There are a great many stories I could tell you from my Benares trip. Being turned away at half a dozen hotels because none of us were carrying ID cards. Schnitzel, cheese fondue, gorgonzola and baguettes, served by a Nepali waiter in a restaurant jointly owned by an Indian and a German. Walking on bridge railings on NH-5A so as not to get in the way of trucks (but mostly for fun). Hitch-hiking in a dust storm. Lying on a boat at night and whistling at the stars. Stories from the seamier side of Benares: pimps, drug dealers and sadhus who eat the flesh of corpses. A murder. A city in unstable equilibrium.
There are a great many wonderful things I could try to describe. Goats clashing horns and wrestlers locking arms on the ghats. Friendly hippies and irate sadhus. The slippery skill of the cyclists on Dashashwamedh Ghat Road. Lotus flower lamps adrift on the river. The eternal cycle of life and death. Sunrise. Sunset. A singing boatman.
There is much that I could write about my Benares trip. But because Benares is sensory overload of the most potent kind, it will be days before I can think coherently, leave alone write. So I adopt the last recourse of the incompetent blogger: I leave you with pictures.River