NEW DELHI, India – His music and dance moves have woven their way into many cultures around the world - and India is no exception. Every now and then you can hear the unmistakable Michael Jackson track or beat seamlessly blend into India's Hindi pop music. Or catch a glimpse of some of Jackson crisp choreography in a Bollywood dance scene.

There was something universal about Michael Jackson, and that is being reflected in the way people around the world are mourning him. From Los Angeles to New Delhi, his fans seem to veer away from sadness and enjoy the invincible part of Michael Jackson - his music.

In a bar in New Delhi the Jackson memorial gathering was small - only a dozen or so people in a city of roughly 14 million. But it conveyed how the influence of one man had reached around the world.

On the wall of the Delhi bar that usually only plays hard rock, the King of Pop's music was blasting away, candles were lit underneath two framed pictures of Jackson and customers had written sweet messages saying goodbye.

Across the room, where framed pictures of rock legends hung on the wall an empty space was created. That space was set-aside as a permanent place for Michael Jackson’s pictures.

In a county where more than half the population is 35 or younger, the bar manager put it this way: "We all grew up with Michael Jackson. Other generations had The Beatles, or Elvis Presley. Michael is our generation."

The worst flooding in decades has devastated much of the state of Bihar.

Sorrow is everywhere. A village is just ahead. You can see the tops of some homes while others are hidden beneath the rising water. People are begging for us to stop and help them.

We're stopping.

There is only enough room for 80 people on this boat. There are more than 150 waiting. It's heartbreaking. People are piling on now. It's too much and the army major screams for them to stop or the boat will sink.

Finally dozens of children, mothers, fathers, and grandparents get aboard. Some are crying, others stone faced. Everyone is hungry and tired.

One woman tells me she has nothing left. She has no idea where she will go and how she will feed her little girl. Her husband stuck in another village that is flooded.

The boat is taking on a little water. The army is discussing going back and dropping off a few people but decide against it. Slowly in the strong current of the Kosi river we can see land.

This river has taken these villagers by surprise. An embankment that broke sent such a massive deluge of water it actually changed the course of the river.

We are back on land. People scurry off. We stay behind.

The next mission is in a half hour.

RAJASTHAN, India – We drove about four hours, passing the occasional camel and rider, as we made it from Delhi into Rajasthan. During monsoon season the moment you get out of an air-conditioned car it feels like someone wrapped you up in a hot wet blanket. You sweat without moving a muscle. Today was one of those days.

Manju has to scrape out the cave, and gather up its repulsive contents.

We met our subjects on a neighborhood street corner where an enormous pig was enjoying a nap inside what could only be referred to as a pig house. Several of the women from the town of Alwar stood there waiting patiently for us. I, on the other hand, fidgeted and grimaced as drops of sweat turned into streams of water running down my back. I should be used to the heat by now. I'm not. They however seemed to defy God's will, standing there with no visible sign of sweat anywhere. It was 6:30 in the morning time for all of us to go to work.

We begin our trek through town on foot. None of these women can afford a car. The town of Alwar has claustrophobically narrow streets that are shared by vehicles, bicycles, stray dogs, sacred cows, pigs and humans all at once. The women we're following don't seem to notice, they're late to work. We reach the first house five of them step back to let one, Manju, greet the owner. The owner is not happy to see her and scolds her for being late like any boss might. Except in this case the "boss" would never dare to shake Manju's hand in return for a job well done. No one in this neighborhood wants to touch Manju for any reason. Manju is an "untouchable" in this community along with 300 other women.

I am suddenly ashamed of being annoyed at the heat when I see what Manju has to do next. It is Manju's job is to manually clean away the excrement left by her upper caste neighbors and for that she is considered an "untouchable." I watch as she squeezes through an alley way to the so called bucket toilet of the house. It is simply a toilet seat with a hole that opens up to a small concrete cave below. No plumbing, no water. Manju has to scrape out the cave, and gather up its repulsive contents and then carry it away in a rusted metal bowl on her head.

The work is still necessary in this town because the bucket toilets, banned in 1993 by India, have never been replaced. I can't imagine what this place would look and smell like if it wasn't for people like Manju. Certainly disease would increase here. But not many here think of that. Your caste is your caste. If you are in the lowest caste like Manju this is your duty, period. Manju moves on to the next house. She says she hates this work but cleans about 20 to 25 of per month to help feed her six children.

At the fourth toilet job another owner comes out and wags his finger at some of the women cleaners for being late. They cover their faces with their Saris out of respect but don't budge. We've gone to four toilets so far. By this time my photographer, Sanjiv, is covered in it. He's trying to get video but it's difficult. The spaces are so tight. He's been kneeling, standing, squatting, doing whatever it takes to capture the reality of their situation. He soldiers on. My sense of smell betrays me and I gag at the last cleaning job we shoot.

We are being followed. The group of women won't leave our sides. We tell them we don't want them to get in trouble and they should go. They refuse. Each one begs us to tell "their" story. It is partly because a new opportunity has arisen in the community that could get them out from underneath the stifling caste system that binds them to this work. They believe having their story told might give them a better chance at getting into a community center run by Sulabh International in their town. The center is already training 56 women in other work and giving them stipends so that they can afford to leave manual toilet cleaning while they train. But right now the center is out of room and has to expand to accommodate more. It's harsh and I feel guilty for not being able to do more.

I want to tell all their stories, just like they asked, but I can't. Television news can be cruel that way. Time is always short. There is a finite amount of time that must be shared by CNN correspondents across the world. There are always too many important stories to tell.

Read my story and watch my report

BEIRUT, Lebanon – Can't stop thinking about what one of my former security advisors from Iraq said to me in a cafe here in Beirut just two days ago. "It's quiet now Cal - but this is Beirut ... at any moment, within 24 hours, the city and country could be thrust into complete chaos."

Government loyalists add tires to a burning barricade outside Beirut.

Today, chaos is what happened.

The Hezbollah leader, Hassan Nasrallah, gave a speech in the afternoon, reacting to what the government had said about Hezbollah's telecommunication network (a private network used by Hezbollah for communication.) It was exactly as expected - a fiery speech in which he said the government's actions were tantamount to a declaration of war against his group.

After the speech we headed out into the streets to tape a brief "piece to camera," while it was still light outside. Within minutes, deafening gunfire broke out all around us. A group of Lebanese Army soldiers starting yelling at us to come towards them and take cover behind a large building. The rounds were snapping close to us as we ran behind the building.

Cameraman Christian Streib, who has lived in Beirut for a decade, snapped into action - immediately filming. We tried to do a "piece to camera" but with all the gunfire, I could hardly hear my own voice. I found myself screaming at times, and gave up pretty quickly.

The firefight was raging when Christian spotted gunmen on a nearby rooftop. He remarked that he got it on film - something I still cannot believe. I kept telling him he was making me nervous as he filmed about, but the truth is he's a seasoned as they get, and it was the simple gunfire, now coupled with large explosions from rocket-propelled grenades that was really making me nervous.

For the Lebanese Army, gunmen on rooftops is a nightmare. Snipers are tantamount to death in gun battles, and it almost assured that no-one was going to brave this street.

After a short while we made the decision to make a dash to our car, and try to get back to the bureau. With no medical gear or security and the city getting dark, we had to go. We ran to our car ... all the while rounds snapped close. In the car I could hear our Senior International Correspondent Brent Sadler, who is the most knowledgeable person on Lebanon, remark that he had not heard RPG fire in Beirut in years. Not a good sign, I said to Christian.

As we drove around the city to avoid the neighborhoods where the fighting was continuing we passed a restaurant which was full with people. Less than a kilometer away from a raging gun battle, people were eating dinner - as we drove by in our flak jackets!

Such is Beirut – a place where it's quiet ... until it's not.

Watch my report from Beirut