River Sutra

I spent three days beside one river and it was somehow not boring for a single minute, which tells you either about the river or about how I had been living.

The Tirthan is trout-clear and undammed, one of the last rivers in Himachal that still owns its whole voice from source to mouth. Our homestay's veranda hung over a pool, and the river ran all night like a sentence with no full stop, and we slept inside its grammar.

The days had a shape. Morning: the ecozone path upstream toward the park gate, dippers bobbing on wet stones, the water so clear the fish looked like they were flying. Noon: a pool, a rock, bread and local honey, the serious work of sitting. Evening: downstream through the village lanes, saying namaste to the same three grandfathers, our stock rising visibly each day.

Our host, a fishing guide, showed us how to read water, the seams where current and calm negotiate, where trout hold like commas. He releases almost everything he catches. "The river is the account," he said. "Fish are the interest."

Local truth: this valley fought off a hydro project years ago and knows exactly what its river is worth. Respect that pride: no soap in the water, no loud music on the banks, no shortcuts through the trout pools.

March to June, September to November. Stay in one place; moving daily breaks the spell that staying builds.

On the last evening I realised I had stopped narrating my life to myself. The river had taken over the commentary, and it was better at it.