GHAT 1: MANIKHARNIKA GHAT
MANIKHARNIKA GHAT
📍 Manikarnika Ghat
The fire at Manikarnika never rests.
Flames rise like restless prayers, curling into the dark sky. Smoke wrapped itself around the ancient steps as if even the air carried memories. Here, death wasn’t an ending. It was a doorway. A silent agreement between the body and eternity.
Some cry out loud.
Some watch in stillness.
Some accepted.
And among the watchers stood Ganga.
She didn’t flinch at the fire. She didn’t look away from the burning pyres. She just stood there, her white dupatta trembling in the wind, strands of hair brushing against her cheek every time the breeze passed like a whisper carried from another world.
The sounds weave together: crackling wood, distant temple bells, priests chanting mantras, a lone voice breaking into helpless sobs.
And in the middle of it all… she cried.
Not loudly.
Just a slow tear escaping from her eye, sliding down like it had been waiting for permission.
She quickly wiped it.
“Control yourself, Ganga,” she murmured under her breath. “You didn’t come here to cry.”
But she didn’t move.
Because sometimes, the fire outside burns softer than the fire inside.
Meanwhile, just a few ghats away… On the other side of the night…
📍 Dashashwamedh Ghat
The atmosphere was the complete opposite.
Light.
Chants.
Crowd.
Faith burning brighter than the lamps.
The evening aarti had just ended. Diyas floated on the river like fallen stars. Priests moved in perfect rhythm. Devotees raised their phones and hands at the same time. So crowded. The place where our bodies forget to question ourselves on the existence of gods and start believing it.
And in the middle of that chaos stood Dev.
Quiet. Introverted. A little awkward.
But today… deeply immersed.
He folded his hands tightly, eyes closed, whispering something only he and God knew.
“Just give me courage, Just one moment with her” he muttered softly. “Bas itte hi... (that's it...)”
Someone suddenly pushed him from behind.
“Are bhai, hato zara! Prasad khatam ho jaai! (Hey brother, move aside! The prasad will get over!)"
Dev’s eyes widened.
Prasad.
He quickly rushed forward. He stretched both hands out and received extra plates of prasad.
He turned.
And without thinking twice, he started running.
Through the crowd.
Across the narrow steps.
Almost slipping once.
“Arre sambhal ke! (Slowly, be careful!)” an old man shouted.
“Sorry!” Dev shouted back, still racing towards Manikarnika Ghat with prasad.
The distance between Dashashwamedh and Manikarnika wasn’t much. But that night… it felt like fate is testing how far he’ll go.
By the time he reached the steps of Manikarnika Ghat, slightly breathless, prasad safe in his trembling hands, he saw Ganga is already leaving.
Her parents stood on either side of her, immovable, unquestionable.
“Bas, enough. We are going home,” her father said firmly.
“I just want to stay for a little more time…” she tried, her voice soft but stubborn.
“No arguments,” her mother cut in. “This isn’t a place to linger.”
Dev stood at a distance. Watches from afar.
Helpless.
As she turns to go, she glances back at the fire once.
And in that small turn…
Her anklet slips.
A faint silver chime.
Chhan.
But no one noticed.
Except Dev.
He saw it fall, roll down the uneven stone steps. People stepped over it unknowingly. Someone’s heel kicked it further.
It tumbles.
Closer.
Closer.
Until it stopped perilously near one of the burning pyres.
After Ganga leaves, Dev tried to search for that anklet, and after a couple of minutes, he observed it.
He didn’t think.
He just moved.
Through the smoke.
Through the heat.
Someone shouted, "Arre pagla gaya kya?! (Have you lost your mind?!"
He bent down, ignoring the scorching warmth radiating from the burning wood. Without hesitation, he grabbed the anklet with his bare hands.
A sharp sting.
He winced.
But he didn’t drop it.
He pulled it back quickly, clutching it tight. A faint burn mark formed on his palm.
He looks at it.
A delicate silver anklet.
With tiny bells.
Still warm.
“She’ll come back for this…” he whispered, more to himself than to God.
He tucks it carefully into his pocket.
Later…
Dev sits at the ghat’s edge, feet dangling over the quiet river. Moonlight spills across the Ganga River like spilled silver. Distant smoke from Manikarnika blends into the night.
He stares at the water. Then at the moon. Then at nothing.
He picked up a small stone and threw it into the river.
Plop.
He hummed softly, a random tune, something unfinished, like him.
Just then…
“Wah wah, Majnu baba,” a voice interrupted.
His friends had arrived.
Before Dev could react, Keshan snatched the prasad box.
“Arre! At least pretend to offer it to us,” he laughed, stuffing prasad into his mouth.
Shivaji flops beside Dev dramatically. “Still how many days, huh? Every day you come here with prasad. Every day you sit. Every day you stare.”
Dev stayed silent.
Shivaji nudges. “You don’t even know which day she comes and which day she doesn’t. So you decided — fine — I’ll come daily. You won’t speak. You won’t even let her see you properly. This is not love; this is… long-term observation. It's a madman thing.”
Keshan added with a mouth full of prasad, “It's not like we want to discourage you but… I doubt she even knows your existence, Dev.”
Dev gave him a slow glare.
Shivaji leaned back, looking at the pyres. “Focus on your government exams, dude… Birth and death are the purest forms of existence. We see them here daily.”
Keshan wipes his hands. “But love? Is love pure?”
Dev, with a simple smile, finally spoke. "Are yaar, thoda chup raho na be… poora ghat hila deb ka? (Oh man, can you guys keep it down a little? Are you trying to shake the whole ghat or what?)"
Dev gets up and looks at those cremations and replies, “But isn’t love the only reason birth matters… and death hurts? Love may not be pure, but it creates meaning to life…”
Both friends paused.
For a second.
Silence.
Then Shivaji clutched his chest. “Arre wah! Poet baba activated!”
Keshan burst out laughing. “Sarkaari naukri ke formwa reject ho gail na… tab Ganga kinaare baith ke shayari kariha. (If your government job form gets rejected… then sit by the Ganga and write poetry.)”
Dev smiled faintly.
But his fingers unconsciously moved to his pocket.
Touching the anklet.
The flames crackled louder as Dev stood up again, staring at the burning pyres.
His friends waited.
Dev’s voice was calm. Too calm.
“If birth and death are pure,” he said slowly, eyes fixed on the fire, “then love also has a birth… and maybe a death.”
Shivaji and Keshan stopped joking.
Dev continued, “My love shouldn’t become a problem to her. It’s better like this. Just like that side”—he pointed faintly toward the glowing lights of Ganga Ghat—“where pooja happens… and here cremation happens. Both exist. Both are sacred. But they never mix.”
He gave a faint smile.
“We’re like that. Opposites. Even if we somehow meet… no one will like it. So let’s keep it that way.”
He slipped his hands into his pockets. His fingers brushed against the anklet.
“And by the way,” he added casually, “tomorrow is going to be a long and boring day.”
Shivaji blinked for two seconds.
Then burst out laughing.
“Yes! For singles like you!” he said dramatically, standing up. “I have plans, my friend. Valentine’s Day, brother! Big plans. I can’t meet you tomorrow.”
He wiggles his eyebrows proudly.
Keshan stretches lazily. “And because of this Valentine nonsense, my workload doubles. Couples everywhere. Gifts everywhere. Jhumkas, anklets, bracelets, rings… Love is profitable, my dear Dev. Need to open shop early…”
Dev smirked faintly. “At least someone benefits.”
They laughed, waved goodbye, and disappeared into the narrow lanes of Banaras.
Dev sits back down on the cliff.
Alone.
The moon reflected on the river like a broken silver plate.
Meanwhile…
Inside a large, old-fashioned house in Banaras. Ganga’s room door was locked from outside.
Again.
Her father paces in the hall, glancing his watch. Her parents are strict in parenting.
“Tomorrow is February 14,” he mutters.
“These useless celebrations… corrupting children. And also khal ladka waale ladki dekhe aawat baade, samajh mein aa raha hai na? (The boy’s family is coming to see the girl tomorrow, understand?)”
Her mother nodded. “It’s better she stays inside. Or else she only becomes a burden.”
Her father adjusted his glasses. “Our respect in society is more important than her childish feelings and emotions.”
Inside the room, Ganga sat by the window, looking at the moon through the iron bars.
She sighs.
“Even prisoners get visiting hours, I hate it... Humko ye rishta-vishta ka jhanjhat bilkul nahi chahiye! (I don’t want this marriage-proposal nonsense!)” she mutters.
Her phone was taken away. Main door locked.
Ganga's father hates Valentine's Day, as so many lovers were seen on that day that might influence her daughter. And he can't forget that guy. Old love story of her. So he never sends Ganga out of the house, and if it was February, Ganga was practically on house arrest. So no love can cross the door.
She lay back on her bed dramatically. “Dear universe,” she spoke to the ceiling,
“I don’t even have a boyfriend. Why am I suffering like a criminal? But they can marry me to a stranger, and that is not a problem to anyone… Bhaad mein jaaye ye society-wosiety! (To hell with this society non-sense!)”
She turned to her side. And suddenly froze. Her ankle felt light. She quickly sat up.
Her anklet. One was there. The other missing. Her heart skipped.
“When did it fall?” she whispered.
She tries to remember. The ghat. The fire. The wind.
She ran to the mirror and looks at her bare ankle.
For some strange reason… It didn’t feel like she lost jewellery. It felt like she lost something important.
Valentine’s Day had always been a mystery to her. A forbidden festival. A day her father treated like a contagious disease.
This made Ganga more interested about that day. She wanted to know how it's gonna be on Valentine's Day. Her mind always asks many questions. She tries to get information from friends, but it was never she who directly saw the things that happens on that day.
She had only heard stories from friends.
“Couples everywhere.”
“Rose sellers making triple profit.”
“Boys becoming poets.”
“Girls becoming queens.”
But she had never seen it with her own eyes.
And tonight… Her curiosity refused to stay locked. “If they are so scared of this day,” she muttered to herself, pacing inside her room, “then it must be powerful.”
Her mind flooded with questions.
How does love look on the streets?
Do people really confess?
Do ghats look different?
Does the city change?
The questions grew louder.
So did her heartbeat.
And for the first time in her life Ganga decided to rebel.
She quickly changed into a simple long kurta paired with loose palazzo pants. Comfortable. Not attention-seeking. She draped her dupatta carefully, covering most of her face. And she assumed her missing anklet is a signal that she needs to leave the house and explore the day.
“Operation Valentine,” she whispered dramatically.
She checked the door again.
Locked from outside.
She rolled her eyes.
“Papa thinks love enters through doors. He forgot about windows.”
After a careful and slightly clumsy struggle involving a chair, a bed, and pure determination, she managed to unlock the small balcony grill latch her father always forgot to check.
Midnight. Exactly 12.
The house was silent.
So silent that her own breathing sounded suspicious.
She tiptoed like a thief in her own home, holding her heeled sandals in her hand so they wouldn’t make noise.
A dog barked somewhere.
She froze.
“No no no, please don’t rat me out,” she whispered to the dog like they had an understanding.
Finally, she crossed the gate. And ran.
A few streets away, she slowed down, placed her sandals on the ground, and slipped her feet into them.
She adjusted her dupatta, covering half her face. Her heart was racing. “I’m really doing this,” she murmured, half terrified, half thrilled.
The lanes of Banaras at night felt different. Narrow. Quiet. Echoing. She walked quickly at first. Then slower. Then… bored. “This is Valentine’s Eve? It looks like exam night,” she muttered.
A few men were sitting near a tea stall, drinking something stronger than tea. Alcohol. She stiffened and walked faster. “Okay maybe Papa has a point,” she whispered nervously.
Just then she noticed a small wooden boat at the ghat, slowly pushing away from the steps.
An idea sparked.
Without thinking too much, “Wait! Stop! Stop!” she shouted, running toward the edge.
The boatman heard her. She waved dramatically.
“I have to go… huh… I mean… I just need to go somewhere,” she panted once the boat slowed down. “I don’t know where yet. Just let me get in. I’ll decide on the way.”
The boat, which is about to leave, stopped and gently drifted back toward her.
She froze for a second.
Her mind suddenly became responsible.
Are you mad?
Midnight? Alone? In a boat?
What if he’s drunk? What if he’s worse?
What if something happens?
What will you do?
Her fingers tightened around her dupatta. The boat came closer. Ganga’s heartbeat grew louder than the river. Her eyes quickly scanned around.
Near one of the cremation pyres, a half-burnt wooden log lay with faint sparks glowing at its edge.
Without overthinking (which was rare for her), she picked it up. It was warm. Slightly smoky. “Good,” she whispered. “Self-defense 101.”
The boat reached the steps. She climbed in with surprising confidence.
Sits down.
Places the log dramatically between herself and the boatman like a barrier.
And after a few seconds, she asked, very seriously, “Do you know what Valentine’s Day is?”
Her mind instantly scolded her.
What are you doing?
You didn’t even see his face properly.
What if he’s seventy years old? What if he laughs at you?
You need to start thinking before speaking.
The boatman adjusted the lantern slightly, sits, and opens his mouth to answer. But before he could, Ganga leaned forward suspiciously.
“Why did you stop the boat? What are you planning? See, I have this weapon. I can hit you and throw you in the river.”
She lifted the half-burnt log like a warrior princess.
The lantern light flickered. And then she saw his face clearly.
Dev.
Dev tries to reply, forming words, “I… I wasn’t planning anything,” he stammered. “You said you didn’t know where to go. So… I thought… maybe the river can help you think? It… Gives you time...”
He mentally slapped himself.
Wow Dev. River helps think? Genius line.
Ganga tilted her head slightly.
One side of her lips curved up. One eye narrowed playfully.
“So you’re saying the river gives life advice?”
Dev cleared his throat. “Sometimes… it listens better than people.”
That hit her unexpectedly.
She slowly placed the log down between them.
“Okay. Fair answer.”
Silence fell.
The boat gently drifted away from the ghat. The oars dipped softly into the water. The river stretched endlessly beneath the moon. The sky looked vast. The city glowed faintly at a distance. And there they were sitting opposite to each other.
