Rippling and gliding silently like a black python, the river shimmered like the stars in the heavens above, reflecting the lights of innumerable diyas from its banks. We were sitting in a boat, down the Ganges and in front of me was the hermit, bearing the face of a man in peace with his Gods.

It was a full moon night and I had approached this recluse for some weed, while he tore me down with his immaculate logic on life, religion and society.

“Man creates his own hell, with his greed and lust for more. God is what we believe in; you can seek him in the stone or the dried leaves of this ganja but in the end, God resides within you.”

As the smell of marijuana wafted through my senses, I glided back to the realm of mortals and asked him, “Have you ever shared your wisdom with a woman too?”

“Women are the incarnation of the Mother Goddess herself, and Ma knows it all. I can’t teach her anything new, can I?”, asked the ascetic.

To find respect for woman from a city known for its malicious eve-teasing was not something I was expecting; the night-sky suddenly became more beautiful.

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This post was written in response to WriteTribe’s 9 sentence fiction.

I'm taking part in the Write Tribe Festival of Words -3