As I left the side of Mother Ganges I felt a lump in my throat, a definite twinge of sadness. I had been witness to the most intimate rites of life and death in this holy city of Varanasi (Benares during the British Raj), the city of Shiva, the culmination of 5000 years of Indian history untainted by European meddling. This was India at the dawn of the 21st century, with her common courtesy, the wink-of-an-eye, and her impossible dilemma.

As I walked the streets one last time, crowded with Hinduism, I encountered more of what never ceased to amaze: scruffy kids with bright eyes and head lice; the homeless sleeping on the streets with their dogs curled at their side; pregnant women carrying huge toploads; piles of poop everywhere, human and otherwise; the smell of urine in the air; and always the crowds. Maybe India knows just how hopeless her situation is and thus the wink, just proud to be around for one more improbable day.