The place where people come to die.

Rent a room, and wait for death

Hindu belief believes that death in Varanasi, fire and ashes of ashes in the river, frees man from infinite reincarnation.

Women and men come to die in the city.

In honor of the release of the songbook "Light and Time", which appears with a mini-album in collaboration with Ehud Banai, Yonatan Berg returns to the deep experience that influenced him

Jonathan Berg

11/01/2022

Tuesday, 11 January, 2022, 08:22 Updated: 08:32

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Yonatan Berg reads from his book "Light and Time" to the sounds of Ehud Banai (Photo: Niv Aharonson)

There is no place that contains within it the charm, pain and beauty of India like the city of Varanasi, the city of Shiva and of the souls blooming from the body.

Anyone who wants to take a crash course in Hinduism, rhythm and music, class gaps and fine chai, is better off tormenting the city.

I myself came to the city, in the pre-plague era, to conduct research into the novel I sought to write, but plans aside and the power of India apart.

I found myself wandering day after day in front of the river, watching the dead rise in fire and the herds of bapolos descend into the water.

Hindu belief believes that death in Varanasi, fire and the ashes of ashes in the river frees man from infinite reincarnation.

Even a simple dip in the river helps in its journey in rescuing the world as, for example, a domestic animal.

This matter creates a restless activity at the main train station, where passengers who are exclusively in Varanasi are ejected: women and men who come to die in the city.

They will rent a small room and wait another death.

Imagine for a second you were transposed into the karmic driven world of Earl.

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An old man sails in a wooden boat on the Ganges River in the city of Varanasi (Photo: ShutterStock)

Everyone throws a ball in the mouth in the hang and continues with the day

Cover of the book "Light and Time" by Yonatan Berg (Photo: Teddy Cohen)

On the winepresses, by the water, you will find another phenomenon quite unique to Varanasi: the followers of Kali. Kali is the one in the Hindu pantheon, which means her name is "black" and so are some of the perceptions in relation to her power, power of destruction and violence, power of destruction. Legend has it that these were sacrificed human beings by the same monks. Another legend says that they feed on the dead whose bodies are thrown into the river. But even if we let go of legends and look at the present, the look is still quite chilling. In a small alcove of one of the chassidim a skull is placed near the doni, the site of the sacred fire. The devotee, painted in ash, his eyes glazed and red, conveys Chilom with several figures who are in varying degrees of stare. He has a necklace made of skulls and he looks at me with a glaring look and asks with contempt for money, and if not money, then cannabis, and if not this and that - get away.

Every evening, after the day lesson in accepting death and befriending him, I sat down at Papu's Chai stand, up in the Asi neighborhood, staring at the street. Rumor has it that the same Papu was one of the integrity advocates for Prime Minister Naranda Modi. It turns out that every parliamentary candidate needs three citizens to confirm his personal details, and that Papu was one of those who testified in favor of Moody. As is the way of India, I have discovered (at least) three different opinions: the rumor is true, the rumor is utter nonsense and an outgrowth of Papu's beleaguered ego, and an opinion that he did offer to testify in favor of Moody but was politely rejected by the party. To guarantee the prime minister. But all this does not detract at all from what is happening at Papu's podium, known as Asi's parliament. Every evening the men of the region sit there and kill in a thunderous voice every politician, clergyman, leader and rich man from the area and from all of India. Only Moody comes out clean, Papu takes care of that.

Only a week later was the secret behind the popularity of Papu's Chai stand revealed.

Although the chai he prepares is without a doubt one of the worst in the neighborhood (the Bengali chai down the street and the young man in front of Papu is much better), Papu has a family member sitting all day with a small bowl of money in front of him.

In a bowl is a mixture of heng, a local cannabis that is ground to dust and mixed with water to obtain a sticky paste with significant sedative qualities.

Throughout the day, citizens of the neighborhood and everyone - the rickshaw drivers, the tourism workers, civil servants, sellers and traders, the road embankers, the vegetable sellers and the local politicians - all throw a ball in the mouth and continue with the day.

The whole neighborhood, it was revealed to me, was hovering a few inches in the air.

The temple of the goddess Kali in the city of Varanasi (Photo: ShutterStock)

A decade ago, when I was in the neighborhood, then in the attire of one of the hippies, no more than a lounger on the loins and a necklace of seeds on the neck, with no coins and with the passion to change lives the arty - the evening ceremony performed by the Brahmin priest - was performed by Pandit.

He would arrive with his small silver tray containing the ceremony props, which he would perform slowly in front of the water, surrounded by several neighborhood people, several tourists and some temporary neighborhood citizens, all quiet and contemplative.

At the end of the ceremony there would be a minyan left in front of the candles in the water, and someone would play devotional songs on a battered guitar.

But now a Brahmin family with its own power has taken over the winepress.

They opened a restaurant across the river, a restaurant that was unlikely to be approved in acceptable ways, and in front of that restaurant they conducted an inflated and ostentatious evening ceremony.

Five young priests ascend each evening for a long show of fire, incense, water and sounds.

Crowds gather on the steps and the show attracts many tourists.

Rumor has it that the old priest, the same priest of a decade ago who performed the evening ceremony mysteriously broke his legs.

Indian believer dips in Ganges in Varanasi (Photo: ShutterStock)

"India, either you escape from it or you flee to it"

The son of the owners of the hotel where I am staying is a young candidate in the ranks of the ruling party, who Modi is a leader and whose Hindu element is growing at the expense of the large minorities.

The money the candidate needs is huge in Indian terms.

What to do?

As always, they turn to the rich, for example to the priest in charge of the temple of Sankt Mochan, the second most important temple in the city, dedicated to the popular and beloved god Numan.

Cohen became, following control of donations to the temple and sale of offerings, one of the city's richest.

Therefore, in the wrestling competition held in the stone square in front of the Ganges, the same guest priest was the same and everyone, and especially the politicians wearing the white ones, hurried to leap and touch the priest's legs as a sign of respect.

Here is the closing of the circle of politics, religion and money in the subcontinent.

The days go by. Breakfast on the roof, befriending death in front of bonfires and mourners, a sunset walk along the winepresses bustling with children flying kites. In the evening, an artisan ceremony with young people in groups and pairs, late chai at the Bengali and an evening chat with a pair of friends who grew up sitting at the chai stand: Sonol, a local, chronic idler dreaming of real estate, a father of three living with his mother and brother The eldest in the same family building, and Chris, a sixty-year-old French man who after divorce and the sale of the house and pension transferred his life to Varanasi. most.

"As little weight as possible," he says, "so that it will be easy for the soul to move on." He laughs, and his mouth opens, his teeth ruined, but not the smile. Sonol fed Chris when it contracted malaria, Chris taught Sonol's English children. We sat every night, drinking chai and listening to Chris. He told of his long years with family and work in the fields. The children and the divorce. Thirty years went into one suitcase. When he was young he passed away with his wife in India quickly, and as soon as he left the dormitory he knew where he was going.

"India, either you escape from it or you flee to it," I concluded for him. He was escorted one evening to his room up in the neighborhood, a monastic niche he had rented from a widow. An iron box with a tin pot, a mattress and some fabrics, a niche in the wall with room for a personal puja, as little weight as possible. The night before we parted Chris told me that he would wait patiently and quietly for death. "We will not hasten it, but we will not be frightened either." His body was painfully thin, the tail of his hand in his hand, the completion, all of which remained with me.

Crowds gather on the steps and the show attracts many tourists (Photo: ShutterStock)

I left Varanasi, ready for the rest of my life and what would come at the end of it

Yonatan Berg (Photo: Courtesy of the photographers, Dina Gona)

A few mornings later I had already continued on my way to the luxury cities of Rajasthan, but left Varanasi, the city of Shiva, ready for the rest of my life and what would come at the end of it.

For more moments from the experience in the city, for example on the eve of the Shivertari holiday, Shiva's big night, evening and night where the city streets are full of huge uncles with a mixture of hang, and around, everywhere, Bollywood songs rise and the masses dance with religious devotion On his enchanted guitar.

A guitar of journeys, city nights in the Galilee and city nights in the heart of the Indian subcontinent, full of mystery and magic.

The songbook "Light and Time" by Yonatan Berg is available for free download along with a mini-album in collaboration with Ehud Banai.

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