Stand beside the Narmada in Maheshwar during sunrise and you’ll notice something different. The river doesn’t rush. It remembers. The boats here drift like thoughts. The steps that lead into the water look like they were carved by centuries, not hands.
Women in bright saris float flower lamps downstream, whispering prayers their grandmothers once did. A priest quietly folds his palms as the current takes away what was never his to keep. And if you stay past dusk, when the ghats go quiet and the temple bells echo one last time, the water hums.
This stretch of the river does not roar. It reflects. In its surface are the silhouettes of old palaces, stories of Rani Ahilyabai, and the rhythm of looms weaving Maheshwari silk in lanes just behind you.
Locals say the river forgets nothing. Every foot dipped. Every ash scattered. Every promise made under full moons and festivals. It keeps everything. And maybe that is why standing by this river feels like opening a diary you didn’t know you had written in.
Come here to let go. Come here to remember.
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