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I descended the steps. The air was densely packed with incense, thick and coarse as it entered the throat. This recurring scent had become nauseating, having established that it was often used to cover up unpleasant smells. Like the ominously sanitized musk of a hospital, the last thing it instilled was reassurance. The line of people traipsing through the smog continued down. While industry may have become India’s heartbeat, religion is still the rhythm to which it dances. It is first apparent in the grand monuments, the might of Moghul and Hindu rulers immortalized in stone and marble. But however breathtaking, monuments are just that. The true uniqueness spills out in in the sheer number of its devotees and how richly it colors their lives. Nowhere was this more prominent than in Varanasi, the epicenter of the Hinduism. Lost in thought, stumbling on a rock drew some irritable eyes in my direction. ‘Sorry,’ was all I could think to say to the thin man whose concentration had also been broken. He nodded impassively. Looming ahead was a scattering of carpets. Several had toes or locks of hair protruding from either end. Increasingly unsure, emulating the look of contemplation of the man beside me seemed appropriate. One by one these carpets were assuredly placed on a flaming wooden stack, where they burned. The steady toll of a bell resonated around the subdued quiet. I dropped further down the crumbling staircase. In another context it would have been classically picturesque. The ancient steps spilled ahead into the Ganges, where it rushed urgently as if luring you in. All around, tall stone buildings jostled for position near the sacred waterline. The sun sagged towards the shimmering surface. Religion and culture; India had me struggling to disentangle one from the other. I was often left feeling that the culture had hollowed out the aspect of faith from which it originated. Values and customs were what was left, functional and flexible. They could change over time if required, relegated from potent divine belief to cultural identity. Shuffling towards the heat and the noise, I felt the low pitch of the bell reverberate in my teeth. One man carried the wood, his bare feet expertly navigating through the debris. Two men and two women carried the stretchers to the fire, solemn and confident in every action. Despite the spectacle there was nothing performative. They calmly breathed in the respect and pressure of the attendees and moved sincerely on. A bearded man bowed slightly as each body was delivered. My boots fell heavily on the faded red steps. I thought of every funeral I had ever been to. Most could best be described as a somber drinks do with an absent guest of honor. The idea of death was made so abstract that it barely received a mention. The gaze of the men and women around me did not waver. My strides had shrunk to the point where they were mainly for show and it was being noticed by those behind me. Nobody else had trouble with the air but I was having to almost swallow it. The bell’s deep clang was menacingly consistent; it never let your imagination leave for more than a moment. I stopped, looking around at those with such conviction that they could turn death into a cathartic display. The faces of the wide arc surrounding the pyre were content. Lack of faith eventually turned me around. An uninvited guest, unable to fathom such belief. A boat draped in brilliant blue and green bobbed silently down the river. I started to climb the stairs.