Varanasi

The stone ghats lead not just to the water; they give the impression of the city perpetually sliding into the Ganga. Before the sun dispels the mist, you can hear the morning very clearly: the wrestlers' bodies hitting the mud produce a wet thud, a hiss of milk in blackened brass kettles, and the sudden, sharp blast of a conch shell. Inside the maze of alleys, you're pressed against the wet walls and the side of a stubborn cow, getting along past silk looms that click behind blue doors and very small shrines which are no bigger than a kitchen cupboard. At night, the riverfront is orange because of the intense heat of the pyres and aarti lamps; thus, you carry the grit of woodsmoke and the scent of old incense on your skin.