Impossible to tell a river’s story. Ancient wisdom says: it flows and, therefore, is never the same.

The river had coursed through swirling mist and searing light, since before the forests took hold and became near impenetrable, since much before the human settlements and civilizations had taken root. She had seen humans arrive in small wandering bands and spread, growing in numbers – greedy for water and then land. Praying to the river in fear and reverence as to fire and thunder and then defiling her, praying to the trees and then chopping them down. But some were different, believing in the unity of things; searching for balance. She had borne it all – light and darkness – with seeming equanimity.

It was a long, varying course the river threaded – rushing down to the plains in a hurry from the high Himalayan snowfields; and then, her currents meandered creating a vast fertile plain, nourishing countless fields of crops and orchards before it merged in the endless sea. Whichever way you looked at the country’s map – physical, demographic or political – the river’s gigantic impact was visible. And her impact on the sentiments of the people even more so.

Mankind had taken a special liking to her, settling down along her shores and gradually spreading along the banks of her tributaries. She meant commerce too. With time trade had flourished as boats filled with goods plied her waters sailing from one ghat to the next, and then dimmed as man laid railroads and motorways bridging her two shores.

She had witnessed countless acts of war and greed, depravity and lust, bravery and sacrifice and above all redemption. Her flow hiding, carrying away crimes and embarrassments, and over centuries a cliché was born – Ganga cleanses. People worshipped her and believed, or wanted to believe, she would cleanse their wrongs and sins. Days were marked for ritual bathing. Over centuries, she had become an integral part of a nation’s identity and culture – Ganga Maiyya the village people lovingly called her.

The river was now tired in body and soul; overwhelmed by all the burdens bequeathed by mankind that she had been carrying for far too long; she had become sluggish. River dolphins frolicked less-and-less in her waters and when pulled-in the fishermen’s wretched nets were half-filled with chemicals and waste. The river had suffered.

But when a crippled Seema on her last journey entered the ancient river, a shiver ran through her waves. She first wanted to lift her and put the young woman back on the sandy slope but couldn’t for she carried a hero’s heavy will. So, she let her be and dream thoughts lost in time and sadness; kept her in a bubble so she could sense and understand some more. The holy river saw her travel back to a small river that merged into a bigger one with reddish sand, her own tributary. The remote small river still nourished magical forests and simple dwellers. She saw her see the Bodhi tree and become one, and then the river carried her body further to nourish the land from where she had come.

Seeing Seema, the river remembered fondly another hero, a mighty warrior from the mountains, an ancient being who danced a mesmerizing dance and lived and fought with a simplicity that was at once ennobling. An old song floated on to the river rising from a morning school assembly – the small voices, discordant, singing: ‘Dareeyaav ki lehar dareeyaav hai ji, dareeyaav lehar mein bhinn na koyam. Uthe to neer hai baithey to neer hai, dareeyaav lehar mein bhinn na koyam.’ The waves of the river are the river, and none are different from each other. The waves when they rise or when they fall are but water, and none are different from each other.

The river thought of Kisan’s mother Sumati whose ashes she had carried; Sumati’s last thoughts, suffering humiliation and torture that only men were capable of rendering, were with her son Kisan. He should not suddenly come there looking for her and get killed Sumati had despaired, or was there also a tiny glimmer of hidden hope in her, a failing wish that he and his friends find her before she died. Then the river thought of Kisan, who promised and exacted revenge and rendered justice in his own way as the other ways were lost to him. He had then come to her to lie low and seek solace.

She thought about the young quiet student, who would be old now, bound to her forever. She knew wherever he went he would carry a part of her with him. Her expanse, the light in her waves, her far-off shore and the trees and houses beyond were all in his mind. She thought of Jennifer, who eagerly sat by her side every morning listening to the temple bells toll waiting for the sun to rise. Whose thoughts lightning like travelled between the glitzy neon-lit streets of New York to the narrow cow-dung splattered lanes of Varanasi still seeking companionship and warmth.

She thought of young Kumud who had long ago come to live in Kashi so full of energy and who had jumped from the iron bridge into her muddy waters closing the world behind her. Of Reshma, who washed herself with her waters early every morning trying to cleanse herself of the pungent sweat and smell of numerous, drunk sordid customers in vain. Of Prakash, who everyday burnt bodies by her side – the smell of burnt flesh pervading the air. She saw each day life and death together.   

 The river despaired at the greed, people’s obsession with purity and caste – their views blinkered by birth-ordained privileges. They prayed to her and considered Ganga Jal as the purest of the pure, but didn’t realise the simple truth that she was the same for everyone, touchable and untouchable; all partook of her generosity freely. Unlike the village wells on which some could claim exclusive ownership, or sometimes, even earthen pots filled with water, it was not possible for man to exclude access to the mighty river. She was like the very air everyone breathed; molecules exhaled by one were bound to be inhaled by the other whether he stitched shoes or served in a shrine.

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