The waves of the Ganga are particularly wild today, encouraging me to imagine them reminding me of something I have long been putting off for quite some time now –writing about them.
The river before me beckons, flowing away from me, the waters in the wake of the old, loud diesel-powered boat swirling with foam and refuse cast by the dirty city into its purportedly holy waters.
The ripples created by the boat’s relative motion clash with the waves, and are quickly stopped – the river is really raging today – and subsided, much like societal quelling of god knows how many thinkers diagonally parked in a parallel universe.
The uncanny smell – of burning cadavers with wood – as the boat draws to a halt near the crematorium – the smell – of spirits drifting away to infinity, of tears evaporating in the soft evening heat, of flesh melting in the breezy flames, briefly causing me to think about the inevitable end I must embrace.
The Sun is setting, drawing curtains on yet another day- good and bad, regular and large, happy and hungry, and the rays diffuse on the water in a wide band towards the west – a shimmering gold on a tempestuous blue-gray.
The final stop approaches, the boat slows down, the waves seem more violent somehow, and give the boat a last, less than gentle rocking as I step off it to the wooden jetty, as if admonishing me for leaving, and beckoning to return.
I am looking forward to the return journey.
