For a holy city Varanasi is full of shit. The hordes of cows and buffalo roaming the winding alleys of the old town deposit great steaming piles of it to add to the general detritus of litter, terracotta pots, blood-red paan spit and mulching vegetables that oozes along the narrow pathways. These lanes are barely wide enough for the mangy bulks of bovine flesh that plod through them, indifferent to the motorcycles, pedestrians and wheeled market carts also competing for room to maneuvre. The poo just adds to the fun. Opposite the Ganga Paying Guesthouse, which has been my home for the last few weeks, there is a big field of buffalo and and big field of shit. It is the workplace of a dozen of so women in faded saris and faded smiles, who squat
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