Hidden gems

Varanasi is a treasure trove of the unexpected. From the sunrise to the sunset, every corner has a hidden gem. The tiny alley stalls selling ghee and paneer by the tub full, the sweet sellers and the chai windows, the shrines and quiet temples, from the ( predominately) Hindu to the mosques, the Buddhist stupas, ashrams and the Christian churches,  market stalls and bazaars. The Ganges is the city highway but the suburbs are equally fascinating.

Head up the steps from any ghat and see a different neighbourhood behind each one

There is a Nepalese temple lurking in the trees here

By chance I found the absorbing art gallery devoted to Alice Bonner, whose work here in the forties and fifties combined her western sensibility with Indian mystique. The stunning triptych on show in the university is based in Hindu mythological themes of creation (prakriti) or nature, preservation , as the cosmic form of Vishnu (Visvarupa ) and destruction as the goddess Kali.

Baffled as I am by Hindu religious forms and Indian art, a medium historically with a scientific base,  for me these glowing canvas paintings captured the essence of the language of India.

Also on the campus I found a gallery of 19th century photographs of Varanasi. The damage by the annual monsoons was strikingly obvious. Familiar ghats and temples but with an architectural landscape below the current window line which has now gone for ever. My favourite sinking ghat is the sole survivor of what was once a trio of towers.

One of my favoutites. The walled pool behind is filled by a 'holy' well

I am disconcertingly complacent now with the business of death. I watch dispassionately as families begin the long process of the final goodbye. The bartering for wood and gold drapes. The ritual bath in the Ganges. The disrobing and discarding of the gaudy costume for the burning shroud of white or red. The complex building of the funeral pyre. The ointment lovingly spread on feet sticking out of the wooden cage. The taper carried by relatives who gather round to see the flames take hold, returning later to the smouldering embers to drop a bag of ashes and bones into the holy waters.  The procession of the dead carried aloft or lining the banks has become part of my life here as it has always been the heart and soul of Varanasi.  Whilst my western mind cannot rationalise, my heart has learnt to accept.

Breakfast companions

Dawn sky awash with kites