“So, where are we here?” Jack asked, looking down the tiered steps toward the river. The sun had set behind them. In the faltering light the river was a vast, smooth, oozing body that looked more like crude oil than water. Down at the edge, fifteen to twenty people were bathing. A wide variety of small boats cluttered the shoreline. The current was slow, as evidenced by various slow-moving flotsam. “My God! Is that a human body they are throwing into the water out there, and a cow carcass floating by?”

Jawahar’s eyes followed Jack’s pointing finger. The objects were about two hundred yards offshore. “I believe you are right,” he said. “It’s not unusual. There are certain people who are not allowed to be cremated. They are just thrown into the water.”

“Like who?” Laurie asked, making a disgusted expression.

“Children under a certain age, pregnant women, lepers, people bitten by snakes, sadhus, and—”

“What are sadhus?” Laurie asked.

Jawahar twisted around and pointed to a line of aged, bearded men with dreadlocks knotted into buns sitting cross-legged alongside the passageway to the ghat. Others were spotted around the ghat. Some wore robes; others were practically naked, wearing only loincloths. “They are self-proclaimed Hindu monks,” Jawahar explained. “Some were respectable businessmen earlier in their lives.”

“What do they do?” Laurie asked.

“Nothing. They just wander around, indulge in bhang, which is marijuana and yogurt, and meditate. All they own is what they carry around, and they subsist totally on alms.”

“To each his own,” Jack said. “But back to my question. Where are we?”

“This is the main or most known or the most populated ghat,” Jawahar explained. “It’s also the focal point of religious activity in Varanasi, as you can see by all the Hindu priests performing their particular religious rites.”

About halfway down the stone steps and parallel with the water’s edge, there were a series of platforms. Each platform had an orange-robed priest carrying out complicated movements with candlesticks, bells, and lamps. Loud chanting inundated the entire area from a series of speakers strung the length of the ghat. Several thousand people milled about, including other Hindu priests, sadhus, merchants, con artists, children, would-be guides, strolling families, pilgrims from all over India, and tourists.

“I recommend we hire a boat,” Jawahar said. “We have plenty of time before we are apt to hear from the Brahmin, but even if we do, we can put in at shore closer to the cremation location.”

“Is that the cremation ghat we can just see?” Laurie asked, pointing off toward the north. There was an indistinct glow and apparent smoke snaking up against the darkening mackerel sky.

“That’s it,” Jawahar agreed. “We’ll see it better from the water. I’ll find us a boat. When I do, I’ll wave.” Jawahar headed down the steps toward the river.

“What do you think of Varanasi?” Arun questioned.