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Hindu Place of Pilgrimage The fireball of midday sun is high over from the azure sky. No clouds offer you the refuge of colour and the majority of the trees have withered beneath the scorching, extreme glare of sunlight. Facing me, hundreds of people, all ages, shapes and sizes dash to the riverside. I stand at the bank of their very precious and significant river of my own faith, the Holy River Ganges. Different smells mingle together - spices, body odours, and rotting corpse. To an out-sider it seems like complete chaos, but for me personally, it is like coming home. Masses of individuals fall past to get into the river, slipping and slipping on the concrete Ghats (programs or measures where pilgrimers bathe or individuals cremate bodies) and wind up colliding with naked bodies bathing in the Ganges. On the roads, tradesmen and stall people try their hardest to market passers-by something, if it be insect ridden fruit or tiny miniscule statues of various Gods or Goddesses. The homeless line the streets like insulation from the outside world and urchins play in the dust. However they're all oblivious to their filthy surroundings, just content to be near the Ganges. On the far side of the riverbank I can see a funeral taking place. A burning corpse crowded by nearest and dearest. A couple of metres down, a frail young woman stands alone on a rock, a copper urn in her hands. Her white sari blowing poignantly in the gentle breeze, she turns it over and the ashes fly free, scattering about like confetti. The woman slumps down onto the rock and grieves for her lost one. From the size of her urn, I'm guessing it was her child. Ganges. Holy River to the entire rel...