He beckoned to me. There was no doubt about it. It was me he was calling. He is a sadhu, a Hindu fool. But not a simple sadhu, but a naga sadhu, a naked ascetic. He was also rubbed with ashes from a funeral pyre, and his face was painted red and white. A whole group of Nagasadhus sat under a light canopy near the hearth. A few of them were partially covered by their hair that fell to the ground, others were wearing thick rope braids, and the rest were naked from head to toe. I approached the more than extravagant gathering and sat down on a mat.
The ascetic who invited me immediately offered me a cup of spiced tea. I politely declined. Then his neighbor handed me a pipe of hashish that was going around in a circle. I put my hand to my chest and pretended to be very grateful - I was very touched by the hospitality, but I'll have a smoke another time. When they found out that I was from Russia, the Nagasadhus began to demonstrate the wonders of gutta-percha: they threw their legs behind their heads, took the most incredible poses. And they offered to capture all this on film. Which I enjoyed doing.
As it soon became clear, the ascetics posed not for free. I put a small bill at their feet. It turned out not enough. Added more. As a sign of friendliness, the ascetic began to complain about the sadhu's plight. No family, no children. They are only served with what they will be sacrificed. So they live in a naked brotherhood. At that time, one of the Nagasadhus, a young man who was not even covered by a fig leaf, got up from the mat, took a silver pitcher and went to get water from the sacred Ganges.
TO THE SACRED BANKS OF THE GANGES
I met Nagasadhu on the banks of the sacred Ganges, in the equally sacred city of Varanasi, or rather, on its ghats-step descents to the river. The ghats, framed by beautiful Mughal temples and palaces that follow the river for several kilometers, seemed to me one of the most interesting places in the world. Directly above me was the Bal Mandir Palace, built in 1600. Its honeycomb-like balconies delight with openwork stone carvings. I can't even believe that a human hand can create such a miracle.
While I was admiring the filigree stone lace, Nagasadhu returned with a small pitcher filled with Ganga water. He moved a little to the side, sat down, relieved himself and performed a simple hygiene procedure. Yes, on the ghats, all life goes on in plain sight. Here they pray and urinate, perform ablutions and cremate the dead, play weddings and beg, eat snacks and do massages, trade and hold colorful ceremonies. And past all this gyrations, the unruffled Ganges carries its sacred waters to the Indian Ocean.
I was stunned by the very entrance to Varanasi. On the outskirts of the city, the soft green spots of banana bushes were pleasing to the eye, standing out among the dense greenery of the almost jungle. The coolness of the river was refreshing. We crossed a long bridge over the Ganges, and then it started!.. It felt like you were in Babylon. The streets are packed with cars, rickshaws, bicycles and people. It's all ringing, honking, shouting. A huge bull sprawled in the middle of a narrow street. Directly under the wheels of the bus fearlessly rush crowds of peddlers-merchants. Indian women in red saris and Muslim women wrapped from head to toe in black robes are rushing about their business.
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There was a Hindu procession with scarlet banners decorated with swastikas. A stretcher with a dead man was brought in. Truly Brownian motion reigns in the streets of ancient Varanasi. The city was founded in the 7th century BC and was called Kashi in ancient times. Its modern name is associated with its geographical location and is formed from the addition of the names of two tributaries of the Ganges-Varan and Asi, between which it is located. In the period of British India, the city was called Benares - the English version of Varanasi, long rejected.
As it turned out, there are quiet green neighborhoods in Varanasi, for example, cantonment (district), where the military garrison is located. It was here that my hotel "Kashika" was located, which was very comfortable. The hotel courtyard is a solid flower garden. Large roses of all colors, huge dahlias the size of sunflowers. I've never seen anything like this before.
And on the streets of the millionth city of Varanasi, life is in full swing. Everyone is trying to earn as much as they can, and the competition for survival is very sharp. As soon as I poked my nose out of the hotel, a crowd rushed to me with obsessive offers of all sorts of services. The snake charmer would throw a cobra out of the box, and it would immediately stand up in a crouch, puffing out its hood. A traveling circus performer would start beating a drum, and the monkey would start dancing. The merchant offered to buy silks-Varanasi has been famous for silk-making since ancient times. A rickshaw driver would invite you to ride to the ends of the earth for a small fee. But I don't need to go that far. I'm going back to the sacred ghats on the banks of the Ganges.
It's still very early, not even six o'clock in the morning, and people are already swarming in the streets. They sweep the sidewalks where they are. They open small shops. On the approaches to the water, the trade in vegetables, fruits and milk is already in full swing. I walked through Nagasadha, shivering in the morning chill. As if nothing had happened, he went to the curdled milk vendor and returned with a clay pot. I didn't understand where he kept the money. Perhaps the curdled milk was donated to the ascetic.
Here I am on the sacred shore, where dozens, if not hundreds of large boats are moored. I hire one of them to view the ghats from the river. A fascinating song-hymn in honor of the god Shiva is carried over the Ganges. The female voice is sweet and exciting. People flock to the water to perform ablutions that purify both physically and spiritually. Women enter the river in their saris. White bandages are wrapped around the men's thighs. Young people are happy to arrange swims. Some swim almost to the middle of a fairly wide river. I also want to join the swimmers, but then a sweet smoke overtakes me. I can immediately guess where it's coming from. From the funeral pyres, of course. The cremation grounds are located both down - there's no harm in that yet - and upstream, which is less pleasant. After all, the ashes and unburned remains are thrown into the water. The boat slowly sails along the ghats. Through the morning haze, the elegant outlines of palaces and temples can be seen. From the river, Varanasi looks like a fabulous city.
Those who perform ablutions bring garlands of yellow marigold flowers as a gift to the Ganges, and put oil bowls of palm leaves with burning wicks on the water. I also buy a few lamps and put them on the water. Maybe they'll make it to the Indian Ocean. A whole stream of fire is carried away there. In the meantime, we had gone about a kilometer upstream.
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three. My attention was drawn to the piles of firewood on the bank. Then I saw the body wrapped in cloth and realized that this was one of the cremation grounds. Here the boatman turned back, and I could see no more.
It was almost dawn. Palaces and temples now look less mysterious. And the sacred ablutions in daylight are more like ordinary bathing in an ordinary river. Under the light canopy, a shaggy, half-naked figure draped in tiger skin stirred. The sadhu woke up. And I must go to the awakened city.
Old Varanasi, clinging to the Ganges, resembles a beehive. It seems that entire neighborhoods are located under one roof. The streets called gali are so narrow that two people can barely walk apart. Motorcyclists maneuver through the dense crowd. By some miracle, a cobra and python charmer was perched against the wall. I pass so close to the reptiles that I feel an unpleasant chill on my skin. The ubiquitous sadhus are wandering, each more extravagant than the other. Suddenly, Gali runs into the barbed wire of a tall metal fence. I notice watchtowers with armed policemen. Where did I end up? It looks like a zone. Noticing my confusion, a young Indian approached me and invited me to his shop.
We turned down an even narrower side street, though it seemed much narrower. In the shop, the merchant gave me tea with milk and masala-spices. Very refreshing, invigorating drink. Opposite was the dark red dome of the temple. The Indian pointed to the temple and explained: "This is the Vishwanath Mandir, the Golden Temple-the most famous Hindu shrine in Varanasi dedicated to Shiva. Under Islamic rule, a huge mosque was built on its territory." Now this place is a bone of contention between Hindus and Muslims. The authorities had to enclose the mosque with an iron grate and put up police squads. A spark is enough, and an inter-religious clash can break out. Hindu radicals are calling for the demolition of the mosque, as happened in Ayodhya, where there were heavy casualties.
I thank the hospitable host for the tea and for the clarification. Of course, I can't leave the store without buying. I had to buy a set of bottles with the famous Varanasi perfume with exciting names - "Flowers of Paradise", "Sandalwood", "Jasmine" - and no less exciting scents. They permeate the very air of Varanasi. Alas, the spicy smells are mixed with much more prosaic ones - barely cleaned city drains gush into the Ganges.
Having somehow fought off the merchant's attempts to force silk scarves and sandalwood deities on me, I walk around the" twins " - the mandir and the mosque-under the watchful eyes of the law enforcement officers. They forbid me even to take a picture of a huge white parrot tied by its owner's paw to a tree branch.
From the intricacies and labyrinths of the old city, I'm going to the famous Varanasi Hindu University. Here the eye rests on the lush greenery of vast parks and lawns. There is a place for free thought to unfold. Most Varanasi people don't come here for knowledge, though. The university grounds have been transformed into a place for walks and picnics under flowering trees and shrubs. For some reason, I was bored in the shady university gardens and was irresistibly drawn to the cramped and crowded old city, to the banks of the Ganges.
YOU CAN'T CHANGE THE PLACE OF DEATH
The red tropical sun was already sinking behind the Ganges. The water glowed like red gold. As the day wore on, life on the ghats grew more lively. People were drawn to the coolness of the river. The cows bounced clumsily on the steps. Bands took their places closer to the shore. The puja, the nightly prayer to Mother Ganga, was beginning.
Music sounds are heard in many places at once. Drums are beating, bells are ringing, big white shells are humming, merging into beautiful melodies. The voices of the Ganga singers are mesmerizing. Meanwhile, thousands of wicks and light bulbs are lit. Dances are performed with lamps in their hands. I wanted to admire the illumination
* Mandir - Hindu temple (Hindi).
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from the river. I'm hiring a boat. The boatman, after giving me a little ride along the light-filled shore, offers me a ride to the main cremation ground, located downstream.
Woodpiles are everywhere. Dozens of boats are crowded along the shore, also loaded with logs on top. We swim into a narrow passage between boats and find ourselves in a wood-burning warehouse. Sickening smoke drifts from several campfires. From somewhere out of the wood, as if from hell, a black boy jumps down on our boat, a real messenger of hell. He gives a detailed account of the cremation rite.
It turns out that the whole procedure of burning the bodies of the dead is carried out by a special caste, which is called "house". Its members are considered untouchables, because to deal with the dead is to defile yourself. However, "homeowners" are wealthy people. Their large houses are located right next to the funeral pyres. Cremationists are never without work. After all, Varanasi is the most important tirtha *, the most sacred of the sacred cities of India.
Hindus deeply believe that to die or be cremated in Varanasi is to attain moksha, liberation from the chain of endless rebirths. The sacred Gangetic water cleanses all sins from mortal remains. Therefore, from all over India, the dying or urns with ashes are brought to Varanasi. The great Ganga takes everyone into its fold. Varanasi can be called the city of the dead, or rather, the eternal city of the dead, because death is not perceived here as something terrible, irreparable. Rather, on the contrary. Burial in the Ganges confers eternal liberation. 200-300 corpses are burned daily at the Varanasi bonfires.
Meanwhile, a stretcher with the dead is brought to the water and the corpses are rinsed in the water - the last ablution before cremation. With a splash, the tibia and other large unburned bones fall into the Ganges. Immediately dogs are bickering. Children launch kites that flutter in the dark, making peculiar sharp sounds. Or maybe the souls of cremated people are flying over the funeral pyres? My guide to the "underworld"distracted me from my lofty thoughts about the eternal and temporal. He demanded to pay for the story a decent amount, which allegedly will go to buy firewood for the poor. After all, to burn one body, you need at least 300 kilograms of firewood. It was hard to believe that the money would be used for a good cause. But you can't haggle and argue in a place like this...
A satisfied boatman pulls away from the bonfires. It is clear that he is in a share with the "domovets" and will not be offended. Suddenly I notice that something huge is floating next to the boat. Looking closely, I see that it is the corpse of a cow. It's a good thing it wasn't a human being. It's not just ashes and bones that fall into the Ganges. They don't burn everyone. Small children and sadhus are not cremated - there are no sins on them, and they do not have to go through the purifying furnace of fire. Snake-bitten and smallpox-infected people avoid the bonfire. The patron saint of snakes is Shiva. There is also the goddess of smallpox. Thus, those who die from snake bites or smallpox are taken to their deities. But pregnant dead women do not fall into the fire because they are not ritually clean. According to some estimates, every year the waters of the Ganges receive the remains of more than 50 thousand corpses. And how much sewage gets into it - the banks of the river are very densely populated-it is impossible to calculate.
But, despite this, the Gangetic water remains relatively clean - so great is its purifying power. Studies have shown that microbes, particularly cholera, are dying very quickly in the Ganges. Interestingly, when boiling, the disinfecting properties of water weaken. It is clear that Hindus explain the miraculous nature of Gangetic water by its sanctity. Scientists also talk about the special chemical composition of water. It probably has a high silver content. In any case, the Ganges water is unique. It is deeply believed here that it washes away the dirt not only of the body, but also of the spirit.
Walking along the shore in a peaceful state, I even thought about swimming in the Ganges. After all, some Europeans and Japanese perform ablutions here. In the circle of naked, shaggy sadhus was an equally extravagant-looking white boy. He, too, puffs on the hashish smoke from the communal pipe. But as soon as I got close to the water, my desire for a swim instantly disappeared. A half - gnawed part of a body floated in the Ganges, and you couldn't tell if it was a cow or a man. Flocks of small fish hungrily attacked the remains of the meat. This sight, which made me shudder, did not in the least disconcert the sadhu, who began to slowly bathe in the water naked. His brethren, meanwhile, were playing cards. I don't even know what game they were playing. A fool, perhaps?
Actually, it's probably not a sin for a sadhu. These holy people can be compared to our holy fools in some ways, only some are fooling around for Christ's sake, and the second-for the sake of Shiva or Vishnu. By their extravagant appearance and behavior, they show contempt for worldly life, its conventions and values. Behind the less attractive nakedness and trailing hair, there must be hidden souls burning with love for God, striving for endless spiritual perfection, to reach the heights of yogic art.
On the steps of the stairs, an agile Indian gives a massage to a tourist. Another masseur approaches me, zdoro-
* The tirtha is a sacred place in Hinduism (Sanskrit).
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he takes her hand and immediately begins massaging it. I can hardly fight off the intrusive service. Barbers are working hard. And they cut and shave. The mirrors are attached directly to the posts. They shave everyone with the same blade, rinsing it in Gangetic water. A driver drives a herd of buffalo into the river. Ashes are thrown into the water from the funeral pyre. Lepers roam in sores. Those who perform ablution are not at all confused by all this.
In India, whose inimitable originality was formed under the influence of Hinduism, one is struck by the mixture of high and low, beautiful and ugly, subtly spiritual and grossly physical, physiological. Here it is difficult to distinguish a real sadhu-an ascetic who has reached spiritual and physical heights, from a quack beggar. But this is the power of Hinduism. Everyone can find a niche to their liking. For the unsophisticated, this sharp contrast makes a shocking impression. I would advise those who are interested in Eastern teachings to definitely visit Varanasi and its embankment. If a person can withstand the shock of what he has seen and is not disappointed in the spirituality of the East, then his interest is genuine, based on the belief in the existence of other value orientations.
Personally, I was ambivalent about Varanasi. The light and dark sides of life are so intertwined here. There is no way to separate them. One case seems symbolic to me. While boating on the Ganges, I saw a huge creature that rose to the surface and immediately disappeared into the depths of the water. Who was it? Some mutant fish, perhaps, fed up on dead meat? Still, I hope I was just lucky enough to see the freshwater Gangetic dolphin, a very rare and noble animal.
BUDDHA IN VARANASI
In Varanasi, there are over one and a half thousand various temples and sacred places of various religions. Of course, the vast majority of them are Hindu. Quite a few Muslim ones. There are Jain, Sikh, and a few Christian ones. And, of course, Buddhist ones. After all, Varanasi is the oldest and largest center of world Buddhism. It was here that the Buddha delivered his first sermon, which went down in history as "Dharma Cakra Pravatana", that is,"Turning the wheel of teaching". "The meaning of the first teaching of the Enlightened One is that people should follow the middle path in their thoughts, words and actions, without going to extremes," the abbot of a Burmese monastery in Sarnath, a suburb of Varanasi, explained to me the essence of the historical sermon.
Sarnath is a modern name. He was previously known as Isipatana. Buddhists call this place-Mrigadava, Deer Park. The Buddha gave his first sermon in the great forest. Not only the disciples of the Enlightened One, but also the deer came to listen to him. And now Sarnath is a wonderful park, where many sika deer walk, perhaps the descendants of those who were honored to listen to the wisdom of the Buddha. Peacocks move regally across the lawns. In Buddhist cosmology, they represent the sun. Lots of chipmunks. Buddhism has a connection with nature. No wonder the most important events in the life of the Buddha took place under the shade of trees. He was born under a tallow tree, became enlightened, and preached his first sermon under a Bodhi tree, or banyan tree. Buddhist pilgrims from all over the world are now chanting prayers around the sprawling banyan tree, a descendant of the historical tree, in the hope of getting at least a little bit of enlightenment. Numerous statues of the Buddha gaze at the pilgrims with affectionate detachment.
Sarnath is home to monastic and temple complexes-representative offices of Buddhist communities from different countries. An avenue of tall ashoka trees with dark green foliage leads to the abbot's cell in a Burmese monastery. This tree is named after the great Buddhist emperor of India Ashoka, who ruled in the III century BC. e. The imperial trees resemble giant candles. The monastery is adjacent to the historic Mrigadava. That's where the abbot and I are going. The ruins of ancient monasteries and temples can be seen all around. In some places, stone columns with beautiful carvings have been preserved. The Burmese man leads me to one of them: "This is the column of Emperor Ashoka. It was crowned with a lion capital, which became the coat of arms of India." The capital is kept in the Sarnath Museum. Powerful lions bear witness to the inviolability of the dictum stamped on the monument: "Truth triumphs."
The high red-brick Mahadhammek stupa dominates the area. A stream of pilgrims flows around the shrine. The monks ' robes stand out in bright spots: orange, dark red, brown, and burgundy. The body of the stupa is decorated with amazing floral ornaments. Openwork stone carvings speak more about Buddhism than multi-volume treatises. Nearby, a Jain temple with a black statue of Tirthankara, the teacher of the faith, sits on a throne, gets along peacefully with the stupa.
Sarnath has a very different atmosphere than on the banks of the Ganges. Neat, well-groomed, chaste Buddhism contrasts with controversial, colorful, extravagant Hinduism. I remember how sincerely, childishly, the Buddhist monks, I think from Thailand, roared with laughter when they saw naked sadhus on the embankment. Bearded mullahs and Muslim women, all dressed in black, who accidentally wandered into the ghats, looked absolutely ridiculous at the sensuously colorful carnival of Hinduism. But such is Varanasi, the many-faced city. He turns to you now with the fearsome visage of the god-destroyer Shiva, now with the pure face of the enigmatically smiling Buddha.
I was in Varanasi in the winter-it's the wedding season. Every now and then you see grooms in fancy peacock - feathered headdresses and brides in blood-red robes approaching the temples on the shore, accompanied by relatives and friends.
Especially impressive are the wedding processions that begin at nightfall. The groom follows the bride on an ornate horse. He is followed by (I don't even know what to call them), probably lustronostsy. Teenagers carry huge chandeliers, all kinds of lamps and long fluorescent lamps on their heads. The most interesting thing is that the lamps are burning brightly. After all, there is also a rickshaw driving a small generator in a sidecar, from which wires stretch to the chandeliers. The light seems to scare away evil forces and promises the young a cloudless life.
The procession is led by a large orchestra. The drums are beating. Pipes start playing. Guests will enjoy a rich meal. In the eternal city of the dead, they love and know how to arrange holidays and have fun. People in Varanasi are well aware of the true value of both life and death.
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