The River

We were walking along the quieter edge of the river, away from the familiar chaos of the ghats. On the other side, Varanasi was preparing for Dev Deepavali 🪔 — lights flickering into life one by one, temples glowing softly, reflections trembling on the surface of the Ganga. From where we stood, the city looked almost unreal, like a carefully painted scene suspended between water and sky.

It struck me then how different the view felt from this side.

I’ve been to these ghats countless times. I’ve walked their steps, felt their noise, their urgency, their weight of history pressing close. Yet standing across the river, distanced but attentive, I could see them more clearly than ever before. The symmetry, the patience of the lights, the calm beauty that is impossible to notice when you’re caught in the middle of it all.

There was something quietly humbling about that realization.

Sometimes, when we are immersed in our own lives, it’s hard to see how far we’ve come or what we truly look like from the outside. We are too close to our routines, our flaws, our doubts. Like standing on the ghats themselves, the grandeur disappears into noise and effort.

But from another perspective — through the eyes of a friend, a stranger, or even a moment of distance — the picture changes. What felt ordinary becomes meaningful. What felt incomplete appears whole.

The river didn’t move differently that night. The city didn’t change. Only our position did.

And maybe that’s the lesson the Ganga was quietly offering — that sometimes, understanding doesn’t require change, just distance; not judgment, just a shift in where we stand.