Varanasi

by El Peregrino

translated from Spanish by Stefania Rodríguez Castro

Every day, around five in the morning, I'd take a boat (my boatman was named, of all things, Vishnu!) and drift along the banks of the Ganges until first light of day. Each day I was amazed by the same scene: the darkness of the night dissolving, little by little, into a delicate glow above the horizon. Gradually, the buildings of Varanasi emerged in shades of orange, while along the riverbanks, in the cool morning air, a multitude of faceless dark silhouettes would appear. You could sense the gathering power of a radiant and transcendent event. You could feel the rising power of a luminous and transcendent event. With the emerging color of the sky, beautiful garments and robes began to appear, purple, yellow, red and green, each glowing with a pure, almost crystalline light. While the sun shifted from orange to yellow and red to gold, the fabrics seemed to change color as well, brightening and varying in tone, their own shadows moving with the light. At daybreak along the Ganges, an unforgettable spectacle unfolded. Men and women bathed in the river, draped in vivid colors and rich textiles, their skin etched with weathered wrinkles. In their presence, children embodied the fading weight of traditions carried across generations. Alongside the colors of robes and buildings, the colors of endless fruits and vegetables appeared, displayed in the markets along the riverbank. And it was as if the vision of the colors had awakened the other senses; the fragrance of spices were mixed with the sweetness of fruits, the salesman’s voices mingled with the strong ringing of the Catholic Church bells and the calls from nearby mosques.

Each day, at the moment that I walked along the riverbank, I saw the silhouette of a still and silent man in the lotus position, facing the rising sun. Each day, by the time I circled back to my starting point, the silhouette was already gone. This scene repeated itself many times, and that man’s figure, in some way I cannot grasp, felt as though it were pursuing me.

One afternoon, as I wandered aimlessly through the market, an unexpected sight stopped me. Sitting just a few feet away, I saw him. He was at a fruit stand, not in a meditative posture, just sitting there observing. I approached slowly, and when his gaze met mine, the man smiled: a simple smile, indescribable in its infinite beauty. In that moment, something unknown and ancient awoke within me. In that smile resided all of eternity, all dreams and gazes, every face and memory, each sound, image, and pain. They were the same lips of Krishna. I wanted to surrender at his feet, to share what no one else could understand, to hear his smile forever. But something inside me, or perhaps something in my soul reflected in his gaze, told me that words were unnecessary, that he knew… he knew everything. I stepped closer, bowed, and with a lump in my throat, I said, “Namaste, Babaji.” He continued smiling, inclining his torso slightly, moving his right hand so gently, in a greeting of inexpressible purity.

And that was all.

That man, whom I never spoke with, was simply a fruit seller without any pretense of being sage or disciple, that man who walked on the street without appearing to be a “holy man”, who never posed for photographs or sought money. Yet, his gentle and profound smile marked him as the greatest soul I have ever encountered. In his humble presence, I found a profound and wordless wisdom. It is Vasudeva, silently watching the river's waters; it is the dew on the rose, the breeze of spring. It is the eternity, reflected on the murky waters of the Ganges.