They flew from Khajuraho to Varanasi, the oldest living city on earth, where the Ganges curved like a silver snake through the haze of incense and woodsmoke. Amber had always wanted to see it. Not as a tourist, gawking at the burning ghats and taking photos of sadhus, but as a pilgrim. A seeker. A woman on the cusp of something she could not yet name.
Her husband had arranged everything. He always did. A private car met them at the airport and whisked them through streets so narrow and chaotic that Amber felt like she was traveling through the veins of some vast, ancient creature. Cows ambled past. Bells rang from hidden temples. The scent of marigolds and diesel and humanity pressed against the windows like a living breath.
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