You wake in the dark and walk down to the water. A private boat slips out as the ghats begin to glow tea poured hot, the city rising like a hymn beside you.

With a scholar of the old city you walk galis that have carried pilgrims for thirty centuries weavers at their looms, wrestlers at the akhara, and the golden spire of Vishwanath at the end of it all.

From a reserved boat you watch the Ganga aarti bells, conch, seven priests and a thousand flames close enough to feel the heat on your face.

Music on a rooftop. A weaver's studio. Silence at Sarnath, where the Buddha first taught. Tell us what you seek the days take their shape from it.