My last post was about the ghats, and Varanasi’s dealings with death and life side by side. In these images I hoped to capture the vibrant people, the spirit of the nightly puja, and the candidness I saw in this dualistic, enduring, city.
Tag: Northern India
Varanasi
View of the burning ghats from a rowboat.
Varanasi, the place where people come to die. In the narrow streets bodies covered with colorful silk, lined with carnations and roses are carried past on the shoulders of their male relatives. I stopped walking outside the break in the wall, where men weigh the massive pieces of scented wood they use to build funeral pyres. Just past the gates, where photography is prohibited, are the cremation ghats, steps to the river laden with burning bodies. Varanasi is the Hindu capital of India. It is said that if you die on the banks of the Ganges in Varanasi, you are absolved of sin, and your soul is released from Maya, the painful cycle of death and rebirth. It was a very intense city, the air weighs down on your body in a different way. I avoid the subject of death. In Varanasi, death confronts you. It is natural, not something to be overlooked or dressed up, just the end of maya, the end of pain.
The Tea Ladies
In Darjeeling tea is as abundant as it is flavorful. The hills are lined with verdant tea bushes, and sparse fruit and coffee trees, planted to fix nitrogen. The Macaiberry Tea Estate was one of the first Organic tea plantations in India. I spent 3 days on the plantation in a quaint homestay with a Indian / Nepali family and a few friends I met traveling. The estate primarily employs women in the field and in the factory, partly because of their “nimble fingers” and partly because Kurseong is a comparatively progressive village. Kurseong is one of the only villages in North India that has recorded a negative birth rate in the last 5 years. The women’s counsel works to make birth control more readily available and morally accepted in the village, and it has been somewhat effective. The women I photographed this morning were pruning the tea bushes, the winter task that is done when the harvest has ended for the season. I tried to bridge our language gap as they flitted their scissors over the branches, and though I do not understand Nepali, I observed their closeness and their jocularity. The three women below managed to say in fragmented English that they particularly enjoy pruning because they don’t have to be careful or delicate, they just work away, talking and teasing till the sun sets.
Agra Fort
Agra Fort was the first time in my travels that I have solicited the service of a guide. Our guide was technically retired, he said he still gives tours just to stay sharp. His hair was dyed with henna, and his glasses magnified his kind eyes by twice their size. My friends and I were grateful for him because there were countless details about the place that we would have been oblivious of, such as which room the Shah was imprisoned in by his own son when he was placed under house arrest. He told us of the King’s 260 concubines and I saw traces of them as we walked in the gardens below their quarters. In the marble bathing pool, I imagined the king surrounded by his ladies, one in each of the 36 curvy carved seats lining the ivory pool. The Fort was an impressive representation of the lavish life a king lived in early 17th century India. It took my mind back in it’s jeweled arches and time stained walls.
Train Songs
A few weeks ago I, and my wonderful travel partners Katie and Marina set forth on a 2 week adventure around Northern India. Our rambling began with a sunrise train from Rishikesh to Agra. We booked the sleeper class which is far more affordable than the AC trains, but is known to be somewhat uncomfortable. Luckily, we didn’t mind it and I’d say I preferred it thanks to Katie’s ukulele. We played it for a moment then an elderly man in our compartment asked to try the small instrument. He completely retuned the uke, which would take us about a week to reverse, but it was worth it. Our compartment became the life of the sleeper. Four older men sang and danced and the women below my bunk clapped to the tune of the Indianized ukulele. Even the busy chai carriers stopped beside our bunks to partake in the enjoyment.
Abandoned
Sunday:
We walked past the Chai stands and waking Sadhus in the street, down a dirt path littered with discarded things and interrupted by tiny rivers, to the gate of the Mahesh Maharishi Ashram . In 1968 The Beatles studied transcendental meditation at the ashram, bringing attention to Rishikesh from the West that would last well beyond the years of the ashram its self. It closed in 1997, and became a part of the National Park bordering Rishikesh. The many meditation pods and dormitories, as well as the personal home of Maharishi are now historical relics covered with art, vines, and lines from Beatles songs. It may be trespassing, and the threat of the guards was hot on our minds, but the place is alluring. We spent 2 early morning hours inside the overgrown walls. When I walked into the small temple with walls covered in stones from the Ganga, I felt a strange sensation travel down my spine. It wasn’t unpleasant, it just made me careful, Made me mindful amongst the splintered wood and broken glass.
Aarti
Around half past five, people walk to the sandy bends of the Ganga, India’s sacred river, to pray, and to offer a blessing to the water. I have watched Aarti a few times, but this time I participated and bought my own 10 rupee leaf-woven basket of flowers from a young girl. She lit the small candle for me and I stepped into the cool water and silently said a prayer and expressed my gratitude for recent experiences. The young girl stood with me, protecting the flame from the wind till it was out of reach, part of the river. Another experience to be grateful for. 
Another Sunday, I went to the very public weekly Aarti at an Ashram in Ram Jhula, with ghats to the Ganges. There were speakers from Organic India talking about the new laws protecting the riverside from development and the plans to plant organic fruit trees and other sustainable plants that will help prevent erosion and provide sustenance for those living nearby. A group of young boys, were enthusiastically chanting mantras and Hindi songs as the candles were lit and passed around the glowing crowd. After the speeches and songs people knelt and said their pujas at the waters edge, splashing themselves with the holly water and offering flowers and candles to carry their prayers downstream. An older woman showed me how to swing the candle properly and dripped the cool water on my forehead. It was an engaging ritual, very heartfelt.
Baccē – Hindi – The Kids
Last week my friend Sonia from Serbia, and I met these children while hiking near Rishikesh. Their family lived simply, seemingly the only family atop this steep mountainside. The eldest daughter smiled widely at us and spoke shyly, but the younger two, who, along with their mother seemed more Nepalese than Indian, would not break their pensive glare. The word stoic reverberated in my head as Sonia talked to them in her warm way, trying to draw laughter from their pursed lips.
jharanā
In Hindi Jharanā means waterfall. Last Sunday a group of us Yoga students went on a hike to the construction site of the Ashram being built for Peeth Yoga training in a few years. Along the trail there happens to be a short detour to an amazing waterfall. In my life I have experienced many breathtaking waterfalls in Hawaii and the West Coast, and this one made the ranks. I was unable to take my camera to the most mystical part that was only seen by 4 of us because it involved climbing up slippery algae covered surfaces and passing under curtains of falling water. That unseen part was the most special for me, maybe next time I’ll protect my camera and share it.
Rishikesh
Just beyond the city of Rishikesh there is a river town split in half by two bridges, Ram Jhula to the West and Laxman Jhula to the East. I am living on the third floor of an apartment in Ram Jhula that resemples the color of key lime pie. Between the two parts of town, a footpath winds along the Ganges, or the Ganga as people call it here. In those two kilometers I have come across gangs of boys romping in the Ganga, artists painting quietly, schoolchildren walking home holding hands, women singing and dancing in Puja, and many others that I hope to never forget. These images will be my safeguard for remembrance. 
Viola Jean Photography 