I got up an hour before sunrise, to watch the monks worship at Assi Ghat, then hiked the length of Varanasi's holy riverfront, enjoying the rising gold of morning. When the clear light of a strong Indian December sun took over, I turned to black and white.
Lines and rows. Lines of linnen, rows of rowing.
Not a riksha, but an ordinary bike. Lost on the stairs of Ganges, where all other transport is by boat or foot.
Pilgrims preparing. Washing themselves and their clothes. Barbering. Being.
Feeding on the pilgrims, and a few tourists.
When evening came, black and white was all there was. With a soft touch of a rising moon, and an oil-painting velvetiness dampening my shots.
Not a European moon, it hangs at a different angle, but still the same mountains and craters silhoueted at the terminator, where black eats white.
Low light in the temple garden. The shadow of buddha touching the lotus eye of Vishnu.
After the Puja Aarti, candle offerings on the holy river. Ganges lights, not black and white. A prophecy of morning.