After a three week odyssey of hotels, movers, airplanes, temporary apartments, temporary assignments, vacations from temporary assignments, and countless other delays and detours, I have finally joined Pam, William, and Bagwelle in Hyderabad.  

Last post I said I'd write more about the last day in Varanasi.  I'm not sure there's much to say except about the burning ghats.  What's burning, you might ask?  Well, in the Hindu tradition, there's no burial.  So there's your answer.  And Varanasi, by virtue of being Shiva's city and being located on the Ganges, is considered the most auspicious place to be cremated.  As a result, the burning ghats are always going.  At the one we went to, they say the fire (think of it as the pilot light from which all the pyres are lit) has been burning continuously for more than 2,500 years.  There are different areas for low, middle, and high caste bodies.  And I must say, it's about the spookiest place I've ever been.  We went at night, probably around 9pm, and the sounds preceded the sights.  Imagine the orc drums from The Lord of the Rings - a fast, steady, martial beat, with lots of bells ringing with the drums.  Then the glow of the fires.  The massive piles of wood.  The building itself, black with centuries of soot.  And finally the pyres come into view.  It was a quiet place.  No crying, no wailing - in fact, while women may come, they usually choose not to because they think they will not be able to control themselves.  The only sound, besides the drums and bells, of course, was the crackling of the fires and the gentle lapping of the river on the shore.  Occasionally some dogs would howl in the distance.  The heat, of course, pervaded the whole area.  Oddly, the only sense that was not overwhelmed was smell.  Apparantly the oils used on the pyres do an excellent job covering what would otherwise undoubtedly be a rather unpleasant odor.  So that's the burning ghats.  Fascinating, spooky, somber place.  

I think that's all I have in me now.  More later.