![](https://blogger.googleusercontent.com/img/b/R29vZ2xl/AVvXsEiSvflCXjnoCXs9n6Lu8Qr0pgXcgKo1NVRIaz8XbeHkDPY51AVGsTdxkmRnwFCgIHd20FSSc7UMGVSKGMi2n5N6DqmBQuZN-Nw5tWXqJFhH60-JeK5R5MSSlRaZ33CP-PbAXKefsxOxZaW5/s400/JBP+Railfanning+014.jpg)
There's nothing much to say or write about. This is the river Narmada, much fought over by states, activists and actors. But spending my childhood in a little town on its banks, I never associated anything with it except for peace and beauty. Having crossed it a number of times, in a car, or train, or motorcycle, or bicycle and once even on foot, I never seem to tire of gazing at it ensconced in the deepest thoughts. And memories of the evening breeze bringing relief to sweat stained, cricket exerted bodies; of the never-ending conversations about our immediate lives as friends got together on the middle of the bridge; of my grandma's ashes who passed away there in Bharuch far away from her beloved Calcutta one with the water which has been flowing through the centuries.
No comments:
Post a Comment