From the Banks, Yours Truly
The rains had been unforgiving that day. Draped in the monsoon’s heavy folds, the city of Lord Vishnu was breathing differently. The streets drenched, the skies humming with restless clouds, and she, the beloved Ganga, roared louder than ever.
I was sitting by the ghat, the currents were gushing with a power that could easily humble anyone who dared to stare at her for too long. Yet, strangely, I couldn’t look away. The Ganga was flowing like she carried the secrets of centuries, and somewhere in her ferocity, I found my peace.
It’s odd, isn’t it? How something so loud, so restless, can quiet the noise inside you. As the water rushed past me with such speed, it almost felt like time itself was running wild. And there it was, that strange paradox; the more violently she flowed, the more still I became inside. Watching her swirl and twist, I felt as though she was dragging away my heaviness and my stuck thoughts.
The lanes that led me away from the ghat were narrow and damp. Rainwater trickled down the edges, pooling in tiny puddles that mirrored the grey skies above. I walked slowly, without relying on Google Maps, letting the mud cling to my light pink chappals, letting the drizzle kiss my forehead, again and again. I could hear two locals talk about the river’s rising levels due to the heavy rains, and then, right at the edge of the steps, a young couple shared a paper cup of chai and a packet of kurkure, transient yet golden. There was no urgency, life was moving at its own rhythm, and every step I took felt like it was carrying me closer to something I hadn’t known I was searching for.
The people I saw and met were like fleeting characters in a story, each leaving behind a whisper of memory that now refuses to fade away. A woman with kind eyes smiled without speaking, her gaze fixed on the ghat, as if silence were enough of a language. The shopkeeper chatted warmly while I picked out a pair of loose, yogic pants; our conversation began with fabrics and somehow wound its way to the mantra that comfort was its own kind of wisdom. Before I knew it, another shopkeeper bhaiya and I were laughing over nose rings. He noticed I wasn’t wearing one and suggested I should, insisting it would give my personality & character a bolder, more thoughtful look. That evening, in a café, I noticed a young man reading the very same book I was reading, Educated by Tara Westover. Such a crazy coincidence, right? Now that I think of it, in these moments, I got a chance to experience the quiet power of human connection. None of these moments lasted long, yet each felt whole and heavenly.
A thought I know I’ll carry for a very long time is this: Ganga’s roar wasn’t just noise it was a lullaby. And in that lullaby, I understood that sometimes peace isn’t found in stillness, but in surrendering to the flow. It was a reminder of another kind of mundane, one where life isn’t measured by emails and alarms, but by cups of chai, footsteps on muddy roads, strangers’ smiles, and her rhythm; time flowing in liquid form, carrying centuries of stories.
And sitting there, I finally understood: She was existing in her own truth and didn’t ask for much. She simply invited me to live, and I chose to listen.
