Travelling back to India was fairly uneventful, if slightly uncomfortable thanks to the bus cramming in an inordinate amount of people. Once we'd prised ourselves out at Bhairawa, though, I met Yael and Neta, two Israeli girls. As we were all heading to Varanasi (via Gorakhpur) we walked across the border together, in search of a connecting bus.

At Gorakhpur there was a long wait for the train to Varanasi, and a long struggle to buy tickets. If I'd been alone, my impatience would've won and I'd have been stuck there, so I can only thank the girls for their determination, which got us a ticket eventually. There's little to be said about Gorakhpur itself, it's simply the nearest town to the border that connects with the Indian railway. (And the station is fetid). It's safe to assume the most successful businesses there are travel agents; everyone passing through is surely equally keen to get the hell out of there quickly, and a reasonable dinner aside, the train couldn't come quickly enough.

Contrarily, there's plenty to be said about Varanasi. It stinks. It's dirty. There is rubbish everywhere, and in the places where there isn't rubbish on the ground, there are delightful gifts left by the local cows, which makes negotiating the mazy streets quite challenging after sunset. The Ganges is the jugular vein of the city. It's full of life: boatmen plying their trade, ferrying tourists up and down the river, supplies ferried in, and locals and pilgrims bathing (Varanasi is a sacred site for Hindus as the goddess Ganga, the 'mother goddess' is held in such high regard). It's also full of death: it's an auspicious place to be cremated, and there are 'burning ghats' on the riverbank where open-air cremations take place. The ashes are subsequently put into the river. Furthermore, those who die with pure souls according to their beliefs*, aren't cremated at all - they are simply weighed down on the riverbed. (*the purpose of cremation is to purify the soul with the flames.)

It's a very difficult place to describe. The sky, in winter, is hazy, and around the burning ghats, perpetually filled with pervasive smoke. The cremations are certainly an eye-opener, but there is a stillness about the process - there is little apparent grief, and very little noise - for the most part, people watch with silent respect, and sometimes in silent prayer.

Stray dogs are the bane of the city. Granted, stray dogs are ubiquitous in India, but in Varanasi they're different. They're incredibly aggressive toward each other. More than once I saw dogs fighting or with obvious evidence of recent fights, including one with a gaping wound on its back which bled with a violent and unnatural colour. The more shocking sights where these feral vermin were concerned were even more graphic, and I'll exercise some restraint by keeping them to myself, for now. Suffice to say the best thing would be to cull the lot of them.

The counterbalance to the dogs is the young children (I appreciate that's an odd start to a sentence), who are incredibly friendly and keen to shake hands (rather formal for six year olds, but still welcome) and they all look very happy, totally oblivious to the surroundings. We saw one boy of about five, who spontaneously started dancing to a brass band playing in the street, and it was a moment of real happiness.

In total, Yael, Neta and I spent three days walking the city, and took two boat rides on the river. We ate well, and it was my very good fortune to spend my time with them. I think it's fair to say we saw the real Varanasi in those three days, and we even found the answer to all life's questions: it's Gandhi. (More on this later.)

In the end, they left a couple of hours before I did, on a train in the opposite direction, so I said my goodbyes with a heavy heart, until next time. But then, as they'd say when it's time to move on (admittedly, in Hebrew):

"We have been here?"