Cramped, twisting alleyways paved in crooked, jagged stones and splattered with hazardous piles of cow dung; tiny, mysterious doorways painted vibrant blue and green shining from the alcoves of dingy stucco walls; a sweltering, heavy humidity settling low over the slow-flowing river, the sun glimmering off the silty waters like uncut diamonds; temple spires rising up in every direction, pink and white and gold towers stretching toward the hazy sky; a monkey scampering precariously across a telephone wire high above the street; cows dominating every empty space, from traffic lanes to doorways; a thousand tiny flames flickering in the velvety darkness of the evening aarti prayer as Brahmin priests mystify onlookers with the methodical circling of oil lamps on the edge of the river ghats.
The sizzle of rich dough being plopped into hot oil beckoning from just around the corner, followed by the clang of metal utensils scraping against massive iron frying pans; temple bells ringing and priests chanting low mantras in Sanskrit, hauntingly ever-present above the clamor of everyday city life; bike bells jingling on man-powered rickshaws, the thud of bike tires hitting ruts and rocks in the dusty street.
Rose and sandalwood incense wafting from every corner, seeping into my nostrils and clothes till my head is light and dizzy with the thick scent; the mildly acidic tang of fresh cow dung warmed by the sun, rising above the perpetual earthy scent of its dried out predecessors; thick diesel fuel cutting through the heavy, salty scent of the river, not unlike the heady smell of the ocean.
The semi-soft give of boiled egg yolk mingling with tender yet chewy paneer and buttery, sweet red masala; syrupy jalebi so fresh that upon biting into the crispy, saffron-colored spiral of dough, my tongue is overwhelmed by a burst of scalding rose and cardamom honey; bitter, earthy chai pouring from steel pots in a creamy tan stream, like a tiny Ganges River flowing into my rough little terracotta cup; flaky, kachori dough crumbling on my tongue, making way for its majorly spicy, mildly sweet potato and chickpea filling that must be flavored with the wares of a hundred different spice stalls.
This is Varanasi, a city so often overlooked by foreign travelers in India, and one which even I, in my extensive research of India's most fascinating places, had essentially forgotten about until CIEE informed us that our program would be spending a weekend there. Benaras, as the city is known by locals, is one of the holiest places in India because of its legendary origins (the chosen home of two important Hindu deities, Shiva and Parvati) and its prime location on the revered and worshiped Ganges River (also known as Mother Ganga, when referred to in her goddess form).
But the most mystical thing about Varanasi isn't its religious significance, its holy river, or its mythical origins. For me, Varanasi mystified me by transporting me back to my childhood dreams. Without even realizing it, I had stumbled into the India I had been conjuring up in my mind for over a decade: an India frozen in time, an India of secret passageways and dark alleys, of brightly colored walls dressed in creeping vines, of Hindu holy men and Muslim mosques, of dilapidated palaces sinking gracefully, solemnly, into a river so full of life that it could be a city of its own. Though I only spent three days in Benaras, I know the city's visages will be etched into my mind for as long as I live. I hope to return one day, but should I not be so fortunate, I know that all I have to do is close my eyes and let my sensory memories of Varanasi wash over me, let Mother Ganga flow through my veins.
