T H I S+W E E K > Banks of forgiveness By Felicia Clark A pilgrimage to India's holy city D E P A R T M E N T S The Surreal Gourmet By Bob Blumer Crustacean celebration Postmark | London By Mary Elizabeth Williams Erotic design exhibits and a cappuccino craze signify the new face of old London Passages "Days and Nights on the Grand Trunk Road" By Anthony Weller Readers' Tips and Tales Great Railway Journeys - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - Your virtual travel agency - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - LA S T+W E E K Tuesday, July 29 Crime takes a holiday By David Corn Cavorting with mystery writers at a conference-cum-carnival in northern Spain A full list of all Wanderlust articles

________I M M E R S E D+I N __________________varanasi - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - ________LEAPING INTO THE HUMAN STREAM ________OF INDIA'S HOLIEST CITY. BY FELICIA CLARK | the train station at Mughal Serai throbs with passengers traveling through India's northern states. Red-clad porters scurry back and forth with suitcases piled on their heads. Women in flowing saris follow casually as yet another antique train, packed beyond capacity with weary Indians, crawls up to the platform. Vendors race toward the train to sell warm snacks and hot, milky, cloyingly sweet tea to outstretched hands. My father and I leave the train station and wander into the cool, dark evening tired and confused. Ours has been a relatively short journey from Agra, but no train ride in India is easy and we're anxious to get to our hotel and have a celebratory meal. We have been traveling through the subcontinent for over a week now, making the requisite trip to India's triangle of tourist stops: Delhi, Jaipur and Agra. We're on our way to Darjeeling, where my father attended kindergarten, and Calcutta, where he was born; but first we long to experience Varanasi, the timeless soul of India. My father has been planning this journey for most of his adult life. He says that he is like the elephant going back to its birthplace before it dies. And I, who grew up hearing tales of the British Raj and eating pungent curry with mango chutney -- all legacy of my grandparents' 17 years of missionary work in India -- have jumped at the chance to explore the land that left such a lasting impression on my father. Born in India during British rule, my father refers to Varanasi as Benares, the British attempt at the Mughal version of an ancient Hindu name. But neither a name change nor ceaseless attempts at Christianization could change the character of Varanasi, where religion, art and education flourished long before the arrival of Europeans. In Indian mythology, the city is known as Kashi, which comes from the Kashia tribe, who first settled here 3,000 years ago. After independence from the British in 1947, the name Varanasi -- which stems from a combination of the nearby Varuna and Asi rivers -- came back into use. But the most important river for Varanasi is the Ganges, whose holy waters are said to wash away the sins of all who bathe in it. Most Hindus make a pilgrimage to the Ganges at least once in their lives, and Varanasi, as the holiest of the cities along the 1,565-mile river, gracefully hosts thousand of pilgrims each month. The dirt parking lot at the train station in Mughal Serai is filled with men idly smoking cigarettes next to their Ambassador taxis and motorcycle rickshaws. We descend into the field of potential drivers burdened by luggage that seemed light when we left San Francisco. With hand motions and broken English we negotiate with a Sikh driver to take us to Varanasi, which the Indian travel agent who booked our train passage assured us was "just across the river." Within minutes of leaving the train station we are stuck behind a seemingly endless line of battered cargo trucks laden with produce. There are trucks as far as the eye can see, miles of trucks, none moving. Our driver, determined to get the fare he negotiated so hard for, swerves around them and takes us on a white-knuckle ride along the shoulder of a dirt road, barely wide enough for two-way traffic. We are on the wrong side of the street going head to head with motorcycle rickshaws and bicycles. The Ambassador pushes forward, forcing smaller vehicles off the road and into the moonlit fields. This is the ride of our lives, I think -- possibly the last ride of our lives. ________- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - NEXT PAGE | Pilgrims to the end ________- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - PHOTOGRAPHS BY PHOTO 20-20

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