The Sacred Kartik Bath

By Vidya

Kartik has arrived once more,
Grandma will bathe at break of dawn.
On certain days, to Mother Ganga,
She will take me along.

Those memories of childhood days
Still fill my heart with delight.
My mind wanders back to those moments;
I miss them even now, despite the flight of time.

The sacred bath before sunrise—
We had to wake at four.
After finishing our morning chores,
With a twig for brushing teeth, we would head outdoors.

Grandmas, aunties, cousins, and kin,
All the women from nearby homes,
We would walk together to the Ganga,
For that was how life flowed in those days.

No carts, no carriages,
On foot we had to go.
In the darkness of the night,
A little torch was all we needed.

On moonlit nights, however,
Even that was quite unnecessary.
The moon would lead the way ahead,
Lighting our path so generously.

Walking briskly, sometimes ahead, sometimes behind,
We would reach the river’s shore.
But in Kartik’s biting cold,
We were afraid to enter the water.

Grandma would say, “Just take one dip,
And you will soon discover—
The water will begin to feel so warm,
And you won’t wish to leave it ever!”

Gathering courage, we would step
Into the water with our friends.
Then we would splash and play around,
Until the elders’ patience reached its end.

“Don’t go farther, child, you’ll drown!”
Grandma would call in fright.
And if we dared to disobey her,
She’d threaten to leave us behind.

Lighting little lamps was our excuse,
A daily ritual, a cherished delight.
In the misty glow of early dawn,
It seemed Diwali had returned that night.

Slowly, slowly, dawn would break,
And light would spread across the sky.
Flocks of birds would gather there,
As the morning hours drew nigh.

“Look, my child, even these birds
Come here to bathe,” Grandma would say.
My innocent heart believed her words—
If Grandma said so, it must be that way!

From the sandy banks of the river,
We would pick up large, beautiful shells.
Bringing them home, we’d pierce them through
And make little strainers from them as well.

The women sang songs of Mother Ganga,
Swaying gently as they sang.
“Grant us your blessed vision, Mother Ganga!”
Their devotional voices filled the air.

Faith would rise like a mighty tide
Along the sacred river’s way.
With purified bodies and joyful hearts,
We would return home at break of day.

Kartik, the holy month of devotion,
The sacred banks of Mother Ganga’s stream—
Those baths I took beside my Grandma
Remain a blessing, a treasured dream.

— Vidya