It's Saturday morning. The sun had just peeked out from the mist covered mountains casting a soft orange glow over the pure white temples and the holy lake. The sun rays slowly warming up all the devotees bathing in the waters where part of Mahatma Ghandi's ashes were scattered after his death. The priests are already wandering through the ghats, the steps leading into the holy water, offering health, wealth, happiness, prosperity and good karma to those willing to donate money for his services. The gypsy women with their plethora of face jewelry and colorful saris are washing themselves modestly to the side, separate from the men. The morning prayers are starting to echo from different temples surrounding the lake, creating a distorted yet surprisingly beautiful melody. Just outside of there, the streets are slowly waking up, with only food and drink vendors already hard at work. Young local boys are pedaling down the street in all directions delivering milk and fresh ...
