Musafir The Traveler

  A Memory of My Mother The boat rocked softly on the waters of the Ganga as I sat beside my younger brother. Between us, on his lap, rested a small steel tumbler, the last physical trace of our mother. The river breeze was cool, but inside me, memories rose warm and sharp, one after another. I saw her again as she was on my first day of school, holding my tiny hand, walking me through the gate with a smile that hid her own nervousness. I heard her voice telling us stories at night, her Hindi simple and sweet, her imagination endless. I remembered her sitting beside us during homework, not understanding our English or science lessons, yet listening patiently, encouraging us with her presence alone. She never needed to know the answers, she was the answer. And now she was gone. I had been seven oceans away, in my adopted land, when the news reached me. I took the first flight home, heart pounding, praying I would make it in time. But fate had its own rhythm. I had not seen ...

A Memoir of a Childhood Journey There are journeys that take you across miles, and there are those that take you inward—toward memory, meaning, and the quiet truths of life. I was eight when one such journey began, sparked by a telegram and carried on the wheels of a bus, a bicycle, and an ekka.        The Telegram and the Journey I was eight when the telegram arrived. My mother held it with trembling hands, her face clouded with worry. When my father came home, he read it aloud, my grandfather in Allahabad was gravely ill. We needed to go. Bags were packed quickly, and the next morning we boarded a bus from Nagpur. Fourteen hours of winding roads and dusty windows later, we reached Jasra, my father’s hometown, just outside Allahabad. We stayed the night, then continued toward my mother’s village. At the edge of the village, my mama ji, her brother, was waiting with a bicycle. No car, no cart, just a humble cycle and a warm smile. We loaded what we could onto ...

             Reading a recent blog by a college friend, Shailesh, about their visit to the Maha Kumbh Mela in Prayagraj (formerly Allahabad) brought back vivid memories of my own journeys to my grandparents' home nearby. Inspired by these recollections, this piece serves as a personal attempt to revisit and relive those cherished experiences. The Echo of Triveni Born in the sacred city of Prayagraj (formerly Allahabad), the Triveni Sangam was a second home to me. From my earliest memories, I recall the ethereal calm that enveloped me during our annual visits to my grandparents’ home. Every year, like a faithful ritual, we would make our way to the confluence of the rivers Ganga, Yamuna, and the mystical Saraswati. The cold embrace of the holy waters, the gentle murmur of prayers, and the warm, reassuring presence of my family, it became a part of my soul.  But life has a way of gently ushering us away from the familiar. By the time I was a young...