I saw a short girl who was long enough to bathe in the 50ft deep waters of the Sangam. Her hair were Ganga, pure and serene, like the metaphor of salvation. They made the waters holy, dissolving sins and offering peace. She was calm and lively, life to fishes and corals. However, she had tears in her eyes. The tears were muddy and green. They were the reality of Yamuna. Just like another girl, who was an unhappy person.
Her unhappiness was like a case having a beautiful cover. She suspected herself of hosting a beast. Shrink legs, dark skin and bowls under her eyes, she was a goddess underwater. She painted thirty seven sunsets over the horizon with her magical words. Maybe, words were her best friends too (just like they were mine), and they never failed her. She was a lethargic chaos, a bulk at the bottom of boiling water. A bulk, which was only an illusion after a time, but beautiful. Illusion was the reality of Yamuna, and beauty was a simile to a poet residing in Himalayas.
He was struck at the peak of the mountain he was in love with. Frozen till his waist, ice was consuming his soul and fueling his passion. A prisoner of contention and a seeker of content, he was trying to heal his half-dead spirit. Ganga was his adoption and poison was his child. He danced like a madman with decaying bones and a hurt heart. The origin of Ganga, and the mud of Yamuna. He too, painted with words. He painted me. He was a lie of a cosmic saint and the saint was himself. Though, for me, he was the only truth.
– Shantam Sahai
