I am in the holy city of Lord Shiva, frozen in my tracks, on a historical ghat that overlooks the sacred river. And I am swallowing my disappointment. The colour of earth, the river is a slender thread of water with plastic bags bobbing on it like pink and blue flags. The rakish boatman accompanying our small group mutters in a belligerent tone: “In summer (41o C) the Ganga shrinks from its banks and dries up a bit in the middle and as for the rubbish, it’s because people throw stuff in!” So the ‘Clean up Ganga’ campaign was a figment of our collective imagination. Manmandir Ghat is a sea of chaos. The steps are swarming with pitcher-bearing pilgrims, bare-chested boys wiping themselves dry from their dips and little girls accosting us with baskets of diyas and flowers. We buy as many as we can carry and once we are in the boat and the sun retires behind the clouds, we light the lamps and lower them gently in the river, avoiding touch with the half eaten food packets and water bottles floating past. As dusk falls and the not so distant flames on Manikarnika Ghat become visible, our guide propels the boat towards the burning pyres. No, we say, we are not intruding on anyone’s personal grief. He looks surprised. All the tourists go there, especially foreigners, he says, though photography is now banned. But they still take pictures, he sighs, from their pocket-sized cameras.

We are on board this sunset cruise mainly for the famed aarti which takes place every evening on the Dasaswamedh Ghat. Our boatman deftly steers the craft towards the embankment, weaving in and out along moving barges, occasionally bumping into them, ignoring the protests of his fellow boatmen, till he reaches the ‘front row’. Following that aggressive exercise, he yawns and goes to sleep! The hour-long aarti is a well-choreographed show, just falling short of a veritable extravaganza. Costume-coordinated priests with matching yellow sashes go through the motions with gleaming brass lamps to the din of bells and drums while gruff voices belt out Hindu prayers over a loudspeaker. On the water, silence reigns and from the boat behind us, wafts another kind of smoke from a freshly rolled cigarette.

Varanasi, which gets its name from the confluence of the rivers of Varuna and Assi was Kashi (the luminous one) in its earliest avatar as mentioned in the Mahabharata, Ramayana, Bhagvad Gita and the Puranas. Muslim rulers renamed it Benaras and post Independence, it was rechristened Varanasi. Walking past ancient structures propped against timeworn walls we make our way back to the car-free crowded lanes, strewn with coconut shells, cattle litter and rotting vegetables. A cow nibbles freely from the same stall that women buy cucumbers from and motorcyclists in a hurry brashly brush against our handbags and shoulders. We are told that no one leaves the city without sampling matka lassi and chaat from a two-bench eatery named Kashi and paan from Kuber. Our post-tasting verdict: that the real McCoys of these typical specialities have migrated to Mumbai!

At dinner we are transported to a world so different, it is almost surreal. Rose petals form a soft carpet as we are led to a candlelit setting in the lawns of Nadesar Palace, former royal residence of Dr Vibhuti Narain Singh, now leased to the Taj Group. While peacocks strut on the fringes and fireworks leap into the sky, a pandit blesses the meal we are about to relish. Our hands are washed with water from the Ganges; before we raise an eyebrow, we are reassured that the divine liquid comes from Haridwar! The Benarasi satwick thali served in traditional silver platters is a vegetarian tango of fruits, veggies, grains and cereals, said to promote balance in mind and body and is refreshing in taste and easy on the stomach. The only out-of-the-box consideration: glasses of white wine, a modern version of nectar of the gods!

Now, a ten-roomed luxury retreat, Nadesar Palace, a gift from the East India Company to the rulers of yore, boasts plush suites named after the statesmen who stayed there for a night or two. I am in the Jawaharlal Nehru suite where the erstwhile Indian leader was the Maharaja’s guest, first in July 1950 and then, in January 1952 as the framed signatures reveal. The lily pond near the breakfast patio has been reinvented into a shallow swimming pool, the cool basement area into the aromatic spa and the in-house mare will take you for a delightful buggy ride through a lush 40 acres, much of which is in a developmental stage for a future golf course, banquet hall and jogging track. The feast we later indulge in, a fascinating spread of an apple-raisin vegetable, mashed peas, coriander potatoes, baby samosas and a rabdi-topped dessert, is replete with wholesome homely flavours, the recipes of which have been culled from aristocratic kitchens and given an innovative turn by the chef.

Rising from our four-posters in the morning, we decide to brave the streets again in search of the legendary Benaras brocade. More than 20,000 families are engaged in weaving silk into saris, stoles and reams of material that find their way from wholesale to retail to designer in stores across the country where they are branded afresh. But there’s a catch. Are we smart enough to detect the real from the faux in a marketplace reeling under the onslaught of synthetic? We do have an address and though the entrance is innocuous enough, on the side of a dirt-ridden lane, the rickety staircase of SDN opens out onto a marble-tiled treasure trove of Varanasi’s finest weaves. So half a morning in the city is spent burning up credit cards and the other half in neighbouring Sarnath, where Gautama Buddha preached his first sermon. Though the stupas, bells and statues make for interesting viewing, it is the four lion statue on an inverted lotus that takes our breath away. Suddenly we want to pull out notes from our wallets just to compare the centuries-old sculpture with the national emblem that survives on the Indian rupee.

One of the oldest cities of the civilised world, Varanasi appears to be caught in a time warp, almost as if modern India has passed it by. That would have made for a rather quaint picture but for all its international fame, it remains a small, grimy town of overwhelming traffic, 100 ghats and 2000 temples that Uttar Pradesh forgot to nurture. My colleagues are amused. Did you come to Varanasi, they ask, expecting a gushing Ganga, serene sadhus, fortune-tellers on the banks and mind-blowing Benarasi paan? Actually, I did.

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