Varanasi strangles itself in its own filth. Ash covered Babas stare outward. Holy cows relieve themselves with no dignity and the untouchables remove this excretement using their bare hands. Merchandise is hawked by children with lost innocence. Pilgrims bathe in ice cold water, so putrid that they emerge dirtier than when they entered. Layered steps climb upwards and perched on these stairs kite flyers do battle. People seeking enlightenment OM in unison, whilst others endeavour to find their third eye by hallucinating means. Cremation pyres burn as the bodies of loved ones are engulfed in flames. Ash rains down and clings to everything and the stench of burning flesh is pungent.
Like Jekyll and Hyde, Varanasi transforms into a mystical ideal as the sun sets. The evening mist rolls in as a sea of candles burn brightly on the Ganges, Hindu priests chant and perform rituals of blessings, the shore line morphs under the artificial light, Siberian gulls scavenge and the glow of the cremation fires reflect off the waters of the holy Ganges. Varanasi even in all its vulgarity mesmerises!
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