The ghat are home to several families, locals, tourists,
people who believe, people who don’t but there is always a chance of meeting or
coming across someone whose story you cannot predict. There is always an
element of surprise that this place has offer. And this is what I wanted to
look for. The people of Varanasi make Varanasi what it is, be it people who
have been living here all their life or people who’ve just come for a few days.
Everyone who has ever stepped foot in this city has a story to tell that
connects them to the city. And this is what I wanted to get. I wanted to people
to share their personal anecdotes with me, something extra ordinary, something
special that ties them to the city. I knew I couldn’t expect people to just
open up to a random stranger asking personal questions about their lives, it
takes much more than a prepared questionnaire to learn about a certain place
through people. The reason why I did not read up on Varanasi was because I
wanted to learn about it through the people living here.
What I didn’t realize that knowing what doesn’t work is not
enough. You enter the ghats and you are immediately struck by how many elements
this river bank is home to. How many people, how many religions, languages,
beliefs, sentiments and stories. The mixture is sweet, salty, sour and spicy
all at the same time! There is something
in the lives of each and every individual that connects them to the city. Life
of many is the way it is not by choice but because of some sacrifice or
compromise that they have made for the sake of people close to them. Yet at the
end of the day, everyone seems to be living a life that becomes a part of the
entire system. Like a single piece of puzzle in the entire jigsaw. Kashi flows
in the blood of these people and at the same time, these people is what kashi
is made of.
I encountered one such man on the ghats, I was casually
walking with my sketchpad and i saw a great spot to sit and draw the boats and
the people washing clothes on the banks. It was then that I saw him. He was as
old as a man could ever get, his skin wrinkled like an old piece of cloth, his
hands and feet had prominent veins popping out and his head full of longish
white hair that looked limp and unwashed. He was cleaning his boat, his head
back stooped low, his strong arms flexing up and down. I knew I had to talk to
him the minute I saw him. I started imagining how amazing it would be get
stories out of him and immediately took out my notepad and approached him.
I knew I couldn’t just go to him and start asking personal
questions, I had to build an understanding, a trust that would make him open up
to me. But as I stood in front of him, I felt like my mouth was locked with the
tongue stuck to my cheek. I had never experienced this blankness before, and it
left me stuttering and stammering. I had my questions, I knew what I wanted to
ask him but after the first 3 questions enquiring him about his name
(raghuvansh), his age (76) and his profession (boat rider), I didn’t really
know how to prolong the conversation, how should I reach where I wanted to reach?
photograph by Solita Deb
I didn’t give up, I sat there next to him in complete
silence for the next 5 minutes. What happened next was definitely not what I
was expecting. He continued doing his work, but he started talking as well. He
was not looking at me and he spoke softly, as if he was just talking to
himself. I found out that Raghuvansh has been living in Varanasi for as long as
he remembers. His father was also a boat rider. his childhood was spent on the
ghats, flying kites next to the river, diving into the ganga from great heights
trying to impress the girls giggling away on their way to school. He remembers
the day his mother passed away, his father had to take him out of school. Back
then, his father used sell chanas on the ghats, but since he was now the only
earning member of the family, he knew the chana selling will not be enough to
educate his son. So he decided to save up for the next 3 years. He sold his
house, saved up on raghu’s tuition fee and finally had enough to buy a boat
enough to carry 6 people. Since then, the boat and the river have been the
family’s greatest friends. Raghu enrolled in school again, but being the oldest
boy in his class, he was often made fun of. Discouraged, he ended up skipping
school every day and finally when his father passed away, he took over the boat
and has been giving people boat rides in the ganga since then.
Photograph by Solita Deb
After hearing this story, I realized that the Ganga is
lifeline for so many people. I have often tried to imagine kashi without ganga,
and I had a strange picture in my head with only temples and cobbled streets
filled with people. After hearing Raghu’s story, I couldn’t even imagine this
city without Ganga. Ganga is what Kashi is made of, Ganga cradles Kashi in her
soft arms like a loving mother, protecting it from outside forces, giving it
all she has, providing the city and shaping it.
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