Varanasi Walks 3: Walks Along the Bank of the Ganges

This will be the third book in the series that already has books on walks circuiting the ghats and those circuiting the lanes. Taken separately,  they make only one half of the complete Varanasi Experience. When the halves come together, one gets the complete experience. So, after looking at two halves separately, now is the time to bring them together. This book will take the following ghats as the successive centres of concatenating circuits that will start from Assi Ghat at the southern periphery and move  through the other centres viz. Kedar, Dashashwamedh, Manikarnika, Panchganga, Trilochan and Raj Ghats, on to Adi Keshav Ghat at the northern periphery of the city.

Varanasi is not a tourist package. It’s an experience. It demands only time and gives all that one may want in return. No, I am not being theoretical here. It has done that to many. So, I’ll repeat my advise that I directly give (sometimes unsolicited) to anyone I know is going to my city:

Don’t Rush It.

Don’t Hurry.  

Don’t Time Your Day by Minutes and Hours. 

Stay, Sit and Soak in the City.

My book will take the advise, and will try to take a leisurely, un-timed, multi-directioned stroll through the piece of time and space you will call Varanasi for yourself.

Varanasi Walks 2: Lanes of Varanasi

According to the plan, another book was published in the Varanasi Walk series: Lanes of Varanasi. Although I had done some work upon the rhythm of life in the lanes on my blog, I had not done even one post exclusively on lanes. Yes, it’s difficult to believe now, but the search result makes it very (shamefully and late) clear. No kasiphile (one who  loves Kashi) will ever pardon me for what I have done. I offer this book, solely and specifically on lanes of Varanasi, as the first installment of atonement!


The book description on amazon reads:

Lanes of Varanasi is about theoretically countable yet practically uncountable lanes of Varanasi that people in the subcontinent know by the name of galis. One of the very first images that appear in a person’s mind when the name of the city is taken is of the lanes of the city. Of course there are ghats and the Holy Ganga, and we have paid homage to them already in Ghats of Varanasi. The labyrinthine (the choice of the word is not mine, it’s a popular dead metaphor) lanes of the city make the subject of this book. In many ways, the spirit of the place is reflected best in the lanes. Varanasi is called by many “the oldest inhabited city in the world” and its oldest inhabited zones are called the muhallas that are interwoven with and interconnected by these lanes.



Varanasi Walks 1: Ghats of Varanasi

I planned the Varanasi Walks series over a year ago. As the name suggests, it consists of several titles, linked by the theme of walks in Varanasi. Instead of searching for a publisher, I decided to self-publish the series. It was possible, thanks to I published the first title of the series as a kindle book first. That first book was about the ghats of Varanasi. The choice of the subject was not at all accidental. I had done over two dozen blog posts related to various ghats of Kashi ( I had also done a blog post on all the ghats of Varnasi/ Kashi a long time ago (on February 19, 2014 ):

That blog was actually a comprehensive list of all the ghats that I had visited and photographed myself. The structure and treatment of the post was skeletal only and I felt the need to give it a body, some flesh and a better and fuller treatment. So, I wrote Ghats of Varanasi.

The product description reads:

Varanasi is one of the holiest cities of Hindus and one of the most picturesque places on the face of earth. For over a millennium it has attracted pilgrims, travellers and tourists from all over the world due to various reasons. One of the highlights of any journey to the city has been its magnificent ghats, with their majestic buildings and the serene view of the crescent left bank and the holy Ganges. This book is about the ghats of Varanasi. It is the first volume of the series titled Varanasi Walks.

Its table of contents gives a fair idea of the structure of the book:



The Southern Periphery

Around Kedar Ghat

Around Dashashwamedh Ghat

Around the Manikarnika

Around Panchganga Ghat

Around Trilochan Ghat

The Northern Periphery

List of Ghats



So, the book of walks begins from the Southern end of the city’s defined periphery and proceeds towards its ancient northern end i.e. the circuits keep moving from the confluence of Holy Ganga with the dry river Assi to that with the river Varuna. Thus the book takes you from one puranic confluence to another, between which lies Varanasi. In fact, there’s an apocryphal etymological link between the name of the rivers mentioned above and the naming of the city. They say that you get Varanasi by combining Varuna with Assi (Varanasi = Varuna + Assi). Ghats of Varanasi structures various city walks in a chain of circuits centred at key ghats: Assi, Kedar, Dashashwamedh, Manikarnika, Panchganga, Trilochan and Adi Keshav.

There were many readers who were neither familiar nor comfortable with kindle format. They needed the touch and the idea of materially holding the ‘book’ in their hands. So, I published the book in paperback format without any change in the textual content.



Kameshwar or Durvaseshwar Mahadev, Kashi Khand

The Kashi Khand of Skand Mahapuran has narratives that give full coverage to the story of origin of the idols of various gods and goddesses, especially of the various lingams that prominently dot the cityscape. In its eighty-fifth chapter there is the story of how Durvaseshwar/Kameshwar Mahadev came into being. As the name suggests, Lord Shiva bears the name of his devotee here. He is the ‘Lord of Durvasa‘. For those who do not know much about the sage famous for his irascibility, fiery temper and powers, rishi Durvasa directly originated from Lord Shiva. He is a great devotee of Lord Shiva and is full of praise for the city of Kashi as he reaches there. He likes the city and starts his austerities to please his Lord in order to get a boon he wants. Time passes but the sage has no success.

Irascible as he is, he decides to curse the city that does not bring the fruits of his devotion and austerity to him. The fire of his anger envelops the sky, and since then it looks blue. The ganas of Lord Shiva who reside in his beloved abode get agitated and angry and take countermeasure by creating a huge wall all around the city that does not let even fire pass. The world burns and Kashi is breathless. Lord Shiva is pleased with the powerful sage and appears before him (I will not digress and write of another lingam that came to earth at this point of time).

On seeing his lord Durvasa becomes aware of what he had done. He is full of shame and remorse to have thought of cursing Mother Kashi, but Lord Shiva is happy with him and asks him to ask for his boon. The sage asks for only one boon, that the lingam he established there fulfills the desires of the devotees, hence known as the Lord of Desires, also that the water of the pond may have similar powers. Lord Shiva was pleased with the selfless sage and called the lingam Durvaseshwar before granting the sage his boon. He also declared that the most auspicious day for the devotees to reach there would be the thirteenth day of Pradosh that coincides with Saturday.

Kameshwar Mahadev, Varanasi

This post began when Mr Saktibrata Sen posted a question on my blog “Madhyameshwar: The Lord of/at the Centre, Varanasi”. The question was:

Hello, I need help to locate the Kameshwar or Durvaseshwar Temple. I tried for 7 continuous days and failed. Can you please, please help? I have heard that this temple was once a seat of many a classical Hindustani performances by Ustad Faiyaz khan

I knew nothing of the Ustad mentioned, but I knew I could give the exact location. So, I searched. For the temple I searched the great Pandit Kubernath Sukul’s Varanasi Vaibhav and Dandiswami Shivanand Saraswati’s Kashi Gaurav, and for the maestro, Wikipedia and youtube.

Varanasi Vaibhav gives the location of the temple as:

a. The Old Temple at house number A 2/9, near Macchodari (p 222 and 384)

b. The New Temple at house number K 30/1, Ghasitola (p 384)

There is also the mention of Kamkund that is not there any more.

The most auspicious day for darshan, according to the Hindu calendar is Vaishakh Krishna 13.

Kashi Gaurav gives the location of the temple under the circuit covering 42 great Shivlingas. it’s at the eastern side of Macchodari, at A 2/9 in an eponymous lane: the Kameshwar Lane.   

This same lingam is known as Durvaseshwar. Why? There’s a long narrative in the Kashi Khand of Skand Mahapuran regarding its origin and nomenclature. That narrative will be the subject of our next post.


Banaras vs Boredom

Regular writing is dependent both on habit and need: the habit of writing every day, or the need to earn a living through it. So, it’s difficult for me to go regular. I take the occasional walk on the path of writing. That brings us to the present subject. A strong urge to write, or a strong subject to terminate into that urge, is all I need to begin. The present subject is my painful consciousness of the comparative boredom, colourlessness, soundlessness, sightlessness and odourlessness of my constitutional walk. Day after day, day after day, I walk one of the few fixed circuits for around twenty minutes, i.e. two kilometres. More than once have I felt an intense surge of helplessness, accentuating the contrast between the ghats and lanes of Banaras and boredom. From my place in my city Banaras to Dashashwamedh Ghat is around two kilometres, and I never used to go for any kind of constitutionals in my city. Yet, I regularly walked my ghats and lanes nearly every day, more lanes during the flooded months and more ghats normally. The same ghats and lanes, the same circuit, day after day, week after week, month after month, year after year, decade after decade, and never boring – not even once. It’s unbelievable: the contrast is, or unreal. The rush of pilgrims and the regulars in the mornings and at evenings would be the same too. The addas too never changed (not even today have they changed, and I thank Mahadev for that). Yes, there’d be the same shops and road-side stalls from where fruits, vegetables or other such FMCG would be purchased. And yes, there would be the same people to exchange a hearty Mahadev or a Ram Ram with. A short digression about “Mahadev”: As Lord Shiva, or Mahadev, i.e. the great god, is the Lord of Kashi, so his name becomes the shorthand for Hail the Great God or Har har Mahadev. Although for the readers of the Naga trilogy, Amish had derived it differently, but the people who have been using the same customarily for as long as they can remember, it is exactly as mentioned in the previous sentence.

Fundamentally speaking, if boredom has any kind of relationship with unchanging environs, Banaras should be just as boring as any regularly walked circuit. The facts in hand, although, point towards some weakness inherent in the causal link. When in Banaras, I actually look forward to a repetition of features and occurrences on my daily circuit. It has now taken a ritualistic turn, and just like the rituals associated with places and occasions, the novelty of repetition and the variety of sameness, can only be accepted with one place, and there’s no such place outside Banaras for me. The Romantics have been criticized for their escapism, so has been Yeats in his Innisfree poem:

The Lake Isle of Innisfree


I will arise and go now, and go to Innisfree,
And a small cabin build there, of clay and wattles made;
Nine bean-rows will I have there, a hive for the honey-bee,
And live alone in the bee-loud glade.
And I shall have some peace there, for peace comes dropping slow,
Dropping from the veils of the morning to where the cricket sings;
There midnight’s all a glimmer, and noon a purple glow,
And evening full of the linnet’s wings.
I will arise and go now, for always night and day
I hear lake water lapping with low sounds by the shore;
While I stand on the roadway, or on the pavements grey,
I hear it in the deep heart’s core.
Source: The Collected Poems of W. B. Yeats (1989)

Alienation in industrialized urban setting, with its normative migration, drives people away from their place of origin. Many respond well, and gel well with the socio-cultural environment of their place of transplantation. It has something to do with the age of uprooting too. The younger the sapling, the lesser is the shock, and the better the chances of acclimatization and naturalization in the new environment. The degree of attachment to one’s roots and the origin and the mode and the motive of uprooting are amongst various factors that determine the intensity and persistence of the shock. The daily rhythm of life and the availability and use patterns of leisure time are also very important determining factors. I miss the past rhythm and leisure time utilization of my life, and prefer it over my present state’s rhythm and pattern. I also miss the complete and unchallenged ownership of the time available – my time – that has now been heavily compromised.

Past time and place, in a very indistinguishable manner, have become one, courtesy the way our mind looks back and recollects. [The Prelude: looking back, recollection in tranquility, Nature, joy, sense of loss etc.] Brain thinks, and the heart only pumps blood. Both the clauses in the previous sentence are wrong, partially, and partially correct too. If and when a body part or organ functions without taking commands from the brain, especially when the time for or the need of analytical response is limited or instant, it does what actually is brain’s job. Then, it may be said to be performing brain’s function. Therefore, the relevant question must be to ask: why is the same brisk walk different in Banaras? Twice or thrice have I launched myself on the daily routine kind of walk, with diligence and consistency too, always getting mightily bored in the process. Driven from within, I do stick to the boring routine, like I am doing nowadays, but I don’t tell myself the lie that I am enjoying it. The moment Banaras flashes in my mind, and that happens very regularly and definitely, my walk turns sour and mechanical. Mine is no Wordsworthian loss of joy, for the moment I enter my city, the joy returns. Mine is a simple case of single mindedness. I have probably committed somewhere in my mind to consign happiness to Banaras, or have made them interchangeable in my personal vocabulary. Yet, I also am aware of the fact that walking along the Ganges is a treat: visual, aural, even olfactory.


I had never thought that I’d write this post someday. For me, Banaras comes with the adjectives intellectual, spiritual and psychological attached to it. Hitherto I have been concentrating upon the action of place and time upon psyche and vice-versa. I never worked upon the effect of food that’s intimately related to a place, upon the psyche. Now is the time for a new beginning. It’s said in the Hindu tradition that any work should begin with Ganesha’s name. So, I start by invoking the name of lavanglata aka launglata. It’s a delicacy that does not look very delicate. The outward appearance of this king, or queen, of sweets is rough and tough. It looks like a heavy weight version of modified samosa, or a double sohaal with a sticky, syrupy thin covering. There’s a sweet khoya core within a thick crust of dough that’s deep fried and then dipped for a while in sugar syrup and then consumed, either hot and on the spot, or later, cold and with a definitely different taste. I’ve tasted two types of launglata in Banaras. Depending upon the core, it is either a fresh khoya, sugar, choronji, elaichi mixture, or, in the well-established and practiced tradition of jugaad, and occasionally, already made sweet of some kind. That’s the physical side of it. Can something be written of its taste?

I have never seen lavanglata in any other city. Probably it’s a unique taste of Banaras. I have asked people from many other parts of northern India about it, presuming that the chances of its being made in other parts of India are very low. (No, I’ve not Googled it yet.) No one recognizes it either by name or by a description of its external features. So it’s going to be really difficult to translate its taste with some kind of objective correlative for anyone who has never seen and tasted it. For those who have tasted it, there’s no need of a mediator, or interpreter of taste. Yet, even if inadequate, once declared, an attempt must be made to describe its taste. How vividly do I remember my latest experience of its taste? It was nearly six months ago that I had tasted it for the last time: for that was the last time I was in Banaras. Closing my eyes, I can recollect my lips getting the first feel of the hard, syrup coated outer layer, then, that small first bite that makes just a slight incision over the outer surface: a cut deep enough to release the first trickle of the sweet syrup trapped between the various layers of crunchily hard dough inside. The first few bites, tentative and closer to the surface, bring the fried dough dipped in syrup to mouth. The crunch and the mixture of the crust’s plainness with some sweetness that has not fully permeated it are the prominent features that I can recollect. Then comes the heart of the sweet: the succulent and purely sweet khoya portion. It tastes like any other khoya based Indian sweet, albeit, with a constant base taste of the crunchy bland-sweet outer layer. The fresh and warm thing tastes different from the colder one. Sugar syrup hardens on cooling, i.e. the dough too becomes harder and crunchier and the syrup less sticky and more solid with the passage of time. The yellowish golden crust tastes different from the deeper fried light brown one. This paragraph has only proven that I have inadequate vocabulary, or thinking capacity, to encode the idea of taste into language.

Let’s make one more attempt for the subject is difficult for me. This time round, I’ll try some comparisons. Imagine the outer thicker crust of a samosa dipped in sugar syrup. If there’s any way it could be done, it approximates to the taste of the crust of our sweet, and that is the easy part. How does one describe the taste of the core? Ah! failure once more. I now bring reinforcements. Ghujia is a popular Indian sweet generally prepared on the festival of Holi. It has a large range of filling options. When it’s filled with khoya and dipped in sugar syrup its core tastes somewhat like that of our target sweet. Descriptions don’t do justice to the taste. Lavanglata deserves to be tasted first hand (or, tongue!).

Where in Banaras can one get it? Everywhere. Is there any place that’s especially popular? Depending on which specific zone of the city one’s searching for it, there always is the people’s favourite shop, e.g. there’s one famous shop at Lanka crossing, one at Godowlia crossing, and over two dozen not-so-famous ones between them. This ubiquitous banarsi sweet, with some variation of taste, can be found, as the adjective suggests: everywhere in Banaras.



At first I had thought to focus on the object at the centre of the image in this piece and a remarkable sight it definitely is. It belongs to the place, and to the milieu. It is, for those who have not seen it before or could not divine its nature, a hand pushed cart to carry house waste. This cart is found in the narrow lanes of Varanasi where it has been in used for at least as long back as my memory records, i.e. nearly four decades now. It has some character: this cart does have something that can be called distinctive and unique. It does not appear in many other cities, so, it may be a characteristic feature of those quarters of Varanasi that lie in the vicinity of the river Ganges at least.

Then, the thought wandered to the houses, or, more specifically, to the walls lining the narrow lane: the house with walls rising nearly from the plinth, the one on the other side with a wide chabutra running along the front, and the freshly white washed one. The Chunar sandstone is definitely there and the characteristic wavy border of the chabutra, the windows with wooden frame and iron grills, the chajja between the two storeys of the houses and the verandah supported with brackets. All the common features of the stone houses of the narrow lanes of Varanasi are also present there. In addition to that, there’s the decaying stone, especially near the base of the wall, where it meets the open shallow storm-rain water drain. The image speaks that the neighbourhood has not changed structurally for nearly a century or more.

Psychogeography and the Kashi Texts

Psychogeography is defined as the study of the effect of geography of a place on an individual’s psyche. It is the “study of the specific effects of the geographical environment, consciously organized or not, on the emotions and behaviour of individuals” says Guy Debord (qtd. in Coverley 10). It’s also seen as “the point at which psychology and geography collide” (Coverley 10). Some key terms that recur in the discussions of the stream are derive, flâneur, drifting etc. These terms of psychogeography have something to do with movement. On the other end of the scale is motionless mental drifting indoors. The stream runs its course between the two extremes. Banarsis have been practising psychogeography long before the term was coined and was introduced in the urban lexicon. What else can one call the responses of a large number of individuals, even in this age of mechanization, to the geographical rhythms of their city? Without any attempt to over-essentialize or generalize, it can be said that the Banarsis breathe in their city and imbibe its vibes.

Coverley writes about it in his seminal introduction to psychogeography and according to him one of the central traits of this kind of novel is drifting, or aimless stroll, and the person doing it, i.e. the flâneur becomes the point of focalization of the narrative. There are some more features viz. Involvement in political activism, “a perception of the city as a site of mystery” (Coverley 13) and an attempt to reveal the reality behind the veil of mystery, the presence of the city’s past in its present, a tendency to present the dark under world of the city, and, one of its recurring themes is urballaghophobia. There are ample chances of discovery in the aimless stroll, and the one thing that is discovered time and again is change in the city. Urballaghology is the study of change in the city, and the fear of that change is called urballaghophobia.

Psychogeographical literature featuring Varanasi is essentially city literature that has close association with the life of the modern man and his functioning (and dysfunctioning) as an individual in the urban society. Psychogeography has always been in texts, even in those texts that generally do not find place among the canonical texts of the field. In many ways it has been a kind of all inclusive and overarching metanarrative that’s as important to psychogeography as the base of economy is to Marxism, power to Althusserianism and desire to Lacanianism. Imagine two lists of any kind, canonical or non-canonical. Sample 1 may contain works of Chaucer, Shakespeare, Bunyan, Swift, Fielding, Dickens, Hardy and Joyce, and sample 2 may feature Amish Tripathi, Chetan Bhagat, Sidney Sheldon, John Grisham and Mario Puzo. Works in both the lists have at least one underlying theme – psychogeography. Now, it may look like a sweeping generalization, but it’s true that the joint current of psychology and geography flows in textual veins. There may be some exceptions to it. None is to be found when the texts originates from or is set in Kashi. Kashi texts are characterized by the presence of a deep sense of place and its imprint upon human beings there.

There have been several psychogeographical works set in the city of Varanasi. In English Raja Rao’s stories and Pankaj Mishra’s The Romantics, and in Hindi Bhartendu Harshchandra’s Satya Harishchandra and Premjogini, Shivprasad Mishra “Rudra’s” collection of stories Behti Ganga, Abdul Bismillah’s Jhini Jhini Bini Chadariya, Kashinath Singh’s Apna Morcha and Kashi ka Assi belong to the genre. Here Pankaj Mishra’s The Romantics and Shivprasad Singh’s Gali Age Mudti Hai that are bildungsroman and psychogeographical novels in many ways have been given special attention. The text that we begin with also happens to be among of the first few plays written in what is called the standard and pure (shudh) Hindi today, and the playwright is the man with whom the very process of the creation of the standard Hindi language began.

Bhartendu Harishchandra’s Premjogini may be taken as one of the first among the texts that originated from a modern mindset. Harishchandra did not blindly praise the city. His scathing criticism of the city in the same play has been quoted so many times and in so many ways that it’d be redundant doing so again. What has been taken up for this essay is the protagonist Sudhakar’s description of his city to a pilgrim from some far away city:

Listen, Varanasi is another name for Kashi where Goddess Ganga turns North ward, curving like a bow and enveloping the city in a manner that gives the impression that she has taken the city in her lap lovingly, knowing full well of Lord Shiva’s love for his city. She washes away the heat of sins and purifies the mankind through the powers of her holy droplets. On the banks of the river, on the massive ghats constructed by illustrious men, there rise tall houses of two, four, five to seven storeys, kissing the sky as if the snow capped summits of the Himalayas have come down to reap the sweet fruits of the place’s closeness to the river.

From among those tall buildings rise the two minarets of Madhav Rao like two arms of the city beckoning to the pilgrims from afar. Morning and evening are the times when innumerable men and women can be seen bathing at ghats. Along with the Brahmins in their evening symposia they appear like the celestial singers and the rishis at Kuber’s abode in Alkapuri. The sound of musical instruments fills the ghatscape like a valley echoes the call of peacocks. Add to that the distant trumpet’s sound (early in the morning or late in the evening) that enchants the ears and acts as a lullaby. The morning splendor of the sun and the evening glory of the reflection of the ghats upon the river are way beyond description.

(qtd in Soch Vichaar 28)

Psychoanalyze Sudhakar and what emerges would be a prototypical Banarsi mindset. The purpose of such an extended extract above was to present how the citizens would like to present their city (if not, how they see it themselves). If the protagonist lives in the city that he so lovingly describes to the stranger, and then invites him to go with him and experience his city, the he surely lives in a daily heavenly ambience – a veritable anand kanan. His life experience has constructed his persona, and his life experience is the sum total of all the various experiences that his city provided him with. What does a city do to a man? To answer the question, another must be asked: What is a city? Is a city purely and solely definable in terms of geography or some other factors come into play? A city is the area of land on that exists materially. But it’s much more than that. It’s also its landmarks and a building, e.g. just taking the name of the Eiffel Tower brings Paris to mind, or the Statue of Liberty, New York. There’s more. A city does not exist merely in space. It exists in time too. So, Paris of nineteenth century is not the same as Paris of twentieth or twenty-first centuries. The name of the city may remain the same, the city doesn’t. So, it can be said that cities are spatio-temporal entities. There definitely are constants across time in a city, but change is always at work in various ways. The ghats and buildings on them feature prominently in Sudhakar’s description, just as they do in the life of an average Banarsi.

Ghat gazing is a central pastime of the city. Gali and street gazing are the other stationary forms of soaking in the city’s cultural air. There are many activities that are elements of doing “nothing” while ghat gazing. Some of them are diametrically opposite to each other, e.g. enjoying seclusion and the company of friends, imbibing nature’s sounds or those made by humans, entering the river or just watching it pass by, sitting with a crowd or alone etc. Ghat gazing becomes a habit with the passage of days and then, with the passage of years, it becomes an essential element of one’s character. A Banarsi can’t live without his ghats and his Mother: Ganga Maiya. There are reasons behind it that range from religious to socio-cultural to psychogeographical.

The way in which the protagonist of Premjogini responds to his environs and the city is important for the development of the plot. It is similar in many ways to the way in which Samar and Anand, the protagonists of The Romantics and Gali Age Mudti Hai respectively respond to theirs. Both of them are Brahmins in their early twenties, without any kind of gainful employment or family backing. They walk out of necessity, and during their various voyages through the city’s labyrinthine lanes and stone paved ghatscape, they discover the city in their own manner and at their own pace.

Anand is a flâneur par excellence and he drifts through the labyrinthine lanes and ghats of Varanasi at various times of the day, even at the improbable time of midnight or the uncomfortable time of pre-dawn. His walks through the labyrinthine lanes of the city provide ample opportunities for the appearance of one of the central motifs of psychogeography in the novel “the motif of the imaginary voyage, a journey that reworks and re-imagines the layout of the urban labyrinth and which records observations of the city streets as it passes through them” (Coverley 15). Anand is perceptive, so he takes in what the senses bring to him and presents it in an organized form. When he reaches a place where he hears the clanging of brass utensils being shown, held or falling, and finds the lane full of people and strange kind of noise, he declares it to be the famous Thatheri Gali of Varanasi. What’s more, he meets somebody accidentally there and presents his description too, thus filling the narrative with a distinctive flavour.

Starting with Edgar Allan Poe’s “The Man of the Crowd” and continuing to Iain Sinclair and Peter Ackroyd’s works, psychogeography has always been interested in crowd and its behaviour, and also in how individuals behave in crowds. Crowd in the city, an urban feature and a modern one too, makes these novels psychogeographical. Crowd finds place in both the play and the novels and it’s no surprise that they have large human congregations and crowds as a recurrently occurring motif and image. Hrishchandra’s play shows the crowd as both describer and described, good and bad, and there are many points of view while looking at the crowd. Sudhakar reveals himself in his description of the city. In order have such kind of knowledge; one either has deep connection with the soil or with the people. Singh’s novel deals mainly with the normal everyday kind of crowd, that too, especially in the pakki mahaal. The protagonist, a flâneur, in many ways, although not a pure drifter, takes time to look at the heterogeneous crowd in various parts of Varanasi. He is also interested enough in the human behaviour to actually stop by and observe the spectacle that draws a crowd around it near his student’s place. For Samar, the detached one, crowd is a spectacle in itself. So, he looks at the crowd and wonders about its composition and dynamics. Anand, who belongs to the soil and its people, has deep sympathy from them. It is his sympathy that allows him to feel close to the common man and his problems. He understands the place and the people who dwell there, and seems to like them both.

Samar and his White friends meet at Dashashwamedh Ghat to watch the spectacle of the millions strong crowd of Shivratri festival in Varanasi. What he witnessed there was “a crowd of pilgrims, with not a patch of uncovered ground to be seen anywhere, pilgrims surging into the main road from all directions, through narrow lanes and maze-like alleys” (Mishra 160). Anand too has to navigate his way through dense crowds in the lanes and streets of the city, especially during his frequent visits to the oldest quarters of the city: the pakki mahaal. Varanasi is a city that does not sleep and there are many reasons behind its incessantly active life: the central reasons being religion and trade. Anyone drifting through the ocean of life that fills the ghats and lanes of the city will naturally be acquainted with the true face of the city. Crowd is one of the salient features of the city, more so because it’s a centre of pilgrimage.

A drifter or flâneur, Anand has ample opportunities to look at the city of Varanasi at various times and in all seasons and moods and he often finds it very beautiful. He describes whatever he looks at very lovingly and beautifully. Be it the city, its culture, its people or the river or an amalgam of them all: “the boatmen are right when they say that Mother Ganga goes to sleep at midnight and her surface becomes motionless. One should enter the river only after four, when she’s awake” (Singh 125). Samar, although not his match, does drift around at times. The Varanasi they gradually discover is a “site of mystery” (Coverley 13).  Harishchandra presents both the “exalted and the seamy” sides of the city in his play (Dalmia 304). Similarly our two novelists, in addition to showing what is good and bright, never shy away from exposing the dark side of the City of Light as, to use the words used for any city, the “site of crime, poverty and death” (Coverley 13). There are characters bad types in the play and in the novels. Playing the role of the protagonist’s friend, supporter, protector and foil that can be called Banarsi gundas, are Rajesh and Rajulli. In The Romantics there’s Samar’s friend Rajesh and in Gali Age Mudti Hai there’re Anand’s friends Haribabu and Rajulli who are powerful, dangerous and have either direct or indirect relations with the criminal under-world of the city. At a more archetypal level then, these novels are also epical in their portrayal of the protagonist’s descent to, and escape from, the hell. Samar was very close to Rajesh and could have easily been influenced by his way of (criminal) life had the circumstances been even a little different. Anand escaped entering the criminal underworld of Bakkad guru just by chance.

The three works discussed in this paper present Varanasi as a special city, as the centre of the Hindu’s religious universe. Varanasi’s position as the foremost Hindu city was challenged due to the excesses of some rulers in the medieval India. Bernier, who had come to the city in the second half of the seventeenth century, just before the scourge of Aurangzebe fell on it, wrote:

The town of Benares, seated on the Ganges, in a beautiful situation, and in the midst of an extremely fine and rich country, may be considered the general school of the Gentiles. It is the Athens of India, whither resort the Brahmens [sic] and other devotees; who are the only persons who apply their minds to study. (Bernier 334)

This “Athens of India” that used to attract talent from all over India, and the world, continued doing so in the modern times too. Sudhakar is shown praising his city for the benefit of a person who has come there for the express purpose of visiting its various sites of importance. He’d also meet the people of importance, as is the recommendation of his new friend there. Samar and Anand, the protagonists in the novels by Mishra and Singh respectively, come to the city as searchers for knowledge. One of them comes to the city with the plan to spend nearly a decade in the service of Maa Saraswati and Sanskrit and the other, just to spend his time reading to the city that attracts students, if not from all over India like olden times, then in modern times at least from the adjoining districts. Jerusalem and Mecca, important for Christians, Jews, and Muslims owe their importance to the fact that they are a part of the Books of their religion. Varanasi is different. Its metanarratives mention various gods and goddesses waxing eloquent in its praise. The city and the deities appear to be parts of a reciprocal legitimization cycle with the city emerging as superior or victorious in the end. The importance of the city, just like its existence, pre-dates the arrival of Ganga to the plains through Shiva’s final agency. The city and its position in the mahatmyas pre-dates even Shiva’s arrival to the city. In fact, Shiva had chosen the city as his abode precisely because of its beauty, holiness and purity per se. He pined for it when he had to leave it as a boon he had given to King Divodas. There are various praises (mahatmyas) of the city in Sanskrit in which various sages and gods are shown in love with the city. In more modern times although the language and tone of the praise has changed, the content is similar. There’s a corpus of works on the city, both fiction and non-fiction full of praise for the city. The works covered in this paper remain true to two traditions: the tradition of psychogeographical novel and that of the Kashi texts.



Coverley, Merlin. Psychogeography, Harpenden: Pocket Essentials, 2006.

Bernier, Francois. Travels in the Mogul Empire: A.D. 1656-1668, Tr. Archibald Constable, Westminster: Archibald Constable & Co, , 1891.

Dalmia, Vasudha. The Nationalization of Hindu Traditions. Delhi: OUP, 1997.

Eck, Diana L. Banaras City of Light. New Delhi: Penguin, 1993.

Harishchandra, Bhartendu. “Premjogini mein Kashi”. Soch Vichaar. Year 4, vol 1. Varanasi, July 2012.

Mishra, Pankaj. The Romantics. New Delhi: India Ink, 2000.

Singh, Shivprasad. Gali Age Mudti Hai. New Delhi: Radhakrishna, 2010.

Harishchandra, Bhartendu. “Premjogini main Kashi”. Soch Vichaar. Ed. Narendra Nath Mishra. Year 4; Vol. 1. July 2012. Print.