A trip to the land of Lord Vishwanath where Ganga flowed abundantly drove me compulsively to the ghats, my mother and me holding each other's hands as we stepped carefully into the ever flowing lap of maternal warmth.
Dipping our heads in ritual obeisance,
hearing the melodious gurgle of water above us, I believed naively I was on the last leg of survival until the moistened moss of head could take no more and I rushed up gasping for air.
For my mother, a sharing of rituals of the mystics, a custom she underwent in the land of her ancestors, a legacy she handed down to the next generation accompanied with flowers and a clay lamp carrying the offering of two women lost in the ravages of testing time.
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