One day, I fell off the map. I woke up on the banks of Mother Ganga, unsure of how I had got there. It was warm for a change, and as I lay on my back looking up at a pink sky, the late-morning sun reinvigorated a core which had grown weary of the cold.
Mystics and water buffalo alike slowly meandered by my comfortable new seat on the ghats of Old Benares. Spirits rose from the ashes of those Hindus fortunate enough to die and be cremated there on the burning ghats, in full public view. Mark Twain once remarked that Varanasi was older than time itself (or something along those lines) - and he couldn't have been closer to the truth. One of the world's oldest living urban centres, Varanasi is unlike anything I have ever seen before. It's people-watching at its absolute finest.
There's some people here doing really good stuff. I'll tell you all about it later - I promise. Until then, Delhi here we come!
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