Finally we were on the Ganges, the water having magically gone down sufficiently overnight, our expectations managed nicely by our guide.
A dusk sailing, as the sun faded against the patina of the strange, ancient riverside haunts of the dead and their living carers sending them to the next world.
Arriving back at Assi Ghat under the darkening sky, the evening's flower candle ceremony was beginning.
Our travelling companion Sam and I lay back on the deck, looked up at the stars and drifted off, waking to the mesmerising soundtrack - shades of Underworld this time, a journey undertaken. It was very calming and lovely.
The next morning we took to the water again, sunrise blazing off the bright colours of the ghats, the smells of burning, people happily washing themselves in that all-consuming dirty old river they see as Mother.
Alighting early due to a technical problem (petrol? rudder?) Kim and I dodged into the side streets to see more of the lives of the Varanasians.
A much quieter side here, of everyday life going on in the back alleys and roads, where cows blocked the traffic, pedlars peddled, six men gathered around to watch one man digging a hole, ladies swept their porches and a small girl walked barefoot in a silo of raw refuse, gleaning God knows what to show her even younger sister sitting on the step outside.
What a country, that lives in its own waste, burns its dead by a river, then washes itself in the same polluted waters to cleanse its soul. Impossible to fathom such ready acceptance of their existence.
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