In order to get from Scindia ghat to Manikarnika ghat, they had to enter the old section of the city that abutted the ghats for their four-mile extent. As soon as they moved away from the open waterfront, the city became entirely medieval in character, composed of dark, claustrophobic, twisting, yard-wide cobblestone lanes. In contrast to the silky coolness of the Ganges shoreline, they were now engulfed in fetid heat and the smell of old urine and cow dung. It was also crowded with people, cows, and dogs. Laurie wanted to pull into herself like a snail to avoid touching anything. The smell was such that she wanted to mouth-breathe, but fear of infectious disease made her want to breathe through her nose. Seldom had she been so uncomfortable as she tripped after Jawahar, desperately trying to avoid stepping in excrement.

Every so often there would be sudden relief of the claustrophobia as they came upon an illuminated restaurant, an open shop, or a bhang stall lit with a single bare bulb. But mostly it was dark, hot, and smelly.

“Alright, here’s the stairway,” Jawahar said, coming to such a sudden halt in the darkness that Laurie, who was second, bumped into him. She apologized; he dismissed it.

“These stairs will lead up to that large balcony. I advise you to all stay together. We don’t want anyone to get lost.”

Laurie couldn’t imagine he’d think they might have the inclination to wander.

“There are various hostels up there,” Jawahar continued. “Each one supervised by a different Brahmin. They are for the dying. Don’t wander into them. There will be a few candles, but otherwise it will be dark. I’ve brought a flashlight, but we’ll only use it when you actually take your sample. Are we all clear?”

Jack and Arun said yes. Laurie stayed quiet. Her mouth and throat had become dry.

“Are you okay, Laurie?” Jack asked. They all could barely see one another.

“I guess,” Laurie managed, trying to scare up a bit of saliva to moisten her lips.

“Do you have the money?” Jawahar asked Jack.

“I got it,” Jack said, giving his front hip pocket a slap.

“One other thing,” Jawahar said. “Don’t talk to the Dom.”

“Who are the Dom?” Laurie asked.

“The Dom are the Untouchables who from time immemorial have worked the crematoria fires and handled the dead. They live here in the temple with the eternal fire of Shiva. They are dressed in white robes and shave their heads. Don’t talk to them. They take their jobs very seriously.”

Don’t worry, Laurie thought but didn’t say. I’m not talking to anybody.