It wasn’t clear to me why I wanted travel to Benaras for a few days - a filthy, dusty city in this hot weather? But it’s something that just had to be done. I rounded up a couple of friends and we were on our way. I didn’t expect to be bowled over by the place in any case - and so I wasn’t disappointed. Surprised, yes, that in a pilgrim town so rich, with hefty sums coming in from various sources, there is practically no infrastructure to speak of. With it’s dirty ghats and disastrous roads, it’s quite evidently a very forced exotica that cannot be understood by everyone, far less by Indians.

But all isn’t lost here. If there is something that can lift this temple town from the clutches of filth - it is the early morning boat ride along the ghats. Uncharacteristically (to be awake at 5 am) then, I left my friends peacefully sleeping and hurried down the stairs of the hotel, looking around for a boatman. Thankfully, there was one waiting right outside the door and led me down to his boat at Assi ghat. I wondered if I had stepped out too early, will my boat ride end even before the sun rose? Turns out, the timing couldn’t have been better. None of the other tourists were out yet, and there wasn’t a single person along the ghats.

The majhi rowed towards the main Dasashwamedha ghat, and we watched the faint glow in the sky illuminate the clouds. It’s only on this little boat, a safe distance from where the eye can spot the dust and grime, that Benaras looks beautiful. The ghats were perfectly peaceful, the water of the Ganges suddenly appeared cleaner, and the banks dotted with temple tops, every bit as charming as one would have imagined it to be at one time. The stillness was calming, balmy and even refreshing. A good half an hour later, everything suddenly came to life. In a matter of a minute, there were several people pottering around the banks, with a string of boats filled with tourists just like me taking pictures by the second, admiring the rising sun. But I was done, and we rowed back to Assi ghat, away from the hullabaloo.

I had probably taken all I needed from Benaras …but as a happy bonus, the same afternoon proved to be something else altogether. Perhaps it was the repeated mention of Benaras Hindu University in Hindi classes back in middle school that we found ourselves keen to visit the premises. A couple of kilometers into tree-lined roads of the university, we happened to halt in front of the Birla Vishwanath temple. I wasn’t particularly keen to go inside, but wandered into the temple grounds nevertheless in the hope of some quiet under one of the trees in the lawn. And then there was a distant, curious singing - that I followed into the temple. It wasn’t a bhajan, and quite unlike the jagran variety we are so used to in our cities. It was a raga in its pure form, and the voice singing it was wandering and light, but wondrously enchanting. On the second floor of the marble temple, we found, facing the deity, sat a blind, old man, almost a metre away from the microphone, playing the harmonium and singing effortlessly. A younger gentleman, further away, played the tabla. We sat close by with our backs against the temple pillar, closed our eyes and listened. Raga Yaman had never sounded better.

Reluctantly, we stood up to leave when he drew to a close. We gently thanked him, and told him how his voice had moved us. He was surprised, and humbled at the attention and asked us to stay for the prestigious Sankat Mochan music festival that was to begin in the city the same evening. Unfortunately, we were due to leave Benaras that evening, and promised to come another year and hear him sing again. His name was Pandit Ram Lal.