The plan was to go for a boat ride on the Ganges at sunrise, then back to my hotel for breakfast. That was the plan.

My fellow travelers and I had a beautiful view of the activity along the ghats from the boat. A ghat is a wide set of steps that descend from street level into the river. Varanasi is famous for the big Arti ceremonies (offering of light) at sunset along the Ganges, but for me, the morning at the ghats was far more exciting. More real. There was no choreographed performance. No loud speakers. Just throngs of people offering prayers to the rising sun, pleading for help, begging forgiveness, taking a bath, washing clothes, or dipping into the river that gave this culture life. Some were pilgrims who had traveled miles to this holy spot. Most were locals just starting another day.

We stopped briefly at the big funeral ghat but didn’t get off the boat. The funeral ghat was a massive structure with neat piles of wood and empty platforms on several levels waiting for the bodies that would arrive throughout the day. When Hindus “drop their body”, Varanasi is the desired place to return those bodies to Ma Ganga (Mother Ganges). It’s customary to cremate bodies within 24 hours after death.

We turned back up river. The sun rose over the far side of the Ganges and the buildings changed from dull grey to deep reds, yellows, browns and weathered white. We ended up back at the massive main ghat in the center of Varanasi. I used an entire battery taking photos.

I decided to walk the 3 km back to my hotel along the Ganges. As always when I sent my driver away so that I could wander and get lost, he freaked out and argued with me. He asked if I knew where my hotel was and I told him up-river-ish. He finally gave in. It was 7:30am so I still had two and a half hours to catch breakfast. I saw very few other tourists once I got away from the main ghat.

There are 88 ghats in Varanasi. Some are mashed against the other or connected by a cement path. Many are separated by dirt. Going back to my hotel along the river was part leisurely stroll and part searching for the path of least resistance, climbing over walls or trudging through mud. I took my time, taking a few photos, but mostly just taking it all in.

I came into a section where the orderliness of steps disappeared and there was just dirt sloping into the Ganges. I was carrying my camera and a thin dark-skinned boy came towards me and said “No pictures here”. I put my camera away. (This is why the photos end here.) Photos are usually not allowed in temples, but this was no temple. There were several men, dogs, piles of trash and a few goats milling about. I was the only non-Indian in sight. Then I saw it. A rectangular pile of logs laid in a criss-cross pattern and a body in a white shroud on top.

The boy said “Come. You can see, but no pictures.” I froze for a minute. I felt sure that as an outsider I should not be watching this. I thanked the boy and told him I did not want to be disrespectful. I turned to walk back the way I came, but he said “It’s OK. Here is place for watching” and pointed to some benches off to the side. “Come, we sit.”

My new friend Raj explained where I was. This was the funeral ghat for the people who were not accepted at the main funeral ghat - the “untouchables”, and people not born Hindu. This ghat was not on the boat tour. A cremation ceremony was beginning. Raj told me that bodies that arrived early morning were probably someone who had died in the night. The family made the march to the river early the next morning.

“Varanasi is for learning and burning” Raj joked, referring to the cremations and the many gurus and ashrams in the city. He told me that funerals were part of the dharma, or purpose of Varanasi. He described the ceremony to me. I’ll report what I was told. I don’t know if it’s accurate, or if the process is the same throughout India.

Only men are allowed at the cremation. Women are too likely to cry and this would make the body sad. The color of the fabrics draped over the body reveal who the person was when they dropped their body - gold for old people, red for women, white for young people. The male family members bring the body to the ghat, then purchase the wood and carry it down to the river, then build the funeral pyre. The body is dipped into the river to purify it, then the family members take turns giving the body one last sip of water from Ma Ganga. The fancy fabrics and flower garlands are removed before placing the body, wrapped in a simple white shroud, on the funeral pyre.

Once the body is in place on the funeral pyre, the family members go up the steps leading to the street to a small temple dedicated to Shiva, the god of destruction, of closings, or letting go. This temple is maintained by one family that has kept the fire burning continuously for 700 years. The men of the family light large grass reeds from the temple fire and return to the ghat. Fire is revered in India as sacred and it has a name, Agni, when used in ceremony. Agni is the sacred force of transformation. The eldest male family member places Agni under the logs.

After the fire has burned and the ashes have cooled, the funeral workers scoop the ashes onto a large fabric and place them into the river. By the time this happens, the family members are gone. I watched all of this unfold before me and Raj explained it all as it was happening.

Some men were clearly family, focused on one body, and other men and boys moved among all the activities giving directions, designing the stacking of wood, and tending the fires. Raj told me they were a family of "untouchables" who had been working this funeral ghat for hundreds of years.

Untouchables are the lowest class of people in India. They are completely destitute and live mostly on the streets, or in abandoned buildings, or in lean-to houses they have constructed along the roads. Indians completely ignore them. They don’t speak to them, they don’t acknowledge them, they don’t even appear to see them. It's actually illegal in India now to use the term "Untouchable" in reference to people. This is an effort on the part of the Indian government to fight the old caste system, but in reality, not speaking the word is one more way to ignore their existence. To me, being treated as non-existent and not being seen is far worse than being treated with contempt. I know I don’t need to speak to the heart breaking irony that THESE are the people that care for the families and guide them through one of their most sacred rituals. This is the one time when they are seen.

While I was watching and Raj was teaching, I heard a bell ringing and loud raucous chanting, almost like a cheer at a college ball game, and a group of a dozen or so men came down the steep narrow steps from the street carrying another body on their shoulders. The body was on a ladder-like gurney made of bamboo poles and was wrapped in beautiful gold fabric and draped with marigold chains. The men laid the body, an old woman, by the river then disappeared and came back a little later with dozens of logs on their shoulders. They set to the task of building the criss-cross rectangle of wood with lots of guidance from the untouchable funeral directors. Four younger, stronger men in the family carried the body into the river and immersed it under the water. Each man then came down to the water and made cups with their hands and poured water from the Ganges into the old woman's mouth, held open by one of the young carriers.

After the body was dipped in Ma Ganga, the flowers that were draped over the body were tossed to the side and the goats gobbled them up. A boy was fishing off the side of the ghat. The family members seemed to joke with one another and the younger ones argued over who would do the hard work of lifting the body out of the water. There was not one tear shed anywhere. It all seemed very mechanical.

To be honest, this whole process did not seem sacred or respectful to me at all. It felt brutal. It looked like a necessary chore the family had to complete rather than an emotional part of the mourning process. Maybe there’s the wisdom. The loved one had dropped this body. The body had served its purpose but was not a precious thing anymore. It was not the loved one. It was used up. Complete. The family members were closing this book. Letting go.

I was watching what was happening closely, but I felt massive conflict. I wanted to know about this ancient ritual because it’s a fundamental part of this culture I love, but I felt repulsion at the same time. I wanted to honor my “accidental” delivery here, but I also wanted to get away. I wanted to bear witness to the lives and love of these families, but I felt like an intruder. It was an uneasy witnessing.

Raj saw me watching the fire and said “don’t look too long. You will get sad.” Too late. He said it was most sad with the young ones. I realized that this would be my ghat if I were to be cremated here.

The bodies kept coming. By this time there were four cremations in one stage or another. I asked Raj how many bodies would come to the river today. He said 30. Maybe 40 at this ghat. I don’t know that there are many places like this in the world - two small spots that all death in the area must pass through. It reminded me of the massive ornate gates with small passages in the old parts of the city built centuries ago to honor some victory in battle, or a king’s favorite wife. They straddle roads now packed with honking vehicles and bicycles and masses of people, and traffic slows to a crawl as everyone fights to squeeze through the narrow opening. Death seemed to be slowing to a crawl to squeeze through the elaborate gate of this ghat on its way to Ma Ganga.

I needed to leave. Of course Raj had been waiting for this moment. It just so happens his fabric shop, the best in all Varanasi, is just up the stairs from here, and on the way to my hotel. (Funny, he had no idea where my hotel was).

I wanted to continue along the river, but Raj wanted to point out the Shiva temple, and probably his shop. We climbed the stairs to the street and he showed me the tiny temple with the 700 year old fire. There was a large government sponsored cremation facility for the untouchables who could not afford wood. He said it was lit once at the end of each day for all the bodies that had been delivered there. One more gate. The road to the funeral ghat was crammed with shops and carts selling logs, flowers, incense, bamboo poles, and beautiful fabrics in all shades of gold and red and white. I offered Raj money for his time but he only wanted my promise to come to his store later. I went back down the steps and turned up-river towards my hotel.

My big plans to explore Varanasi on my own for the rest of the day ended there. I was not in the mood to wander through centuries-old markets with my camera or shop for beautiful fabrics. I laid down for a half hour replaying what I had just seen. Then I got up and started to write.

I am grateful for my accidental discovery and being invited to witness it. I am grateful for my unending curiosity. I am grateful for Raj, my wily and generous funeral guide. I am grateful for this rich, complex, ancient place. I am grateful for the openness of these sweet people. I am grateful for this body and the ride it enables.

Varanasi was not an easy place for me. This is one of the oldest still-populated cities in the world and the Old City shows its age. The narrow streets never anticipated cars or motor scooters or tuk-tuks, or even people and cows in the numbers that live there now. My throat and nose burned after two days from the exhaust fumes, the street vendor fires, and the thick incense from the temples tucked into every corner. My ears would ring after a short time in the streets from constant horns honking and vendors yelling and all of it echoing off ancient mud walls. Varanasi was a challenge and a joy on all levels. As much as I loved it, I was happy to leave.

One of my wisest elders says that we must pay a price for learning and growth. We must pay attention. My time witnessing Varanasi will be with me until my end. I only hope I paid attention worthy of her lessons.