"Benaras is older than history, older than tradition, older even than legend and looks twice as old as all of them put together." Mark Twain

Varanasi is to Hindus what Mecca is to Muslims or the Vatican City to Catholics. It is also the site of one of the twelve greatly revered Jyotirlingas of Lord Shiva; the shrine of Lord Kashi Vishwanath, which was built in 1780 by Maharani Ahilyabai Holkar of Indore, is on the banks of the Ganges. This makes Varanasi particularly propitious for Hindus. According to legend and the pundits grapevine (whose survival depends on propagating the myth) very few can tell apart these jyotirlingas from other lingas. The jyotirlinga manifests itself into a fiery column that pierces the earth; but this grand inverted volcanic spectacle is reserved for the enlightened.

According to Hindu belief, Varanasi is at the cosmic centre of the universe, this confers the Ganges which flows past it with potent sin washing powers. 

Raw sewage flows directly into the Ganges at Benares from at least thirty open drains along the ghats. The current sewage treatment plants cannot cope with the burgeoning needs of the city. The absence of toilets on the ghats and the ever-proliferating temporary settlements only add to the problem. Add to this repugnant religious beliefs that no political party dares challenge due to the politico-religious ramifications of such a move. Decomposing, partially burnt bodies in the river are not uncommon particularly female ones who have apparently died at childbirth.

The name Varanasi is derived from two tributaries of the Ganges; one in the north end of the city called Varuna and the other in the south end called Assi (now reduced to a malodorous drain). The city is overcrowded, unplanned, and boisterous. Holy cows being a protected species take advantage of the fact that no vehicle or human can dare interfere with their lazing in the middle of a crowded street. Vehicles, cows, pedestrians, and peddlers share the same street with little or no malice. Cantankerous bus drivers rumble down the narrow roads like thunder; honking furiously, swearing at pedestrians and other motorists, but swerving skilfully to avoid the guilt and trepidation of hurting overfed cows and corpulent pundits. 

The Ghats on the riverfront provide an assemblage for an unparalleled human drama that unfolds every morning involving thousands of pilgrims who come to bathe in the river. The silence of the waning night is shattered by threnody and hymn, smoke from funeral pyres and incense sticks hangs about the air like an inescapable mantle.

When the sun hoists itself into the zenith, the ghats become quieter, and then the drama unfolds once again towards the end of the day. As the sun withdraws into the realm of another hemisphere, the aartis on the ghats commence. Electric lamps compete with the countless wax candles that are set afloat on the Ganges. Musicians vie for attention, each group trying to drown the sounds of the other. The chant reaches a crescendo; pilgrims sway to the music as if in a hypnotic trance and then as the reverberations fade, the crowds disperse and an aphotic hush descends on the ghats, the silence of the night is only shattered by the occasional song of a pototary boatman the voice of the profluent Ganges.