On the banks of Ganga.

Ganga gushed by noisily. Annoyed by how men were trying to tame her. She tickled and teased the little stones in her path, coaxed them to flow with her. They saw the lovely Ganga. Some of them heartily agreed and others were persuaded. She tickled and teased and coaxed. With the bigger ones she was different. She lashed out at them and crashed into them. They were challenged. How dare they stand in her path? Her swells and sways shook them. Creamy white foam tried to wave peace flags around them, constantly, pointlessly. They saw the ferocious, angry Ganga. She lashed out and she crashed into. 

And now men were trying to tame her. They brought in their petrol giants that whirred and whistled. They worked all day and all night and built grey walls around her. She mocked them. She was black and she was white but she was not grey. They loved her when she was white and pure and loving, they took dips in her to purify themselves. They lit giant Aartis to appease her. They prayed and wished and built temples and loved her. But then they had seen her angry and black. When she was unleashed. Even Lord Shiva’s careful restraint had not been enough. She had evilly crashed into them. Their giant cement jungle lay in ruins, their carefully constructed lives were ruined in moments. She diluted the colours that they had drawn on her banks, yellow and blue and grey and pink, she had challenged their walls to stand and she had run through them unchallenged. There was no yellow and blue and grey and pink anymore, just the black watery angry eyes of Ganga and disappointed, angry, and afraid eyes of men. Afraid. She had rejected their Aartis and prayers, so now they were building their greys around her. “Let us tame her!” they said and brought their machines and mountains of grey. “Let them try”, she smiled gently as she gushed by noisily.

The cold February winds of Uttarkashi blew the Ganga spray onto the banks and the Sun played hide and seek from behind the clouds as he walked by. He fell in love with rivers and talked to them and heard the call of the mountains, or so he claimed. His dark green shirt billowed in the wind, like a triumphant king’s flag. His black aviators were tucked in inside his t-shirt, which had Batman staring out of it. His much worn, dusty dust coloured cargoes hugged his legs. He walked like the Earth belonged to him. His shoes had tasted the water of Narmada and the dust of Mumbai. They had feasted on the sands of Kanyakumari and the snow of Himalayas. They had pressed the accelerator pedals as his vehicle flew through the roads of Kutch and had squealed underneath his feet at innumerable airports. They had been stomped on in Dadar railway station and muddied in the Shivaji Park dust whirlpools. They had Starbucks coffee spilled on them in Connaught Place and they had smelt the smell of masala doused dahi vada in Indore. His shoe knew beef and pork and chicken and fish, dal and paneer and gobi and aloo, raw and fried and marinated and grilled, rum and vodka and beer and whiskey. His passport had stamps from the places he had seen and smelt and known. His laughter was a booming trumpet announcing his joy and his lit up smiling eyes had crinkles for company. He talked of places he had gone to, people he had met and forgotten, and things that he had seen and done. His eyes looked like they had seen, and knew. They darted and dashed and soaked in the sights, stowed them away in deep corners, stashed away in neatly arranged folders in his mind, for reference, to talk like a man who knew. He stared ahead, meeting every eye that met him and walked like the Earth belonged to him.

Her hair was a neat ponytail. Her colourful salwar was hidden by her grey sweater, only she knew her colours. She had knit them herself. She had fingers for knitting, her mother always told her. The same cold wind shook her thin wiry frame. The same Ganga spray kissed her face gently making her blush deeper. She didn’t talk to rivers, or mountains. Her feet moved with measured and strong steps, mountain woman steps, firm and soft, hard and gentle all at once. Her eyes were fixed on the road, once in a while she look up to meet known faces. She folded her hands at known faces “Bhaiji Pranaam” “Didi Pranaam”, her soft voice was barely audible and Ganga took her fair cut from every noise in her vicinity anyway. She had never left her home town, not even to go to Dehradun. The plains were dangerous. Dangerous men and dangerous things lurked in every corner. The men of the plains would do anything to make an extra buck. Not like the men of the mountains. She had been told. She was afraid. Her laughter was the pitter-patter of a summer rain, it was the March time snowfall softly falling and fading away quickly in the warm sun. The town didn’t have a Tandoor! Shangri-La Hotel owned by Damodar bhaiya served continental and Chinese when the tourists were in town, with skin white as milk and an English that she could never understand. She didn’t even own a passport. Her warm shy eyes scanned the crowd for people she had to say pranaam to. They barely met the eyes of strangers. Kids from her computer class ran up to her and she messed up their hair. Her hands, hardened from the daily struggles of the mountain life, were gentle on the little kids as she swooped them up to kiss. Cold wind trails and sweater dust sculpted momentary sculptures, gifts to gravity, lost for ever, as the kids travelled in the air, safe in her hands. The street outside the computer classes was filled with laughter, her soft snowy laughter and the maddeningly joyous laughter of children. She stopped playing and walked in. Her eyes didn’t seek anyone and her steps were firm and strong.

He walked into her little office. He asked her about the classes. She told him about the classes. He asked her about the kids. She told him about the kids. He nodded his head knowingly and smiled with approval. His eyes lit up and his crinkles came and went. Her lips curved into pretty arches and her musical voiced sang and swam. He asked her if she had travelled anywhere. She asked him about his travels. He spoke of love and wonder and smell and taste. She spoke of her fear of travel and of her small town. He spoke of strangers. She spoke of friends.

A little bird flew out of its nest and fluttered its wings. It fell a few feet and then flew away. The roar of Ganga muted the songs that it sang. It longingly looked back at the nest but kept flying. Another little bird peeped out from the nest and wondered what the big bad wide world held for it but stayed put.

His eyes seeked her eyes out. Blazing confidence met soft and shy and quietly strong. He wished for her life and her innocence. She wished for his life and his stories. Ganga smiled.

He smiled and walked out, like the Earth belonged to him. She sighed and went back inside teaching her children, her steps were firm and gentle. And Ganga gushed by noisily, annoyed by how men were trying to tame her.