I’d talked for years about going to India. Everyone had warned me it would be a shock to my senses. But no words could have prepared me for Varanasi - India’s holiest city, on the banks of the sacred Ganges.

It wasn’t just the 24/7 noise, chaos and hassle on the streets that did my head in. On my first day, I was almost killed by an insane tuk-tuk taxi driver, and on the second, a sacred cow pinned me against a wall and urinated on me.

I thought I might find some peace at the burning ghats, where dead bodies are brought out to be incinerated in public. But I was wrong. As I watched them setting fire to a corpse, I was verbally set upon by a man who appeared to be even crazier than the average inhabitant of Varanasi.

“He wants some money,” said a voice next to me, a Kiwi-accented woman’s voice. “For the burners.”

“Burners?” I asked the pale-skinned woman with anarchic black dreadlocks. She had rings all down her ears, and one in her nose. She wore a multicoloured kaftan and a toothy smile.

“The men who do the burning. It’s a rip-off - but give him something and he’ll leave you alone.”

I did as she suggested. “I came to soak up the atmosphere of India - and I think I’ve had enough already,” I said.

“But you must have followed a sign to get here, right?” she said, all hippie-dippily. “We’re having a raga night tonight. Come!”

She gave me her name - Lilian - and the address. Despite all her piercings and Day-Glo clothes, Lilian looked really plain - a bit of a geek.

But I went to the party. I had to ask the way several times and wondered how I was going to get back through this unlit medieval maze in the dark. Finally, I found the place - a loft above a little music shop. Inside, a man who looked at least 80 was playing amazing sitar - urged on by a young tabla player - to an audience of grungy hippies who made Lilian (now in crop top and baggy pants) look almost attractive.

She sat next to me on the floor, swaying to the music until I could see the sweat running down her body.

When the raga was over, people started to leave.

“Where are you staying?” I asked Lilian, wondering if she might help me negotiate my way back through the streets. She pointed to a curtain at the end of the loft. “They’re letting me live here while I learn the sitar.”

I kissed her cheek and turned to go but found that some threads from my shirt were tangled in her navel ring. Was there anywhere she didn’t have rings?

“It’s a sign that you have to stay with me,” she said.

I looked at her quizzically. “When you live in Varanasi, you soon realise you only have your body for a short time before it is turned to ash - we must enjoy everything while we can.”

It was difficult to argue with her philosophy. And suddenly, this freaky geek looked - and felt - like the hottest woman I’d ever met.

“And anyway,” she said, “you wanted to get close to a burning body, didn’t you?”

All I can say is that she was on fire - all night. And she did have piercings, er, everywhere.