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At six in the morning, the alleys of old Varanasi gleam with last night’s rain. One path just wide enough for two men to walk abreast leads past shops down to the holy river Ganges.
It’s barely sunrise, but the alleys are already in chaos. Men jostle women, women jostle fat bullocks, bullocks narrowly avoid stepping on children. Everything is for sale – small bottles of holy Ganges water, larger bottles of branded mineral water, tiny figurines of the Lord Shiva, whose town this is. Tourists, almost invariably wearing colorful harem pants, brush shoulders with locals.
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