The heart of Varanasi

The dusty streets of Varanasi’s old town serve up a motley conglomerate of smells. I greedily inhale the mouth-watering aroma of tandoori chicken only in the next step to have the sour stench of urine fill my nose.

Determined men fall in step to announce their services; tour guide, internet, cheap room, massage. None are rebuffed easily, so I have many itinerant companions as I wander through the narrow, winding lanes. Amidst their chatter is the constant tooting of horns from the main road and, to my right, I can hear the pilgrim’s chants of praise rising up from the banks of the Ganges.

I pass shops filled to the brim with tinsel, coloured flowers and ornaments, and rub shoulders with women in extraordinarily colourful saris... pink, blue, purple and red. The desire to look around at the curious hubbub that surrounds me is unfortunately constrained by the need to watch my step. My eyes divert to the ground repeatedly to avoid thick piles of stinking faeces while one of the revered culprits stands in the middle of the road, passively munching on rubbish, a tea bag hanging from its mouth. Here, in Hindu heartland, cows have free reign of the streets, and the crowd tolerantly diverts around their bulky forms.

I stop as my growling stomach is encouraged by the fragrant air emanating from a shop; it is more than enticing, it is coercing. A young man is perched, legs crossed before a cooking fire. He is probably my age but his scrawny body, visible despite the oversized shirt and long pants, gives him a look of boyishness. He kneads a small circle of dough before slapping it several times between his hands, then finally swirling it expertly into the tub of hot oil at his feet. The bread bubbles in the oil, puffing up to form a sphere before it is scooped out and tossed onto a waiting plate. It quickly deflates as he dishes out a steaming spoonful of chunky red curry beside it.

I fold the crispy bread over with my hand and use my thumb and forefinger to tear a chunk away. Then I scoop up the thick, creamy curry, shovelling it into my mouth quickly to avoid a splash of juice dripping down my chin. A world away from my sanitary, sterile Western home, here in India I have only just learnt the value of eating with my hands. Feeling and appreciating the texture of the food, makes for a far more intimate dining experience, and the flavour of this Masala is so good I want to bite off my fingers to savour the last drops.

Finally, full bellied and content, I re-enter the street’s traffic. And it begins again; the sellers grappling for my attention, the scents and noises pounding my senses. Putrid and dirty, colourful and alive, I am beginning to think that the vein of life in Varanasi is not the Ganges, but in fact its streets.