No account of Indian culture is complete without addressing internal tensions:
In the ancient city of Varanasi, before the first temple bell rang or the chai wallahs kicked over their coals, Meera woke to the smell of wet earth and marigolds. This was her favorite hour—Brahma Muhurta, the time of creation. She lit a small diya (clay lamp) on her windowsill, its flame a quiet prayer against the darkness. Below, the Ganges flowed like a dark silk ribbon, carrying centuries of ashes, hopes, and hymns.
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