Much is made of how intense it is to travel India. Close friends and family warned me that I was in for culture shock despite being a seasoned traveler, but I was incredulous. After all, what could India throw at me that I hadn't already experienced to a similar degree in other countries. The choking pollution of Kathmandu, stifling heat and humidity of Singapore, cacophony of Bangkok's gridlock traffic, abject poverty of Cambodia, grime of pre-modern Méi Xiàn, China, crushing crowds of Bruñol during La Tomatina and the smells of Cape Cross, Namibia; a potent mix of rotting baby seal flesh, the fetid odors of piss and shit and the briny saltiness of the ocean. It's a smell so foul that I can still recall it to this day and nearly trigger a gag reflex.

And in a way I was right. All of these places had given me a sense of what I would experience here in India. However, what I didn't anticipate was experiencing it all at the same time.

India, or at least Varanasi, is a sensory assault: cars, tuktuks, motorcycles and mopeds all honking to a deafening degree; crowds of pedestrians (some barefoot) negotiating streets dotted with dung pies and littered with debris; the smells of manure, incense, street food, diesel and human stink all combining into a pungent decongestant; and the big surprise for me, herds of cow stupidly walking into oncoming traffic or simply deciding to lie down in the middle of it all! And all of this only moments after stepping off the plane.

So. Many. People. How many foreigners can you spot?

However, after overcoming my initial shock, I was unfazed. "This," I thought to myself "I can handle." But here's the secret about India: it's not the intensity that gets to you, it's the relentlessness. The moment we set foot outside our guesthouse we are beset upon by vendors, merchants and beggars, men shake your hand and then don't let go, trying to give you a massage for a few rupees, the heat of the mid-day sun saps your strength and ever-present crowds restrict your movement intensifying the claustrophobia. And it's always there, waiting and unyielding, never dissipating. The fact that it was Diwali -the Indian New Year- meant that the already crowded city became even more so, with thousands of domestic tourists making their pilgrimage to this holiest of holy cities.

By the third day my parents had had enough, and after putting on a brave face for that morning's excursion, they capitulated, preferring the luxuries of personal space and breathable air provided by the hotel's restaurant. We had just finished exploring the Old City, a warren of narrow streets and back-alleys, and after a restorative cup of masala chai (Varanasi is a dry city, much to my father's dismay), I set out on my own to further penetrate this ancient place.

Varanasi, also known by its old name, Kashi, or its British one, Benares, is a place of antiquity where Hindus come to die and have their cremated remains spread on the Ganges river, along which this city is built. Expiring here is said to bring moksha or release from the endless cycle of death and rebirth. Despite my mother's misgivings we attended a cremation ceremony, for as our guide says "burning is learning and cremation is education." Watching it is difficult and feels intrusive, as the rawest of human emotions are on display, but it is enlightening and even mom came away wiser for it.

One of the many ghats of Varanasi

Erected along a north/south axis parallel to the Ganges are many enormous and magnificent sandstone buildings whose façades take on a beautiful, rich ochre when the sun rises from the West, very similar to that of Petra in Jordan. From these emanate hundreds of grand steps, not unlike those found at the Lincoln Memorial, that lead directly into the Ganges. These hundreds of steps along the riverbanks are known as "ghats" and there are 84, some of which are used for a certain purpose and patronised by certain people. Linking each ghat are wonderful walkways made of large flagstones that seem purpose built for idling, promenading and people watching.

Every morning at dawn and evening at dusk, when things are at their most photogenic, I walk the ghats and it is at these times -free of the heckling merchants and crushing crowds- that Varanasi reveals itself to me. Like the squares of Durbar, this city, ancient even in Buddha's time, is alive and breathing. The intimate idiosyncrasies of people's daily routines are on display: morning ablutions performed in predawn light, men lathering their faces in preparation for a straight razor shave, laundry pounded against the rocks before being hung to dry, lighting of candles by worshipers in nearby shrines, urchins playing at cricket or sailing kites, haircuts performed in makeshift stalls and grocery shopping in preparation for the evening's meal.

By far my favorite however, is strolling along the ghats at dusk. With so many steps, the ghats act as makeshift benches where people sit down and idle away the hours joking around, playing cards, or recounting the events of their day. People come out in droves to congregate along the 4.5km stretch of riverfront and enjoy the coolness of the approaching evening. It makes for a convivial yet relaxed atmosphere and I could sit for ages just watching and observing. I love that people who have so little can be so happy, indulging in the simple pleasures of companionship|. In our over-complicated world, it's a reminder that we actually don't need very much. All of this makes me miss my friends back home but such is the price of extended travel.

When it's time to leave for Amritsar in the state of Punjab, I'm glad to go. Four days here was one day too many. However, at the same time, I am wistful. Varanasi, for all its intensity, is beautiful and enchanting and a place that certainly leaves an impression. Although I cannot know for sure, I feel that one can visit only this holy city and walk away with a decent understanding of what India is about.