Like a committed pilgrim, Varanasi wakes up early. At four-thirty in the morning, on the road leading to the Dashashwamedh Ghat, the owner of a food stall slaps dosa batter on a griddle; several customers stand outside a bright paan shop; a street vendor, selling pooja paraphernalia, drones on, “10 ka, 10 ka, 10 ka.” At the Ghat, the hawk-like hawkers swoop in on foreign tourists, pitching varied services: a free locker, a boat ride, a neck massage. More than 100 people have assembled at the Ghat, and amid a cluster of boats, diyas and devotees bob on the Ganga. A fount of contradictory stories inundate Dashashwamedh: two men sleeping on a platform, a young woman applying a lip liner, a bare-chested man getting his head shaved, pilgrims frolicking in the river, an old man tolling the Ghat bells, and an Angry Hanuman flag fluttering on a boat. All under morning twilight—unlike Varanasi, the sun takes its time.