Yesterday was the day of the squatting she-goats, my attention drawn to them and their squatting around every corner when prior to this day I cannot say I had any idea of their peeing posture. Instead of doing the three-hour yoga with Sabine on the roof of our hotel I left Assi Ghat (Ghats are the concrete stairs that run along the length of the Ganges river – each Ghat has a name that tells you which part of the river bank is being spoken of) going south along the Ganga (Hindu name for Ganges) until I reached the pontoon bridge, the giant metal capsules groaning and creaking as they rusted in the water, a floating bridge for Tempos (small diesel transport vehicles), cycle rickshaws and bicycles hurl across, buckling the wood crossbeams under metal plates marking the two course ways as they passed.

At the Ramnagar Fort on the far side of the bridge I was captured by the company commander and made to sit as he showed off his loud silly English to his squirming men. I walked north and the village got thinner and dropped away, wide open plains of seemingly abandoned farmland dotted with scrawny trees, pastureland took its place. There was no sandstorm blowing across the arid river floodplain and the beating heat of the sun was delayed by the canopy of thin gray clouds that sheltered the holiest of Hindu cities, its pink and lime and brown crumbling edifices shoulder to shoulder across the rive, horizon to horizon this Hindu temple cum Muhgal mosque cum circus landscape.

I tried to meditate but ended up just soaking in the sight if the city: none of its maze of flowing alleyways bursting with one-horned shark-fin-humped cows; broken chai tea cup shards, heaps of slimy trash and dung, waves of barefoot pilgrims carrying silver trays of offerings of food and color on their head, embroidered saris glinting gold and silver in the mottled sunbeams, loudspeakers humming mantras and temples spewing out a cacophony of bell clanging, every stone and doorway smeared in the devotion and offerings of the faithful, everyday hermits, Grandpas in their fourth age clad head to toe in orange cloth hands gripping tall staff, holy Ganga water bucket swinging at their side, mustachioed Indian soldiers shoulder to shoulder, carbines swung over their back – 80 men to protect a mosque from Hindu payback: none of this could be seen from here.

I continued on to the north until the metal bridge, crossed and wound my way back through the maze of agape Indians smiling and cheering to see one tall foreigner full of cash and wonder strolling through their everyday life.