The ghats is where everything happens in Varanasi, the city where people go to be blessed, go to see yet another postcard inspired by their travel guide, go to purify themselves and even go to die. The morning starts awkwardly in Varanasi, at sunrise and always by the river: on one side those performing puja: the ablution and offerings to the Ganga, patiently ignoring everyone around them. The same place wherekids do dogfights with their kites or play cricket, the place of the the pyres that at first haunt a person only to slowly become another feature of the city.
