Pranab Kr. Joshi
1
The sun rose slow and golden over the Ganges, pouring its light like molten honey over the ancient stone steps of Dashashwamedh Ghat. Gauri dipped her oar into the water with practiced grace, the boat slicing through the morning mist as temple bells chimed in rhythmic waves. The air smelled of incense, wet earth, and camphor. Her father, Dinesh Mishra, stood silently at the stern, adjusting the floral garlands tied to the bow for the morning puja tourists. Gauri, clad in a faded blue salwar-kameez and a dupatta flung over one shoulder, barely looked up when the foreigner asked if the water was safe to touch. “It is sacred, not safe,” she said, eyes fixed on the horizon. This was her world—full of faith, fire rituals, and endless repetition—and yet, her mind was always wandering beyond it, to cities where life buzzed through subway lines and newsrooms instead of flowing with prayer and ashes.
When the morning’s ferrying ended, she ran her fingers along the edge of the boat’s wooden seat and pulled out a tiny notebook. Inside were pages filled with half-formed ideas—sketches of drones, imagined headlines, photographs drawn in pencil. “Life in the lanes of light and smoke,” one page read. She had no camera, no degree, only her eyes and an irrepressible desire to tell stories. She’d learned English by listening to snippets from foreign tourists and memorizing the subtitles on Hindi films watched in secret. But her father believed too firmly in the river’s pull to consider her dreams valid. “A boatman’s daughter must row, not write,” he had said once, sealing the words like a curse. Still, every day, between the rituals and the rowing, she imagined the other side—colleges, stories, screens flashing her name in the credits of documentaries.
Miles away in Lucknow, Armaan Rizvi flipped through an old leather-bound photo album that still smelled faintly of rosewater. A Kathak dancer in a white saree posed by the Ganges, a young version of his mother, Shabnam, long before she became the composed matriarch he knew. She had spoken often of Varanasi, her city of birth, in fragmented memories and wistful sighs. Now, months after her passing, he was unable to delete her final voicemails. Instead, he listened again and again to the last one: “If you ever go back to Varanasi, visit the ghats. That’s where I became me.” Her words haunted him like an unfinished script. A software engineer used to clean logic and tidy lines of code, Armaan wasn’t sure what he was looking for in that chaotic city of fire and faith. But he booked his train ticket anyway—half in search of answers, half hoping to silence the ache. As the train sped past mustard fields and mango groves, neither he nor Gauri knew that their worlds—one built on algorithms, the other on a boat—were about to collide on the edge of an ancient river.
2
The afternoon heat hung heavy over Varanasi when Armaan stepped onto the stone steps of Dashashwamedh Ghat, a camera bag slung over one shoulder and irritation already prickling his forehead. The scent of sandalwood mingled with sweat and diesel smoke as priests waved incense sticks at the river, surrounded by tourists with smartphones and selfie sticks. Armaan scanned the chaos with practiced detachment, adjusting the settings on his DSLR. He was here to collect footage, not get emotionally entangled in the city’s overwhelming fervor. But his first drone launch turned disastrous when a sharp voice cut through the air—“You can’t fly that here! Not during aarti!” He turned to find a girl, probably not older than twenty, her brows drawn in indignation and her eyes fierce. “Who are you to—” he began, but she was already pulling his drone controller down. “Temple grounds. Ritual time. No permission, no footage,” she snapped, before walking away in a flurry of fabric and confidence.
Armaan found her again near the Manikarnika Ghat, guiding a group of European tourists with flawless timing and practiced ease. He watched from a distance, surprised at how comfortably she moved between Sanskrit chants and English explanations. Something about her, he realized, wasn’t ordinary. After a long pause and a bit of inner swallowing of pride, he approached her again. “You clearly know this place,” he said, gesturing toward his camera. “I need someone who does.” She glanced at him, skeptical. “For what? Instagram reels?” “Documentary,” he replied, bracing for another snide comment. Instead, she tilted her head, curious. “Paid?” “Of course,” he said quickly, hoping his tone didn’t betray desperation. She didn’t smile. “You want the real Varanasi? You’ll have to get off your drone and step into the water, metaphorically speaking.” That’s how Gauri Mishra became his fixer, reluctantly agreeing to help him trace the spiritual and personal geography of a city she both loved and resented.
The partnership began awkwardly. On their first joint outing, she took him to a hidden shrine in Tulsi Ghat known for its murals, but he was more interested in framing shots than listening to the story behind them. “You look but don’t see,” she muttered. “You listen but don’t hear,” he replied, equally testy. They bickered constantly—about framing, focus, cultural sensitivity. She found his questions mechanical; he thought her answers too poetic. But beneath the clash was a growing, grudging respect. Gauri had stories tucked in every corner of the city, and Armaan, despite himself, began to listen. And when they sat on the edge of a crumbling ghat that evening, editing their first footage under a pink-hued sky, a soft silence fell between them. It wasn’t peace yet—but it was the beginning of something. Something that neither the software engineer nor the boatman’s daughter could name just yet.
3
The next few days unfolded like a mosaic—moments of friction, discovery, and reluctant awe stitched together in the slow rhythm of Varanasi’s eternal pulse. Gauri led Armaan through the labyrinthine alleys behind the ghats, where the scent of marigolds mingled with frying oil and damp stone. They shot footage of wrestlers practicing at dawn in akharas, of widows chanting near Kashi Vishwanath, of children flying kites from rooftops that looked ready to crumble. But it wasn’t just about visuals anymore. Gauri spoke to everyone—flower vendors, rickshaw pullers, old priests—with a fluency Armaan couldn’t mimic. She translated not just words but emotions, turning a man’s lament for his lost son into a story that made Armaan’s lens linger longer than usual. “See?” she said one afternoon, pointing to a woman offering food to the river. “That’s a widow feeding her husband’s spirit. Your camera will catch her hands, but my story will catch her soul.”
Yet their differences refused to be tamed. Armaan questioned rituals, demanded logic for offerings and chants. Gauri, steeped in oral tradition, found his rationalism cold. When he dismissed a cremation scene as “morbid content,” she snapped, “This isn’t content. This is someone’s father, someone’s goodbye.” He grew quiet. Later that night, as they reviewed clips under a flickering tea stall bulb, he admitted something he rarely shared: “I was thirteen when I first saw a funeral. My mother made me watch. She said endings are part of knowing where you came from.” Gauri nodded, and for the first time, didn’t respond with sarcasm. Instead, she recited a Kabir couplet about the river of life flowing both ways. He didn’t understand all the words, but the cadence stayed with him. From that moment, their arguments dulled in edge—still present, but softened by mutual recognition.
At home, Gauri’s father noticed the change. Dinesh Mishra eyed her longer now—when she returned later than usual, or when she laughed too easily at dinner. “You’re spending too much time with this camera-wala,” he said one evening, his tone firm. Gauri avoided his gaze, stirring lentils silently. “He pays well,” she mumbled. But inside, she felt the pull between her growing fascination with Armaan’s world and the gravitational force of the life she’d always known. She couldn’t say it aloud, not yet, but something was shifting. Meanwhile, Armaan found another photo of his mother, this time in front of a mural he recognized from their shoot that morning. He stared at it long after the lights went out in his guesthouse, wondering what it meant to be born in one place and belong to another. In Varanasi, stories were etched into stone, smoke, and silence—and now, somehow, into the tentative partnership of a girl from the river and a boy from the code.
4
The monsoon clouds rolled in low and slow over Varanasi as Gauri and Armaan sat on a rooftop overlooking the ghats, the city below flickering with evening aarti flames. He held a small envelope in his hand—yellowed with age, sealed with a fading wax stamp. “She wrote this to my father before she left Varanasi,” he said, voice softer than usual. Gauri listened, eyes fixed on the horizon as he unfolded the delicate paper and began reading. The letter spoke of a girl in love with music and the river, torn between duty and desire. “I want to dance until my feet forget how to stay still,” Shabnam had written, “but my family has already drawn my borders.” Armaan’s voice caught on the last line, and when he looked up, Gauri wasn’t teasing or judging—just listening, deeply. “She was like you,” he said quietly. “Bound by the river, but always looking past it.”
For the first time, Gauri invited him into her private space—a small loft above a spice shop, where she kept her collection of old postcards, audio clips from tourists, and her battered notebook. She showed him sketches of stories she dreamed of filming—one about a widow who ran a pigeon shelter, another about a transgender priest at a Shiva temple. “You could do this,” Armaan said, flipping through her pages. “These aren’t just ideas. They’re stories that matter.” But his encouragement came wrapped in something else, a note of distance. “Still,” he added, “the world out there is different. Brutal. Fast. You sure you’re ready for that?” Gauri’s expression stiffened. “Just because I haven’t left Varanasi doesn’t mean I don’t understand it.” The silence that followed was sharp. She stood up. “You think I’m some romantic village girl with a camera fantasy? You don’t know me.” And with that, she walked out into the rain, leaving him alone with her dreams spread across the floor.
The next morning, she didn’t show up. Armaan roamed the ghats aimlessly, camera in hand but uninspired. He filmed half-heartedly—a priest dipping marigolds into the water, a dog sleeping beside a sadhu—but everything felt hollow without her narration. He reviewed the footage from the past week and realized what had been making it come alive wasn’t his lens but her voice. That evening, he returned to Baba Kalua’s tea stall, disheveled and uncertain. “Lost your compass?” the old man grinned, handing him a steaming kulhad. Armaan shrugged. “I think I offended her.” Baba chuckled. “This city doesn’t respond to logic, beta. You want something real here—you have to feel it, not fix it.” At dusk, as the Ganga lit up with a thousand diyas, he sat at the edge of the river and played Shabnam’s voicemail again. Her voice, clear and wistful, echoed across time: “One day, maybe you’ll understand what it means to belong to two places at once.” And in that moment, under a sky stitched with lightning and smoke, he finally began to understand.
5
The city of Varanasi took on a festival sheen the next day, as strings of marigolds and lanterns appeared like magic above narrow alleys. Gauri showed up late, soaked in sunlight and unbothered. “Still brooding?” she asked with a lopsided grin. Armaan smiled—relieved, though he didn’t say it aloud. She tossed him a packet wrapped in banana leaf. “Kachori. Made by Tara’s mother. Eat it before your camera dies from sadness.” They spent the day filming not temples or rivers, but street food stalls, spice shops, and laughing children throwing water balloons from rooftops. Gauri took the lead, interviewing a sweet-maker who claimed his family’s jalebi recipe had survived four generations and three pandemics. Armaan, for once, didn’t argue about the camera angles. He let her direct. And as he watched her engage the city—not just capture it—he began to wonder if she wasn’t already the storyteller he was still trying to become.
As dusk fell, they stopped at a roadside kebab stall lit by a single buzzing bulb. “You’ve never had tandoori from a coal pit?” Gauri asked, horrified. He shook his head, and she ordered for both of them with the confidence of a local queen. They sat on a step, hands stained with masala, eyes bright from laughter. Between bites, she asked, “What was your mother really like?” Armaan paused. “Quiet. Always humming. She didn’t talk much about her past. I think she missed this place but didn’t know how to return.” Gauri nodded. “Sometimes silence carries more weight than memories.” He looked at her then—not as a fixer, not as a subject—but as someone who carried her city like a second skin, who could dance between ancient and modern without breaking stride. “What about you?” he asked. “What if you get everything you want—college, career, freedom. Will you ever come back?” She didn’t answer right away. “Maybe,” she finally said. “Maybe to tell the stories others forgot.”
That night, as they packed up their gear beside the ghats, Dinesh Mishra appeared like a shadow against the flickering lamplight. His eyes skipped over Armaan and settled on Gauri. “Your mother’s waiting,” he said curtly. “She’s worried.” Gauri stood up, wiping her hands. “I was working,” she said, her voice firm but not defiant. Dinesh glanced at Armaan’s camera bag. “And him? He part of this work too?” Armaan stepped forward, unsure of what to say. But Gauri cut in. “He pays me fairly. He respects what I know.” Dinesh didn’t reply. Just turned and walked away. Gauri followed slowly, her steps a little heavier than before. Armaan remained seated, staring at the last flame of a nearly burnt-out oil lamp. The food stalls behind him were shutting down, the scent of charcoal lingering in the air. And as the night deepened, he felt the shift—not just in the light, but in the story they were beginning to tell. One not of a city or a river, but of two people learning how to translate each other.
6
The next morning was quiet, washed pale by the soft light of dawn. Gauri waited by the boat, her notebook clutched against her chest, as Armaan approached with his backpack and camera slung diagonally like a departing pilgrim. No words passed between them at first. She nodded toward the oars. “Last ride?” He shrugged. “Maybe.” They pushed off in silence, the boat gliding through the stillness of the river, broken only by the occasional slap of water and a distant temple bell. Gauri sat across from him, not guiding, not speaking—just watching the ghats slowly recede. Midway across the Ganges, he asked, “Do you ever wonder what it’s like… not to belong anywhere?” She looked up. “I wonder more what it’s like to belong to two places at once.” He smiled faintly. “Like you?” She didn’t answer. Instead, she opened her notebook and tore out a page. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “My favorite story. You won’t find it in your algorithms.”
They spent the day filming in the quieter stretches beyond the main ghats—a children’s school run from a temple corridor, an old man painting gods on discarded matchboxes, a woman who had turned her husband’s ashes into a mural. Gauri took the lead with the interviews, and Armaan barely intervened. He had learned to step back, to let her rhythm guide the lens. That afternoon, they sat on the riverbank, reviewing clips on his laptop. The screen flickered with images of rituals and rain, faces weathered and wise, hands weaving baskets, lips moving in prayer. “It’s not just your story anymore,” he said. “It’s ours.” Gauri turned her face slightly away, blinking quickly. “Then don’t take it away so soon.” But there was no anger in her voice. Just the heaviness of parting.
As the sun dipped low, turning the river gold and bruised with shadow, they returned to the main ghat. Gauri stepped off the boat first. Armaan lingered, camera still in hand. “You’ll go far, Gauri Mishra,” he said. “You just need to start walking.” She looked at him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And you… you might need to stop running.” For a heartbeat, the world stilled around them—just boats creaking in their moorings, diyas flickering on the water, and two people on the edge of something unnamed. He reached for her hand, hesitated, then placed the torn notebook page into her palm instead. “Keep telling stories,” he said. Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away into the glow of the streetlights, leaving behind the echo of temple bells and the faint smell of sandalwood smoke. Gauri stood still until his silhouette disappeared. Then she unfolded the page. It was blank—except for the words: “You are the story.” She pressed it to her heart and turned back to the river, already writing the next chapter in her mind.
7
The next morning was quiet, washed pale by the soft light of dawn. Gauri waited by the boat, her notebook clutched against her chest, as Armaan approached with his backpack and camera slung diagonally like a departing pilgrim. No words passed between them at first. She nodded toward the oars. “Last ride?” He shrugged. “Maybe.” They pushed off in silence, the boat gliding through the stillness of the river, broken only by the occasional slap of water and a distant temple bell. Gauri sat across from him, not guiding, not speaking—just watching the ghats slowly recede. Midway across the Ganges, he asked, “Do you ever wonder what it’s like… not to belong anywhere?” She looked up. “I wonder more what it’s like to belong to two places at once.” He smiled faintly. “Like you?” She didn’t answer. Instead, she opened her notebook and tore out a page. “Here,” she said, handing it to him. “My favorite story. You won’t find it in your algorithms.”
They spent the day filming in the quieter stretches beyond the main ghats—a children’s school run from a temple corridor, an old man painting gods on discarded matchboxes, a woman who had turned her husband’s ashes into a mural. Gauri took the lead with the interviews, and Armaan barely intervened. He had learned to step back, to let her rhythm guide the lens. That afternoon, they sat on the riverbank, reviewing clips on his laptop. The screen flickered with images of rituals and rain, faces weathered and wise, hands weaving baskets, lips moving in prayer. “It’s not just your story anymore,” he said. “It’s ours.” Gauri turned her face slightly away, blinking quickly. “Then don’t take it away so soon.” But there was no anger in her voice. Just the heaviness of parting.
As the sun dipped low, turning the river gold and bruised with shadow, they returned to the main ghat. Gauri stepped off the boat first. Armaan lingered, camera still in hand. “You’ll go far, Gauri Mishra,” he said. “You just need to start walking.” She looked at him with a smile that didn’t quite reach her eyes. “And you… you might need to stop running.” For a heartbeat, the world stilled around them—just boats creaking in their moorings, diyas flickering on the water, and two people on the edge of something unnamed. He reached for her hand, hesitated, then placed the torn notebook page into her palm instead. “Keep telling stories,” he said. Then, without waiting for a reply, he turned and walked away into the glow of the streetlights, leaving behind the echo of temple bells and the faint smell of sandalwood smoke. Gauri stood still until his silhouette disappeared. Then she unfolded the page. It was blank—except for the words: “You are the story.” She pressed it to her heart and turned back to the river, already writing the next chapter in her mind.
8
A year later, the winter air in Lucknow smelled of roasted peanuts and old books as the city prepared for its annual Literary Festival. The lawns of the Lal Baradari Palace buzzed with voices, debates, and camera flashes. In one of the smaller screening tents, a modest crowd had gathered to watch a short film selected under the category “Emerging Voices.” The title appeared on screen: “Across the Ganges” – Directed by Gauri Mishra. The film played—opening with the morning mist over Varanasi, the chaotic silence of Manikarnika, the laughter of street kids, the gentle chant of old widows, and her own voice narrating the spirit of a city that teaches both letting go and holding on. The audience sat in hushed stillness, caught in the rhythm of her storytelling—rooted, unapologetic, tender. When the credits rolled, the applause rose like a slow tide. From the back of the tent, a man in a grey shawl clapped softly, a smile tucked beneath his eyes.
Outside, Gauri stood beneath a gulmohar tree, slightly dazed, as people came up to shake her hand, ask questions, offer business cards. She wore a cotton kurti, hair pulled back, but her presence had changed—she stood taller now, like someone who had crossed her own river and returned with a voice. A familiar chuckle echoed nearby. “Didn’t think I’d miss this, did you?” She turned. Armaan stood beside a tea stall, hands in his pockets, looking exactly the same and entirely different. “I thought you were too busy launching apps,” she teased. He shrugged. “Some stories launch us first.” They walked together in the garden paths, the crowd thinning behind them. “You kept the name,” he said. Gauri smiled. “It was always ours. I just wrote it down.” He took out a small notebook—hers, old and dog-eared. “You left this in the boat that day,” he said, handing it back. “I only read one page, I swear.” She opened it and found a tiny sketch of a river boat with the caption: Some crossings change direction, not destination.
They sat on a bench overlooking the reflecting pool as the winter sun dipped low. There were no declarations, no grand gestures. Just the quiet comfort of people who had once collided and then converged. “So,” Armaan said, “what’s next?” Gauri looked out toward the water. “A full-length documentary. About women who’ve never left their hometowns but have transformed them in small ways.” She turned to him. “Think I can pull it off?” He smiled. “You already did.” The sky shifted to amber, and the mosque’s azaan blended with the temple bells from across the city—a harmony that neither competed nor contradicted. As the light faded, Gauri leaned back, notebook in hand, pen poised above a new page. And somewhere between memory and possibility, tradition and choice, the river of their story flowed forward—still wide, still sacred, and still full of things left to discover.
____
