Varanasi, India

The city of Varanasi is one of the holiest sites in the Hindu world. The waters that are carried through here along the Ganges River are believed, by the faithful, to posess the ability to wash away a lifetime of sin. They are also the site of innumerable holy cremation ceremonies where bodies are burned and left to float away, forever becoming one with this sacred river.

My guest house, the Hotel Sonmony is situated directly over one of these cremation sites, or burning ghats as they are called. The entire establishment has a stale smokey scent about it, but it is clean, has friendly staff, and is centrally located. At only US$4 a night, I have little to complain about.

This city wakes up early. It's only 5:30am but by the time I reach the banks of the Ganges there are already crowds of people gathered along the concrete steps. Religious devotees preparing for their morning bath.

I gaze out at the still and purple morning sky, momentarily hypnotized. These buildings have stood for hundreds of years, and look as old as they really are. They seem to have grown from the shore, jumbled piles of varying color and architecture. Stacked high against the river their walls flake with brown, yellow, pink, white, and blue paint. Hand drawn murals advertise Pepsi-Cola alongside local restauants and guest houses. Some of the buildings are adorned with columns, others peaked roofs, towers, or turrets. All are built high above the water to minimize flooding during the monsoon season. I hire a boat for a ride along the shore, climb aboard and prepare to be swept away.

And I am. Nothing I've experienced so far in my travels could have prepared me for this hour long boat trip through the heart of the Hindu faith. As we paddle slowly past, I see men jumping up and down in the water over and over, trancelike, stopping only to chant and pray. Women in peacock-bright saris laugh and talk amongst each other while wading up to their hips in muddy brown water. Bells tinkle, drums boom, and buffalo roam.

A holy man painted ash white with long hair piled atop his head swings a flaming gold lantern shaped like a hooded serpant. Children in white and orange robes, their black hair shaved in curious skullcap haircuts, stand in rows and sing along with to a small band of tabla and harmonium. Practicing their morning excercises these children perform a routine which includes tht which I now believe to be the most distinctly Indian excercise of all – laughing.

I'd call it a circus, but that might be misconstrued as condecension, I don't meant it like that. It's just that the whole sight is so bizarre. So, well... foreign to me. This is not a holiday. Not a festival, not a special event. And it's not a show put on for tourists either. This is traditional India, and it is how life unfolds each morning here alongside this river.

As the sun begins to filter through the clouds, brightening an already colorful display, it seems as if the whole city is alive with prayer. Even a cynic like me finds it impossible to not be moved by the spirit of devotion on display all around. There is no irony, no self-concious mugging to any of this. No tongue, no cheek.

An old man with a bald head and thick Groucho Marx eyebrows waddles forward on bowed legs, crouches down and splashes himself with the holy water. He is grinning from ear to ear like a giant child, and so am I. Because so far, I love India.