Varanasi, Uttar Pradesh. 13th February 2019.

We watched the sun rise up over the black swirling waters of the Ganges from a long wooden boat. There was a thick mist shrouding the banks when we arrived; we walked down the ghats into a white nothingness scented with burning bodies. Behind us children chanted and contorted into yoga poses, while pilgrims washed themselves in the holy water. We left the bustling city of Varanasi behind as we swept along the river, following the birds as they dipped and dived, twisting and turning in the gentle pink glow of the early morning. Soon there were more boats. Most of them carrying tourists with their cameras glued to the orange ball that was now high in the sky. It illuminated the colourful buildings lining the river and threw yellows, pinks, purples, and greens into the water. An upside down rainbow.

At night the flames on the burning ghats licked the sky, almost touching the half-moon which reclined above us. Candles bobbed in the water – offerings from the Ganga Aarti ceremony, a spiritual ritual which takes place every evening at dusk. The Hindu priests stand on the edge of the river chanting and circling lamps in praise of Mother Ganga (the river). Babas in saffron robes jump from boat to boat, dotting foreheads with red paint, and making blessings, before asking for rupees. Crowds gather on land and water, holding their glowing phones aloft. Most have no clue what’s going on, yet still get entranced by the peacefulness which descends like a blanket – a sticky embrace in the humid night which you just have to accept willingly.

It’s a world away from the labyrinth of streets that clot with people and auto rickshaws, bikes and cows, stray dogs lazing in the afternoon sun, dead bodies wrapped in cloth and paraded down to the ghats, temples overflowing with visitors, and shopkeepers trying to entice you inside. Here, you are constantly on your toes, dodging the chaos that surrounds you, feeding off its energy.

In Varanasi I feel as though I am either on the verge of fainting or dancing with joy.

Alleppey, Kerala. 3rd March 2019.

The coconut trees that line the backwaters lean into the river with bent spines. It’s easy to see why this place is nicknamed ‘God’s Own Country’ when the sunlight slices through the canopy and glimmers off the cobalt wings of a Kingfisher as it dances through the air. Swollen mangoes hang off branches, children splash in the shallows, ducks paddle contently on the surface, and women slap their washing on to the rocks. Red rice fields roll into the distance. Empty and waiting to be harvested.

In the village, white sheets hang off a washing line and blow in the breeze. The pink flowers of a lapacho tree spill over a wall. Boys playing football in a dusty field call us over to join in, but we are busy hunting for the sunset.

Alas, this proves elusive; the clouds have gathered and threaten rain. Instead we walk back to where our houseboat is moored, next to a thicket where the piercing cries of a red-wattled lapwing ring out. Once onboard the heavens open.