Sudarshan Tripathi 1 The first light of dawn spread over Varanasi, turning the Ganges into a molten ribbon of gold and crimson. Dashashwamedh Ghat was just waking—priests arranging lamps for the day’s rituals, pilgrims dipping themselves into the sacred waters, and vendors setting up their stalls along the steps. The city breathed a timeless rhythm, as if each sunrise repeated the same prayer uttered for thousands of years. But on this particular morning, the serenity of the river was broken by a shrill cry from a boatman. His small wooden boat bobbed unevenly as he leaned over the edge, staring…