Pensive, as the river flows

 

I

The kas blooms sway,

The winds stirs, 

And always, it is the heart that sighs...

There I was, standing on the sandy banks of the Gomti river - classes and kebabs all taken a backseat - brooding with a tinge of melancholy as I stared silently at the swaying kas flowers that grew in abundance by the riverside, welcoming autumn. A semester crammed with exams, projects and submissions had passed by in a jiffy in Lucknow, and it was not until that moment that I realised that soon, it would be Durga Puja time back home in Bengal. It was my first year ever, outside home - obvious then, that I was being washed with waves of nostalgia and homesickness. But more than the melancholy that day, there was a sense of familiarity - here in this faraway land, there seemed an invisible thread that connected me to my homeland through the kas cornucopia that thrived on the river. It was a strange kind of love that can only be explained when you are so desiccated that you are happy to grasp at anything that reminds you of rain. In that stray moment, the Gomti became my muse for she reminded me of home, of the Hooghly river that I had to cross every day to get to school and college.

Autumn made way to winter, winter to spring...the kas flowers had disappeared long back, their sole purpose perhaps was to ignite that epiphany that day. For I would return again and again, to the grassy banks of the river to sit for a few minutes, inhale the fresh countryside air outside the thoroughfares of Lucknow, and brood of the riverine delights of home that I had taken for granted - the most common mistake of us mortals - and memories would flash by….

….so many times I would cross the Hooghly by launch to escape the insane traffic on the Howrah Bridge, and yet, each time there was a sense of freshness to climb aboard a wobbly ship and find that one sweet corner to see the twin cities of Calcutta and Howrah pass by. There was almost a sense of going back in time in colonial Calcutta, and I would imagine the ghats and esplanades from a century back, the small fishing boats and a few but majestic colonial buildings a weak testimony that some traces have stayed back over time. Until I would turn a bit and see the majestic Howrah Bridge all illuminated in vibrant yellow or amethyst violet, adding to my dreaminess…

...the most refreshing n’orwester I ever had, was also here on the swelling waters of the Hooghly. Returning back home one sultry and sticky evening, I had just got up a launch when the full rage of a kalbaiskahi took us all by surprise. Easily affected by colds and flus, I tried my best to shelter underneath a tattered rooftop, but in vain - the raging winds scattered the torrents in every direction and I realised there was no point hiding, for the drenching and the ensuing colds were inevitable. In that moment, however, I found my liberty - the chains had snapped and I didn’t care no more. I got out in the rain, and went all the way to the edge of the launch, now all empty, and enjoyed the drench of a lifetime. The winds howled, the thunder crackled, the ship heaved in the disturbed waters of the Hooghly, but deep inside, everything was at peace, exactly as it should have been long time back. That day, I was unstoppable, I walked back home in the rains, drenched from head to toe, oblivious yet completely acceptable of the cough and cold that was in store. But like a mini-miracle, I had perhaps found my cure, for I caught no cold. The magic was not in escaping the rains, but in hugging it with the innocent joy of a child. Years of growing up had made me forget that simple secret, until that day on the river, life seemed to corner me and remind me what was perhaps long forgotten…

II

So much noise, waiting to dissolve

On the brush strokes of a happy soul

Even Notre Dame smiles

My riverside ruminations did not stop by the Gomti. It was in Paris, when strolling by the Seine, I realised that a daily job need not be mundane and overflowing with emails to install transformers. There were those artists who happily painted by the river to their heart’s content. Ask them, and they would not use the word ‘job’, they would say ‘passion’ or ‘amour.’ It gave me enormous joy to see these artists winning battles that perhaps I could never fight, and spending everyday in the city of love and lights, struggling yes, yet living the life of their free will and choices. Paris was congested, commercialised and over-run with tourists - it was difficult to get that breathing space that I had found on the Hooghly ships or Gomti, yet there were those moments - similar to when you catch the gaze of a blushing stranger looking at you intently. Looking at the beautiful statues on the Charles Bridge, glowing to life with the lights of dusk, then going to eat kebabs by the Seine (and falafels for my veggie friends) at the only affordable place we found to eat as students, and then strolling around the Notre Dame cathedral will easily form some of the most vibrant memories in the picture frame titled ‘Paris.’ In this same picture frame, I can still see myself escaping to Bruges, Amsterdam, Salzburg, Prague and Zurich- and walking by the waters of the rivers and the canals, with the same set of insanely good friends, and creating indelible memories that will be so hard to replace. The lesson? When life gives you a Eurail pass, and no money, you walk - you walk and wear your shoes with a bunch of cheery friends, by the scenic rivers, and you laugh, and make the most of every single day. Perhaps then, my philosophy and way of life in those few days in Paris and nearby, were not so much different to those artists by the Seine. Perhaps then, on hindsight, even I had won my little battles and had said, Carpe Diem

III

In a ruddy, desert land,

A river gives a little comfort

That you will survive...

In a parched country, the driest continent, a creek becomes a celebration. A river is then a godsend! Indeed it is - the Parramatta river streaks its way through Sydney and the town centre around the river is unofficially the second oldest township established by the English settlers way back in 1788 after proper Sydney. The first settlers realised they require both freshwater and arable land to grow their crops - they thus moved upstream until they found freshwater in the Parramatta river. Today this space around the river is like a museum township - old colonial buildings, some of them medalled with UNESCO heritage honour, are strewn all around. As you walk around the river, a signpost will tell you that the small whitewashed building in front was once the Governor’s house - the most important edifice in the entire colony, or that small still -running inn was established even before the Sepoy Mutiny! 

As I walk around the Parramatta river in Sydney, I find a breath of freshness mixed diligently with a lot of history. The river would qualify as a stream back home, but as I said, in the land of the blind…Vast green parks, plenty of walking trails, brilliant history, and pretty little gardens of roses and wisterias, no wonder I love walking by the riverside. But on deeper introspection, I realised there was something else that pulls me here. No, it’s not the beauty, for Sydney has no shortage of green postcard perfect backdrops to picnic, but it is rather the story of the first settlers, and their struggle to establish a home in this fledgling colony. To move half the world to try and establish a new life in a new land with barely any support is no little feat, but that is the story of the first settlers, who brick by brick, tile by tile, laid the foundation of a new city, today among the finest in the world! It is not all white, there are deep shades of black as well, but if I choose to see the willpower to survive, it is indeed a dramatic story, and inspiring as well ! 

No, the Parramatta doesn’t remind me of the Ganges (though I must admit that the steel girders of the Harbour bridge as I cross it on a car, do remind me strongly of the Howrah Bridge). What it does though, is add a chapter to my diary of riverside stories, and remind me that be it the Volga or the Bhagirathi, perhaps any river would do well to be my muse, to help me gather my thoughts, breathe deeply,  and be at peace. And take me back to that autumnal day near Lucknow when I had stopped by the Gomti, to suddenly notice that life was different, had changed. And yet, a large part of me could stay the same, as long as the memories of what made the past were still alive, joyous and could put a smile on my face, while the eyes turned teary. Until then, a river will continue to be more than just a river- rather a swimming whirlpool of memories, adding yet another thick blue line to my map of melancholy, my diary of riverside ruminations...

19th September, 2020