Punam Sharma 1 The night over Varanasi shimmered with an eerie luminescence as the blood moon climbed steadily above the Ganga, bathing the ancient ghats in a copper-red glow. The river, usually alive with chants, bells, and the flicker of oil lamps, seemed to hold its breath, its surface glinting like molten brass. Amid this uneasy stillness, a young boatman named Ravi rowed silently across the slow-moving waters, his oar slicing through the moonlit current. He had ferried pilgrims across these sacred waters countless times, but tonight felt different—thicker, heavier. As he neared Dashashwamedh Ghat, a dark silhouette caught the…