IT'S just after dawn in Varanasi. A thick winter haze hangs lazily on an even lazier Ganga. The sun looks like an egg-yolk, its fire mellowed by the fog. Even the boatman's muscles ripple meditatively, as if in sync with the river. In the distance, to the north, a 130-year-old marvel of British engineering spans impressively across the river; and as if to complete the picture, a train tunnels through it, its form and declaration smudged out by the white blanket. Along the western bank, reminders of Indian history, the famous 100-odd ghats, rise sleepily through the mist. The eye can barely discern a few human shapes performing morning rituals (or ablutions? It's difficult to tell). The peals of temple bells, however, easily pierce through. Now and then, a black curved thing surfaces from the water and gracefully disappears into it. Not many know it, but they are river dolphins. To a newcomer, especially to an unbeliever, the experience borders on the surreal. For the believer, however, it could well be mystical.