Whispers by the Ghats of Varanasi
“Whispers in the River” is a poignant story set along the ghats of Varanasi, where two souls—one old, one young—find themselves conversing as their ashes merge with the sacred Ganges.
It was a misty morning on the ghats of Varanasi, where the sacred Ganges flowed quietly under the soft glow of the rising sun. The river, timeless and ancient, had witnessed countless rituals over the centuries, its waters mingling with the remains of those whose earthly journeys had come to an end. Today, it would embrace two more.
As the family stood on the riverbank, grief etched into their faces, they held two urns of ashes in their trembling hands. The bereaved murmured prayers, invoking peace for the departed. Slowly, they tilted the urns, allowing the ashes to pour into the water. As the grey-white particles met the flowing river, a conversation began—a conversation not between souls, but between the mortal remains of those who had once lived.
The ashes of an old man, whose name had long been whispered by the winds of time, drifted downstream, brushing against the remnants of a young woman, barely thirty, whose life had been cut short unexpectedly. Their scattered particles began to swirl in the gentle currents, coming together in the sacred waters.
The old man’s ashes, settling momentarily in an eddy, spoke first. “So, this is where it all ends.” His voice, though not made of sound, resonated in the way dust might recall a memory. “The body is gone, and now, even this last trace of me is being carried away.”
The young woman’s ashes, caught in a slow-moving whirlpool, replied softly. “Is it truly the end? Or is it only another beginning?” Her particles drifted closer, mingling with his as the river drew them together.
“I was ready for it,” the veteran ashes reflected. “My life was long. My bones had grown tired, my skin had weathered with time. This… this dissolution into the river, it feels like a natural course. And yet…” It paused, the weight of a lifetime of memories pressing upon him. “I feel as if I’ve left so much behind. Not just in the form of those grieving above, but within myself.”
The vibrant ashes stirred, carried by a subtle shift in the current. “I wasn’t ready,” it whispered. “I didn’t have the time to finish all that I wanted. To say all the words left unsaid. It’s strange, isn’t it? Even now, in this state, there’s still the echo of wanting.”
“What is it that you wanted?” the veteran dust asked, as their remains continued to drift side by side, their presence imperceptible to the world above.
“To see more, to do more,” came the vibrant response. “I was just beginning to understand what it meant to live. The joy of a quiet afternoon, the peace in a sunset, the warmth of laughter shared with friends. And now, that chance is gone.”
The veteran dust particles swirled thoughtfully. “Even at the end of my long years, I felt the same. No matter how much time one has, there is always a sense of something unfinished. But perhaps…” It paused as if weighing its thoughts. “Perhaps it is not about the unfinished. Perhaps it is about what we leave behind in the hearts of those who continue.”
The youthful ashes were silent for a moment, lost in contemplation. “I left people behind too—family, friends, those who still needed me. They are the ones pouring us into this river, their hands trembling, their hearts broken. Can they ever heal? Does our passing simply add to their suffering?”
“The sorrow of loss is a heavy thing,” the veteran agreed. “I watched my own children grieve for their mother, and now they grieve for me. But sorrow has a way of becoming something else, in time. It becomes a quiet ache, a memory cherished instead of mourned. The pain will pass, and in its place, they will carry forward the best of who we were.”
As the ashes continued to blend, merging with the river that would carry them far from where they had begun, the vibrant asked, “But will they remember? In a world that moves so quickly, will our names, our lives, fade away like these ashes?”
The old particles shifted, breaking apart momentarily in the current before rejoining. “Names fade, yes. Faces are forgotten. But the kindness we shared, the love we gave, the small moments we were part of—those remain. Not as monuments carved in stone, but as whispers in the hearts of those who remain. We leave traces of ourselves not in the dust, but in the way we shaped the world, however small.”
The young particles considered this; its fast-evanescing essence caught in the gentle rhythm of the river’s flow. “Maybe you’re right,” it said finally, its silvery tone softening. “It’s not about how long we lived or even the legacy we leave behind in grand gestures. It’s in the everyday moments—the love, the laughter, the comfort we gave others. Maybe that’s what matters in the end.”
The timeworn ashes drifted further, mingling more deeply with the water. “It’s all that ever mattered,” it replied. “And now, we return to the river, to the earth, to the air. This is just another part of the journey. Our time, as dust, will be brief. But the ripples we leave in the hearts of those who loved us—those will last far longer.”
As the almost dissipating particles spoke, the river began to pull them apart, each particle blending further into the water, becoming indistinguishable from the river itself. Above, the family members wept softly, their hands still wet from the sacred waters. They murmured prayers, their grief spilling into the ancient current, hoping for peace, for meaning, for some kind of comfort.
The old ashes, now almost fully dissolved, spoke one last time, its voice faint but serene. “We may be forgotten, but we were here. We loved. And that is enough.”
The young ashes, too, were fading, becoming one with the flow of the Ganges. “Yes,” she whispered. “That is enough.”
The river carried their remains onward, the sacred waters celebrated their homecoming, accepting them, as it had accepted so many before and would accept countless more to come. Life, death, and memory—all part of the eternal current, flowing quietly under the sun, as the world above continued, unaware of the silent confabulation that had just taken place in its depths.
Inspired by the last remains of my father as I emptied the clay urn into the river.
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