Sparkling dawn lighting up the ghats like antique jewels gave her solace. Rajjo forgot her turmoil and lack of faith, forgot her amassment of wealth, forgot the fraudulent cases her enemies had slapped on her over the years, forgot the monster of an empire she had created in the name of the Lord, forgot the gargantuan assemblage that gathered at various places to catch a glimpse of her, forgot the haste and the endless schedules she needed to keep, forgot her followers who were nothing but a sea of nameless faces.

When the first ray of the rising sun breathed life into the ghats, she successfully escaped the hum of her chartered flights and the buzz of her plush Rolls Royce and the perpetual consultations of her family members about running her empire. She had lost track of who was doing what. She was just driven by one need, to increase the mass. That was the only incentive cemented in her head and she had almost forgotten why increasing the mass was important to begin with.

One of her favourite moments while visiting the ghats was hiring a boat and a nondescript boatman who would take her for a quiet ride, paddling along the river, crossing the ghats dotted with ash-smeared sadhus and pilgrims who were praying, performing their morning ritual pooja to the rising sun. She was one with the surroundings. The mass that needed to be fed constantly with her sweat and her soul was a far cry from here. Sitting in the boat, swaying with the river, Rajjo was closer to the railway tracks back in the village that was now a distant memory.

Rajjo had been here for two days already. She was staying in one of the exclusive hotels known for hosting dignitaries and for their assurance of privacy and comfort, not to mention that it had the best view of the ghats. With her face partly screened behind a pastel scarf, her presence in the vicinity was known to few. Wearing the traditional Indian robes, Rajjo still made an arresting image with her waist-length curls and smoky skin drawing appreciative and confused glances. Some struggled with the familiarity of the face but most were unable to place this alluring waif-like figure as the formidable and powerful Godwoman Durga. However, Rajjo loved that anonymity the place offered her. It empowered her.

For the last two days she had watched the glittering evening arati at the Dashwamedha Ghat and walked around the streets of Benaras, where the aged whispered secrets into her ear and chanted mantras. The old were driven by their belief that dying on the ghats of Ganga would assure attainment of freedom and salvation, and thronged the rickety hotels. So that’s what it was all about – Rajjo whispered back to the wind. The chanting enveloped her as she walked on the narrow streets of Benaras.