The unholy, nauseating smell contrasts with the fragrance of the gods. From the temples of Haridwar to the city of Varanasi which there are thousands-and there must be enough to worship the three hundred and thirty million deities of Hinduism-the warm smoke of sandalwood incense and the sweet fragrance of marigold blossoms escape. And what about the scent of princes, of maharajas themselves, of almost divine origins, of ostentatious palaces, extravagant jewels and harems from the Thousand and One Nights, dipped in their glory days in the same distillate of roses and jasmine that today is offered in jars to any tourist who knows how to haggle.
Every smell hits you as soon as you stick your nose into this city, which smelled the same at least three thousand, maybe four thousand years ago, historians and archaeologists disagree. "If you want to be precise, Varanasi has been around almost forever," Vipin, the guide on this expedition, says to settle the dispute. Then he points the way to the holiest river of all. Twenty-three Colombians follow him like ants in single file, though that order is a rarity here.
They travel by car, bus, plane or train from all corners of India - no short journey in the seventh largest country in the world - and plunge into the river at dawn. They place themselves in the arms of the goddess Maa Ganga, or Mother Ganges, who is the river itself, and in a kind of divine bath, as Hindu tradition has it, atone for their sins, purifying them millions of times over in the water, which has long since lost its turquoise color and is increasingly turning brown.
They purify their souls in the midst of the filth. This is not an exaggeration. . If you test 100 milliliters of water the size of a teacup, you will find more than a million fecal bacteria.
According to the World Health Organization, there should be no more than five hundred for bathing and none if you want to drink without going to the toilet or hospital. Hepatitis, cholera and gastroenteritis lurk in its pools, warn the experts in their white coats in their laboratories, but what do they know about faith in the city of 23,000 temples.
Immersion in its waters connects them to the sacred; nothing else matters. Several believers fill containers with the sacred liquid to take home. If someone in the family gets sick and can't travel to the river or is dying, they give them a sip. "Portable miracles," jokes the guide.
In the distance, a hungry stray dog and a limping monkey, safely banished from his primate gang, accompany us. They are driven by hunger, by the desire to be fed by one of these strangers walking so close together, to get a banana, a piece of naan. There is no time to move! Another misery and another famine, that of the people, meets us at every corner.
An old man, made more of bones and layers of cloth than flesh, intercepts the group. He holds out his hand and makes an unusual-sounding request: He asks for help in burning his corpse. He is penniless and wants to buy wood, about 200 kilos of mango sticks, for his cremation. He is not the only one preparing for his demise. The spiritual capital of India is full of the sick and elderly sitting on the stone steps leading to the Ganga the holiest river, waiting for their end.
Vipin raises his hand again, we have to stop. Ringing bells announce the passing of a funeral procession. Eleven men in colorful turbans carry the body of their relative on a bamboo bier. Sons, uncles, brothers, husbands, cousins - there is no trace of women - carry it to the Manikarnika crematorium on the banks of the Ganges. There, about two hundred and fifty bodies are cremated in the open air every day.
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