May is rather predictable throughout India. It’s either hand-me-one-more-ice-lolly-hot or so mind-meltingly hot that the said ice-lolly might be in your hands but you just can’t will yourself to raise your hand and bring it to your mouth. You watch half fascinated, as it becomes a gooey mess in your hands, coloured rivulets of sugar water dribbling down your palm in slow-mo, and forming an ungodly puddle on the floor. It also depends on which part of India you’re in. It helps if there’s a river right beside your bed. Just roll out and land straight into the river. A big splash to start the day sort of thing. Kind of motivational if you are one of those who think on those lines. I don’t. And neither do the residents of the city that’s supposed to be as old as time. It’s something as natural as brushing one’s teeth. Every morning, just around the time when the sun is yet to do its surya namaskars and in fact contemplating whether to hit the snooze button, people in Varanasi head out to the ghats (steps) on the banks of the Ganga. Some chant shlokas solemnly, others splash around merrily. The sadhus limber up for the day, striking asanas that’d make renowned chiropractors anxious. The priests take up their positions beneath the wooden umbrellas that dot the banks. The flower sellers, puja essentials vendors, tourist boat operators sip on piping hot cups of chai and stare contemplatively at the river. Another day has begun. It’s going to be blisteringly hot. But it has started in the right manner.
