One bleak morning, the Narmada is quiet, dormant, and sleepy. As the rays of gold softly touch the gentle waves, the river wakes up from its deep slumber. Humans appear from nowhere immersing themselves into the cold water hoping for emancipation. Dogs and vagrants roam about looking for crumbs. As the sun rises above in the horizon, cheeky women with devilish grins manifest themselves, selling fake silver coins and ornaments. Tourists and pilgrims walk upon the magnificent ghat on the steps that descend into the river gently, interspersed by pauses- long and short. Built by a strong yet gentle, pious Queen the crumbling fort walls whisper of a bygone era filled with respect and valour.
White washed walls of the town rub their eyes trying to get shade from lush gigantic trees and Arjun flowers. The weavers here spin gold out of cotton, soft and luminous.
Do have tea at Labooz.
Women come and go, talking of Michelangelo
As the sun begins to set, boatmen spring forth taking you down the merry river. The fort walls light up as the city begins to retire.