A River Runs Through It
There is a sketch that’s etched in my mind. It’s also reflected in the many narratives of India – in novels, essays, Hollywood movies depicting an Indian scene [before Slumdog Millionaire, I must admit]. There is a shrine, often large, sometimes smaller – shaded by a tree - by the bank of a river, a lake, a reservoir. This could well be the retirement vision of peace and calm for many – etched deeper by a constant exposure to such a place in life, or through art. I first came face to face with such a place, decades ago, in the shadow of a family tragedy in a small dusty town called Lalitpur. There had been a loss in the family and many rituals involved a river close by. There was a small temple built in the shadow of a large peepul . The reservoir channeled water into two small shallow pools where I swam with my cousins. A tragedy temporarily pushed back for a while as we jumped around in those pools on hot summer afternoons. A naughty uncle asked a bearded, mat lock hai...