allahabad’s foggy vibe and my 3 a.m. quest for chaos
last night i stumbled into allahabad like a sleepy raccoon looking for snacks. the air was thick with that 26.21c humidity, clinging to everything like a second skin. i checked my phone and yep, still 26.21. like some cosmic joke, humid as a sweaty gym bag.
someone told me that the ghats here are haunted by the ghosts of british officers. i don’t know. i saw a guy sleeping on the steps of a crumbling temple. maybe he was a ghost. maybe he was just tired. either way, i took a photo. it’s on unsplash now.
. the light was weird, all orange and sad.
the weather? i just checked and it’s... still 26.21 there right now. hope you like that kind of thing. i don’t. i wanted summer. or at least a cloud. but nope. it’s like someone forgot to turn on the ac in this room and blamed it on climate change.
neighbors? if you get bored, varanasi is just a short drive away. my cousin’s invaranasi and she swears the street food is better. i heard that. drunk advice, probably. but varanasi’s train station is a dump. don’t let anyone sell you on that.
i overheard a local at a cafe say the mrtc bus here is run by a guy who used to be a monk. he said the bus driver ‘does not care about schedules or people.’ i thought that was poetic. maybe true. maybe he’s just a grumpy old man.
someone told me that the river here is so polluted, it’s basically a giant soup of regret. i didn’t believe them. until i tried drinking it. supposedly, the locals do it for luck. i didn’t. but i did taste the air. it tasted like old coins and regret. or maybe just 21% humidity. hard to tell.
links? check out tripadvisor for the best (worst) accommodation here. yelp has some decent street food spots. and if you’re into random local history, there’s a board near the bus station with old headlines. probably all lies, but it’s a good place to photo-bomb.
the people here are loud. not in a fun way. more like they’re arguing in a low whisper so everyone can hear. i stayed in a hostel and one guy kept playing a tabla at 3 a.m. i’m not sure if it was art or a cry for help. either way, i left.
this place is messy. like my room. like my life. if you come here, expect chaos. expect the weather to be a liar. expect your coffee to be weaker than your will to survive. and maybe, just maybe, you’ll find something weird. or maybe you’ll just want to leave.
p.s. if you’re into scraping old buildings for art supplies, there’s a place called ‘the pink palace’ that’s basically a pile of crumbling optimism. i heard that. from a drunk. probably.
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