I had expected to see lots of street processions in Pushkar during the festival, but it was a while before I saw the first one. I was alone in the hotel room because Tracey had gone off early in the morning to photograph camels, old men in big turbans, scowling beggars, and suchlike. My laziness was rewarded by the appearance of this procession right outside the hotel, which overlooks the main bazaar street. First, before anything was visible, came the noise. A frightful ear-splitting but vaguely musical din, even louder than the normal bazaar din, which steadily and unbelievably increased i
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