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| Bachu, my river guide, near the Harishchandra Ghat along the Ganges in 2004 |
His name was Bachu and he was my river guide along the Ganges on a summer morning there in Varanasi. And he was difficult, to say the least. For as he rowed, he haggled, pushing for more rupees. "I take you to the burning ghats. Everyone wants to see." And yes, I'd hoped to see the Harishchandra Ghat where ashes of the cremated were cooled and sent into the water. And so much more. But Bachu wrecked the still and quiet of the early morning river. The current, it continued, but Bachu stopped the flow.
We must seek out, we must protect, the flow of writing. The subjects we address, the genres that we ply -- they are but secondary to the primal flowing, the rivering of writing.
