Melting Pot

Varanasi, India.

A dead man just passed below my balcony. No he did not..., carried on a bamboo stretcher, by shouting men, stopping above the monkeys staring at the shimmering golden silk shroud with orange and white flowers. The procession winds through the maze of narrow alleys that magically accommodate wandering holy cows, scruffy barking dogs, motorbikes, hand-pulled carts, shoppers, tourists and pilgrims.

All need to nightly navigate the cow pads, sleeping dogs, gutters, sewers, rubbish and uneven pavement during power cuts. However should they choose to they will be carried by the sounds of sitars, temple bells and “hello sir, werrr you frrom?” smelling shit, spice and incense.

Life is tough in Varanasi, challenging to say the least, but honestly dirty, beautiful, alive, suffering, dying, burning, dead, rich, poor, mundane, holy, calm, chaotic, insane, sensible, harsh and sensitive. Nothing hidden, excluded, censured, edited or sanitised, its all there, in your face, like a mirror exposing your attitudes, belief systems and comfort zones.