The Sacred Waters
The Har Ki Pauri ghat at night was a symphony of sensations. Thousands of oil lamps floated on the Ganga, their flickering lights reflecting like fallen stars. The air thrummed with chants, bells, and the collective energy of countless devotees.
Tarkik tried to maintain his sceptical distance, but something about the scene stirred him. Aindri was already at the water’s edge, her hands folded in prayer.
“See how the water moves?” Dadi pointed to the current. “Even at night, she never rests. Always flowing, always purifying, always giving life.”
“It’s just gravity and fluid dynamics,” Tarkik said, but his protest lacked conviction.
“Is it?” Dadi asked. “Tell me, what do you know about the Gangotri glacier?”
“It’s the source of the Ganga. About 3,892 meters high.”
“Very good. And what happens to ice at that altitude?”
“It… melts. Seasonally. Feeds the river.”
“Exactly. Now, when do you think the maximum melting occurs?”
Tarkik’s eyes widened. “Late May to June. When the sun is—” He stopped, staring at his grandmother. “Wait. That’s now. That’s exactly when Ganga Dussehra is celebrated.”
Dadi’s smile was like the sunrise. “The first crack in your skepticism, my dear grandson. Come, let’s offer our prayers and then go home. Tomorrow, I have much to show you.”
As they performed the simple ritual of offering flowers and lamps to the river, Tarkik found himself wondering: Was it possible that this “superstition” was based on actual observation? But that would mean…
He shook his head. Tomorrow would bring answers. Tonight, he watched the lamps float away, carrying the prayers of thousands into the darkness.
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