By: Angie Dornai

I am sitting on a balcony above the Ganges River - to insert ‘sacred’ before ‘Ganges’ is redundant as the two are synonymous. It is dusk. Even as the sun sets behind me, casting pink shadows into the fading blue of sky and river, perfect squares of purple and green, red and yellow swoop and spiral amongst hundreds of twittering birds.  Though the birds will flock together, separate and disappear from view, their incessant chirps and cries continue, out of sight, but never far from consciousness. For the birds, it is a feast on bugs as evening falls; for the boys with their colourful kites, a happy liberation from the day’s toils. Unseen, for the most part, are the girls, who are at home, doing mostly ‘girl’ things, and, very likely, - if they were me, cursing the unfairness of the fate that had them born female in such a place.

A drum beats, -Boom, Boom!   Dogs howl, - Awoooooooooooo! -and a bored policeman shoots stones at an errant monkey with his ever ready slingshot.  In the distance, the bridge connecting North and South fades from view.  Only a thin string of green lights reveal where modern man has bridged past and present over this most ancient of rivers.

As dusk leeches the colour from all that it caresses, silhouettes of boaters, most rowing, some motor powered, carry passengers back to shore. A line of straight-backed, sari'd women head to the banks, singing in unison – perhaps offerings are made?- and the women leave, their song and ceremony ended.  Male voices call out to each other from along the banks of this river.  These are the sights and sounds that accompany the ending of this day.  It is on this river that the holiest and the most tainted gather for blessing and purification.  Some make this pilgrimage but once in their lives.  I think, somewhat wistfully, that this may be the case with me. I will have walked my path, leaving footprints in the sand, which, like my time here, will be washed away with the rising tide of the Ganges and by the ebb and flow of the tide that governs our time here on this earth.

To get to This Place, I had taken a bus from Sunuoli, Nepal, to Gorakpur, India - the border crossing made easy, at least for us passengers, by rickshaw. Here, I encountered two other Canadians who were following a similar route. We bonded instantly in a venturous sisterhood. The bus from Pokara, to Sunuoli, in Nepal, had been 8 excruciating, torturous hours, made bearable only by the ease that comes with sharing in suffering, and from the sedative effect of 3 gravols and a beer.  From Gorakpur, there were 2 more hours at some other place - it all became a blur after I drank that beer! - …dozing on backpacks, and waiting for the 11:00 pm train that would take those with unlimited patience on an overnight journey… The train station experience akin, I think muddily at the time, to what leading the hopeless to Gehenna might be like ... dark and oppressive, with bodies littered everywhere… These, hopefully, were merely sleeping bodies?...I cannot tell.  I cannot check. The strong smell of urine is inescapable even as more unsettling sights and smells assail our weary group of three. But sleep comes mercifully quickly once we claim seats on this train, and so travel worries and discomforts slip mercifully away for a few hours.

We awaken and arrive with the greatest sense of wonder, even of incredulity as we rub our eyes and blink against the great red ball that is the sun, just rising to herald our arrival.  WE ARE HERE! - in THIS city! - My personal pilgrimage, thirty years in the making.

This is the journey that has brought me to Banaras - Varanasi.

I spend three excellent days here - such a gentle easing into the land that is India.  Of course, were I to have come straight from Toronto, I could not have felt this way, but after my travels thus far, and, braced by cautionary tales from others about the impending experience, three days beside one of the most profound and moving rivers, in a three dollar-a-night hostel that overlooks those Very Sacred banks, are simply fantastic!*!*!*  Up at dawn on the river, then running around to temples and markets during the day, then back for dusk atop the Ganges.  Should I share my extensive list of 'things that people do in and around the Ganges?'  ‘Naw’, I think.  ‘I'll save that for photos’, though I won't have any photos of the bodily functions, or of the floating bodies... It's Surreal, but Very Real.  Everything happens beside this River, and that's enough said about that! I will share instead an excerpt from a page in my journal, that will round out this story of travel inwards and outwards, in a most sacred and special place.

…Night is once again falling and candles are being set adrift as we spend last moments above the Ganges. (I jot stream of consciousness notes…). 'Thali' has been ordered for dinner - mosquitoes thick and furious.... These two days have been lovely. Sunrise on the Ganges, then to the Puja Rooftop for palak paneer… Early lunch after late breakfast at the 'Spicey Bite' where I learn of 'Bang Lassi's' down the way....... marijuana mixed with yogurt, as illegal as drinking alcohol down by the Ganges, but all is available.... then for a glimpse of the Golden Temple (non Hindus Not Allowed) and to the ancient Nepalese Temple, covered in erotic carvings... Across the water, wild dogs feast on bloated carcasses on the banks... and Dave, the questing, spiritual, tantric Aussie with long dreds of hair....he says he won’t ever leave… crazy, chaotic, tranquil and dreamy..spiritual….. Varanasi....

As I peer into the darkness that has fallen over the city, my journaling complete for the time, a lone boatman rows to the centre of the Ganges.  Perfectly positioned between both banks, he lights first one candle, gently placing it on the sacred water, then another, and another... In no time at all, thousands of lights seem to explode from the one thin stream that emanates from the glowing hold of the boat... a flowing string of light, into a thousand glittering stars that twinkle as they float towards the distant bridge.  At times, candles snuff out as they encounter turbulent water, but more candles float to illuminate the empty spaces. I'm not sure of the significance of these candles to that man, or, indeed, to the Hindus of India. What it symbolizes for me, however, is the strength of life:  Firstly, that we are candles floating on a river of history, brief in our brilliance, but constant in our stream of humanity.... Secondly, in the power of memory... each candle reflecting the memory of a life once lived - a life remembered, a warmth and a breath held close, if only for a time, revisited in miniature on this river that has housed (washed? bathed? sanctified?) the remains of the dead for centuries.  Finally, if one looks long and let the eyes glass over, the flickering candles become burning embers, the embodiment of the ceremonial last rights for the dead, replayed for centuries upon this river. And I am reminded of how life, too, is a long slow burn, with flickers and flares, and shadows and sparks, and, how, once ended, one’s life will be recalled and rekindled by those who once felt the heat and the warmth of that life.  And, if it is to be believed, an ember may even be re-ignited, to reincarnate back... through.... in...to... the (a) maze of life…

'The birds' …I think... Through my musings I remain aware of their presence…. their muted cries fall down to me still… though the night sky has enveloped them completely.


When Angie was 30, she took some time from work to fulfill her life long dream of seeing the developing world. Keeping to a budget of $20. per day, she reveled in the richness of experience that life offered up to her, and shared her experiences via email with people back in Canada. Supportive friends encouraged her to make a book of her musings, but she never knew where to go to turn that suggestion into a reality.  She is thrilled that her first ever fiction submission, pulled directly from those old musings, was accepted. Mindful of and thankful for their dedication, (Donna Marrin, Beth Sheridan and the Markham Writers’ Group), faith and friendship (Jeff Stacey, Stacey Damji, and Bill Bell), and her unswerving commitment to creating a space for fledgling York Region writers to share their craft, (Vali Stone), Angie couldn’t be happier to be taking her first steps on the journey to becoming a published writer of fiction in this fantastic and wonderful venue.

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