Riverside Reverie

Some time back, in February to be exact, one day I had gone up to the Ganga river side, alone, and suddenly feeling somewhat literarily inclined and desiring to write something, had bought a small notebook and a pen on the way. The time was afternoon, approaching sunset, and choosing a less crowded spot, I had sat down, the little notebook and pen in hand. And indeed, after a little time, I started to write. Putting up here what followed:

I see the orange sun just above the skyline across the wide river. I see the tranquil river, flowing, with ripples on it caused by the gentle breeze.

I see people strolling about, mostly in pairs, hand in hand, with a sense of peace and serenity in their faces.

I see the birds, some flowing across the river, some near the water surface, some high up in the air.

I see the lazy smoke coming out of the chimneys, in a formless metamorphosing form, across on the other distant side of the river.

I see boats and launches, moving slowly and tranquilly over the river surface, leaving a faint trail of water ripples on their wake.

I see - I see everything occurring - occurring, it seems, with the soothing certainty of having been occurring ever since eternity, and which will continue likewise everyday, at the same times in the same ways, forever - till eternity.

I now see a young woman, alone, strolling lazily a few yards in front of me, alongside the railing of the park against the riverbank, looking out into the river, talking on her mobile held by her hand pressed against her ear.

She is then done with her mobile and talking, and stands along the waterside railing, which comes up to her slender waist, leaning on it facing the vast stretch of the river, her arms folded casually across her chest. She stands there, in a graceful relaxed poise, almost still, only her head swaying sidewise now and then, spanning the vast stretch of the river in front of her. Some undefinable feeling holds me to her spectacle.

I see her taking one of her feet off the slippers, and rub the bare foot lazily on to her other foot. A gentle breeze blows in and touches her hairs lightly.

Her figure forms a dark silhouette against the dusky background of the silvery grey river surface and the greyish white sky. I see her - standing there - oblivious - or perhaps lost in her own reverie?

Suddenly, she takes her mobile to her ear, turns around, and talking in the phone with a smile on her lips, starts walking, and is gone. Has her partner, her friend, arrived?

Will she ever know that I have stolen about ten minutes of her life, made them my very own, capturing them, forever, in the form of words?

A few minutes go by. The place remains empty, incomplete. And I then see a young strolling couple come and unassumingly take the place where she was standing. Natural entropy working in its own ways to fill vacuums.

Suddenly, I notice that the other side of the river is dotted with little bright orange spots. With the falling dusk, the shore lights have been turned on. In the distance, I can see the stretch of the mighty Second Hoogli Bridge. The bridge's span, too, is now dotted with similar equidistant bright orange spots.

The full structure of the bridge is still visible as a hazy outline. I stare at it. What a mighty and imposing structure it looks! Making a statement of its own. Asserting its existence night and day, loud and clear. I try to imagine the haughty pride and delight of the architect who had earned the privilege of pointing to that high and mighty structure and saying to his friend - "I built that"!

The light is growing darker. It is difficult to see and write any more. And suddenly, from somewhere (or nowhere) mosquitoes have also started asserting themselves. I wonder - where were they all these time? Having their lazy slumber perhaps? Siesta?

Well, can no more comfortably go on writing here. So I'll stop now.