I'm in a small van careering along a rough and narrow road beside a rushing river with brightly painted temples along its banks and craggy peaks towering overhead. We're traveling in the prescribed Indian fashion — drive as fast as you can and hope for the best or, better still, pray.
One of our group jokes that the driver risks developing RSI (repetitive strain injury) from pressing his horn. Swerving around a hairpin bend directly above a ravine, we overtake at high speed, the wheels skidding along the fatal edge. Rain slicks the road and cloud hangs low in the valleys. I shut my eyes. It's better not to look.
The road straightens and we fly past a procession of people carrying what looks like a chair, draped in red, with seven ghostly faces like Venetian carnival masks attached in pairs above each other at the front with a lone mask at the top glinting silver in the mist. It's an eerie sight.