on a clothesline and preparing for the rest of the day. A woman adjusting her son’s dirt-stained t-shirt before leaving the front step together.
It has been the confusing disarray of narrow alleys and uneven streets filled with the stench of piss that build a discontent for the way so many have to live.
The pilgrimage and rituals of life and death remain on the west steps of the ghats.