It was 5:30 a.m., a cool dawn, a sliver moon. “I can’t rush in the morning - I’m not well,” a widow complained. Or the puffed rice might be running out at the next charity’s spot, many alleys away. If they come too late, the tea might be gone. The widows know they must arrive very early, taking their place on rag mats, lifting their sari hems from the dirt, resting elbows on their knees as they wait. There’s a certain broken sidewalk on which volunteers set out a big propane burner every morning and brew a bathtub-size vat of tea. Long before sunrise the widows of Vrindavan hurried along dark, unpaved alleys, trying to sidestep mud puddles and fresh cow dung.
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