I am already awake when the alarm goes off at 4.45a.m. and apprehensive about the first part of today's tour. I have heard all the stories and seen the photographs. It's still dark as we make our way down to the water's edge of the Ganges. There are crowds of people heading down the ghats. Some are already stripped off and in the water. Others are waiting for their turn. Hordes of tourists are queueing for the boats. I scan the water left and right. Yes. There are plenty of bodies in there , but they all appear to be alive and kicking. Well, bathing, praying or just looking around them, at least. I can't spot any of the much vaunted dead bodies or body parts, that I had been assured would be floating past. Phew. As we make our way to our boat, we are attacked from all sides. 'You want boat?' You want postcard?' 'You want book?' 'You want Kama Sutra?' No! It's too early. I don't want any of it. Not even the Kama Sutra. Not at that time of the morning anyway. In the boat, a saucer containing flowers and a candle is thrust into my hand. '10 rupees' I'm told. I hand over 10 rupees. '20 rupees' the wizened crone demands. No chance. Off she trots to harass some other poor sucker, and the boat gently pulls away. The sun is coming up over the far bank and the reflection off the water is beautiful. All along the bank, people are bathing, cleaning their teeth, washing their bodies and clothes. It's hard to imagine this is one of the most polluted rivers in the world. I continue to scan the water. Every twig, every wreath, every ripple, could be something I can't even bear to contemplate. All along the riverbank 'ghats' there are people going about their daily business and religion as we head up river. It feels intrusive to be sat here in a boat, taking photographs. I focus on the rising sun instead. As we head back down river, we come to land between piles of wood. In a boat beside us, someone lies prostrate under a thin cover, their face uncovered, eyes shut. I stare for a moment, horrified, but the thin cover rises and falls slowly. In the boat, this person's 2 companions are watching and waiting. As we go up the steps, there is a stretcher at the top. It is completely covered with a yellow patterned cloth. I find it incomprehensible that our boat has chosen to dock at the open air 'crematorium' where families come to say goodbye to their loved ones. Others in our group peer, ghoulishly, at the body on the stretcher. They talk about coming back in the evening, when the majority of cremations take place and the pyres of burning bodies can be seen along the embankment. As we make our way up, through the narrow alleys, we meet more stretchers on their way down, mingling with schoolchildren, in their pristine uniforms, on their way to a new day at school.
In the afternoon, we go to hear about Buddhism at Serankot, supposedly the place where Buddha made his first sermon. It is baking hot, but our guide is enthusiastic, and keen to tell us Buddha's loooong life history. In the field behind, women and children are crouched in a line, picking at the grass. Above them, an old man walks between them with a stick in his hand. It feels like something out of the middle ages and we peek through the railings trying to work out what the crop is and coax a smile while they are working.
I am not persuaded by the lure of festival lights and music to take an evening trip to the banks of the Ganges.
In the afternoon, we go to hear about Buddhism at Serankot, supposedly the place where Buddha made his first sermon. It is baking hot, but our guide is enthusiastic, and keen to tell us Buddha's loooong life history. In the field behind, women and children are crouched in a line, picking at the grass. Above them, an old man walks between them with a stick in his hand. It feels like something out of the middle ages and we peek through the railings trying to work out what the crop is and coax a smile while they are working.
I am not persuaded by the lure of festival lights and music to take an evening trip to the banks of the Ganges.
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