Strange, to imagine that filth can wash away filth. Strange, to believe that ashes can birth a new soul. From the old, the begrimed and the defunct the soul rises daily, renewed, no matter the state of the body it leaves behind. This is the beauty in decay. This is the jewel in the crown of death.
Daily life in Varanasi tumbles on, its chaos and delight, its smells and sounds threading through the rising smoke, ash and incense. Life and death, inextricably bound together, meet here on the banks of the river of time itself. I walk its shallows. I soak in its meaning. I add my own words to its endless story.