Sunday, December 16, 2007

The bridge over troubled waters

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.