Behind Varanasi's railway station a busy road, several lanes wide, runs right along the tracks. It is the main highway from Kolkata via Delhi to Kabul, hence mainly used by heavy lorries. Between the highway and the tracks stands a long row of huts and sheds made of bamboo sticks, plastic sheets and old saris. Between the huts are small stoves and fire places for cooking, and piles of garbage.At the edge of this slum, a few rikshas idle, waiting for passengers. And along the road, bundles of old saris are hung out for sale. On the sidewalk, more bundles of saris. All is covered with a thick layer of dust – the saris, the huts, their inhabitants.
Soon, a bunch of kids gather around me. They want to be photographed, and they want money for it. I hand ten rupees to a girl with maimed hands, she instantly grabs the money and runs. The others run after her and try to take it from her.
Young men pass by, carrying a dead body on their shoulders, wrapped in a simple white linnen. Orange flower garlands and patches of red powder adorn the corpse on its last voyage. No red and guilded clothes, just the essential. No visible grief, no mourning. For the bearers it seems just a job.
