Behind my house ran a network of narrow lanes, winding and secretive, known only to those who lived there. They were shortcuts in geography but also in imagination, carrying us swiftly from the discipline of home to the freedom of the playground. The dust rose beneath our hurried feet, the smell of evening kitchens followed us briefly, and then suddenly the world opened.
Running parallel to the river stood the ancient road — vast, patient, and indifferent to time. Built, they said, under Emperor Ashoka to bind trade, kingdoms, and civilizations, it cut across India like an idea too large for a single generation. That road stretched beyond our comprehension — past cities we had never seen, across plains and mountains, all the way to Gandhar, in what is today Afghanistan. Traders, monks, soldiers, seekers — countless lives had passed there long before ours began.
And on the other side flowed the Ganges.
Between the road of empire and the river of eternity lay a wide expanse of pale, sandy land — our kingdom. After school, we would arrive there almost ceremonially, bags thrown aside, uniforms gathering dust, time dissolving into play. Cricket matches merged with wandering conversations; victories and quarrels faded as quickly as footprints erased by the wind. We played, argued, dreamed, and sometimes simply lay staring at the vast sky as evening slowly assembled itself.
Only much later does one realize what that place truly held.
This was land once walked by the Buddha — perhaps not in the certainty of history but in the continuity of civilization. Somewhere along these banks, questions about suffering, desire, and freedom had first been spoken aloud. The river carried not just water but memory. Its currents seemed to murmur older wisdom — that everything flows, everything changes, everything returns.
The Ganges never rushed. It moved with an assurance that made childhood restlessness seem temporary. Sitting by its edge, one could feel an unnamed calm, as though the river absorbed our noise and returned silence. The wind across the sand erased boundaries — between play and reflection, between past and present, between a boy and the civilizations that preceded him.
As dusk approached, the ancient road would darken first, then the sands would cool beneath our feet, and finally the river would turn into a long ribbon of fading light. Mothers’ distant calls would carry across the plain, reminding us that the world of responsibility still existed.
We walked back through the same narrow lanes, unaware that we were leaving behind not just a playground, but a philosophy quietly forming within us.
Closing
Years later, I understand that those evenings were lessons disguised as leisure. Between Ashoka’s road of ambition and the Ganges’ river of surrender, life had already presented its central paradox — to move forward with purpose, yet learn to flow without resistance. The child who ran across those sands did not know he was standing at the intersection of history, faith, and time. But the river knew. And perhaps, in its endless song, it had already begun teaching him how to live.
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