Three times last night, we’d found ourselves at the same intersection.
A jam of standing people and police officers, so dense that the bicycles that dared drive through the alleys elsewhere in Varanasi couldn’t make progress.
Police whistled for people to clear the road.
Drivers yelled.
Rickshaws honked.
Their efforts did nothing.
As we shouldered our way to the other side, we noticed all the activity concentrated at a guarded gateway to an inner part of the city.
a Hindu temple lay beyond.
~
It was morning now, and the streets’ emptiness surprised us.
A pair of guards asked us why we visited, patted us down, checked for cellphones, and inspected our passports.
“No cellphones.”
“Here’s our passports.”
“Religious curiosity.”
Just like we’d rehearsed.
Instead of leading to the temple itself, the gateway opened to show a convoluted nest of city blocks far larger than the streets outside suggested.
Merchants lined both sides selling vials of holy water.
Men carried wreaths of marigolds wandered the paths.
A line of worshipers wrapped the street to the inner temple.
We followed them to the center of the block where another security checkpoint where more guards barked orders.
“Passports.”
“Fingerprints.”
“Leave your shoes over there.”
Of the thousands crammed into these narrow streets, they made us register and no one else.
And, finally.
“Enter.”
He pointed at the line of pilgrims.
Another security guard intercepted us.
“This way. Let me show you around.”
He didn’t wait for an answer.
~
We entered a vestibule, where a man yellow robes hunched over a square pit filled with water and marigolds.
Pilgrims lines before us, carrying leis of marigolds and copper urns filled with Ganges water.
One tossed a flower into the pit.
The old man scraped white mud off a gold bell suspended in the center of the room, and smudged it on his forehead.
The pilgrim bowed, then left so the next could approach.
We had no gifts to present, so our guide reached into the pit to retrieve two flower necklaces.
The monk stood.
The officer puffed out his chest.
“Move!”
Then more words in Hindi.
The man retreated and the line opened.
The flowers slid over my face and mouth. I felt the mud trickle across my eyelids, the water drip into the corners of my mouth.
The officer reached two fingers into the monk’s pit and dabbed more mud on our foreheads.
“Good.”
“This way.”
The guard then dragged us in a counterclockwise loop around the main temple.
Dani looked at me.
“We’re circling the wrong way.”
I shrugged.
He stopped us at another offering pit in the corner of the complex.
He pointed at her necklace.
Then the monk attending the pit.
Then at my necklace.
We did as we were told.
The monk gave us two marigolds in exchange.
Our guide nodded once, then vanished into the crowd.
~
Dani and I stood where he’d left us.
Pilgrims flowed around us toward the shrines while priests called out blessings.
No one paid us any attention anymore.
Only then did I look around.
Monkeys jumped between the power cables.
Priceless golden spires tarnished by a century of industrial soot rose above us.
Rivers of flowers flowing under our feet. Stink and the spices floated in the breeze.
Sun warmed my skin as the last drops of Ganges water evaporated from my face.
The worn stones felt firm and warm beneath my toes.
Hymns drifted through the air.
Kashi Visvanatha.