I stood firm in the middle of the fussing city crowd, as they swept over the large boulders while setting a march across the valley. No one seemed to have spotted me since I was draped in a white shirt that melded into the sublime surroundings of the River Ganges. It was the Princep Ghats in Calcutta and the floods had grappled the city. It was raining that day to top it and add to our miseries. Of all the wretchedness that besieged us, there was in particular one that struck me as the most hostile of the lot. The water level on the roads had surmounted to what may be called possible to paddle in. I folded my pants up to the knee and decided to spend the evening amidst roaring waves that floated across the seaming Ganges. To my surprise, the car halted once in a while jerking its way across the straddling water on the stranded Calcutta roads as I drove alongside a draggy rickshaw, that seemed to pull strings to a contest I'd have won easy on a sultry Calcutta afternoon. So I geared forward, brakes aloof and accelerator in punch.
After two hours of crusading, I finally managed to get to the Ganga Ghats. Parked my car at the Writer's Building premises, stopped over at a local tea shop to garner my share of the evening tea and went over to the gates as I handed over a five rupee note to the security personnel as entry fee into the Millennium Park. Somehow, unlike the usual Ganga waters that surface to the shore, it seemed a little different. I felt as if the Ganga was calling out to me, grappling for attention and speaking volumes of a tale that I've never enjoyed to listen to as a child. How far have I come to terms with a city that has seen itself through a period of subjugated pride, unhealthy politics and snoozing revolutions. Maybe it wasn't home for me anymore but I decided to look on as the waves stopped momentarily to ascend to a peak and suddenly unified with the calm yet laborious waters of the holy river. After a while at the Millennium Park I strode forward to reach the Princep Ghats. This time I decided to make an episodic walk towards Fort William as I bypassed the Victorian Legacy left behind in the most admonished manners. Perhaps we never took the warnings as a mark of measure to gauge our own follies yet beseech what we all still detest in our social nous.
At around five in the evening I reached the spot. Unlike the park, it was open. So I could bend my back, gaze straight at the irksome sky and shout my lungs out- best part being, no one was listening. But, I was proved wrong. As I pursued my unhinged endeavors at creating a nuisance out of the situation and cussing the rain gods to stop the torrent, I was startled by the presence of a second. It was a she, to my astonishment. She stood by my side, laughing to herself at my infantile antics. A casual glance upwards, spill of the over-pouring tea cup and I noticed that she was wearing khakis and a white kurta. I was wearing white too, but that struck me a little later once she'd ceased to laugh as if to entertain further amusement.
“What do you want from a river?”, she uttered nonchalantly. I answered, “I don't know, perhaps want it to hold back the surge.”
“It won't do any good to you, your life seems to be already flooded with difficulties. Don't curse the river, it has its own.”
I didn't observe her face, purposely. It would give her the impression that I was looking to initiate a connect. My response was enough to dispel any doubts that I was unwilling to communicate further. She recognized my hint fast and turned back as she began to climb up the stairs to the Ghat. I noticed now, she was blessed with long tresses and it seemed as if an angel had descended to convey a message that was very apparent, yet absent from my life.
The mercury rose in the next two weeks causing enormous discomfort to the city dwellers. The environment was clearly degrading. The river seemed to be full of life once again. People had started to storm the Ghats, dispersing plastic bottles, rags and toxic chemicals into the river. I was not even remotely delighted, I knew the floods would be back again. This time, I strongly hoped I'd meet her again. And make no mistake, I'll talk with her. All of my life.
After two hours of crusading, I finally managed to get to the Ganga Ghats. Parked my car at the Writer's Building premises, stopped over at a local tea shop to garner my share of the evening tea and went over to the gates as I handed over a five rupee note to the security personnel as entry fee into the Millennium Park. Somehow, unlike the usual Ganga waters that surface to the shore, it seemed a little different. I felt as if the Ganga was calling out to me, grappling for attention and speaking volumes of a tale that I've never enjoyed to listen to as a child. How far have I come to terms with a city that has seen itself through a period of subjugated pride, unhealthy politics and snoozing revolutions. Maybe it wasn't home for me anymore but I decided to look on as the waves stopped momentarily to ascend to a peak and suddenly unified with the calm yet laborious waters of the holy river. After a while at the Millennium Park I strode forward to reach the Princep Ghats. This time I decided to make an episodic walk towards Fort William as I bypassed the Victorian Legacy left behind in the most admonished manners. Perhaps we never took the warnings as a mark of measure to gauge our own follies yet beseech what we all still detest in our social nous.
At around five in the evening I reached the spot. Unlike the park, it was open. So I could bend my back, gaze straight at the irksome sky and shout my lungs out- best part being, no one was listening. But, I was proved wrong. As I pursued my unhinged endeavors at creating a nuisance out of the situation and cussing the rain gods to stop the torrent, I was startled by the presence of a second. It was a she, to my astonishment. She stood by my side, laughing to herself at my infantile antics. A casual glance upwards, spill of the over-pouring tea cup and I noticed that she was wearing khakis and a white kurta. I was wearing white too, but that struck me a little later once she'd ceased to laugh as if to entertain further amusement.
“What do you want from a river?”, she uttered nonchalantly. I answered, “I don't know, perhaps want it to hold back the surge.”
“It won't do any good to you, your life seems to be already flooded with difficulties. Don't curse the river, it has its own.”
I didn't observe her face, purposely. It would give her the impression that I was looking to initiate a connect. My response was enough to dispel any doubts that I was unwilling to communicate further. She recognized my hint fast and turned back as she began to climb up the stairs to the Ghat. I noticed now, she was blessed with long tresses and it seemed as if an angel had descended to convey a message that was very apparent, yet absent from my life.
The mercury rose in the next two weeks causing enormous discomfort to the city dwellers. The environment was clearly degrading. The river seemed to be full of life once again. People had started to storm the Ghats, dispersing plastic bottles, rags and toxic chemicals into the river. I was not even remotely delighted, I knew the floods would be back again. This time, I strongly hoped I'd meet her again. And make no mistake, I'll talk with her. All of my life.
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