Flying over the Czech Republic the clouds beneath lit up. Lightning storms far below - occasionally a rumble rose above the roar of the engine. Mostly though, it was just a light show.
I walked among still-burning funeral pyres today. The heat was unbearable but the smell bore no hint of the fire's duty. It was aromatic and heady, hiding the reek of the waste strewn throughout the back streets of Varanasi. I felt honoured and intrusive. Though there was nothing left of those I intruded on.
I tipped the pyre-tender - the price of honour and intrusion. Somewhat shell-shocked by all the life around me in this place, the spot of death shook me hard. I walked away quickly and felt tired. It wasn't yet seven in the morning, and there was much more to do in the day.