“There are so many stories about the Ganga. We all read about it...it is the ‘mighty’ river after all. But I wanted to see for myself why it is special,” said music composer Shantanu Moitra when I asked him why he chose to cycle the length of the Ganga in 2020.
The National Award-winning composer is no stranger to adventure. His decision to decode what gives the river its unique character took hold of him during his 100-day expedition across the Himalayas with photographer Dhritiman Mukherjee in 2018. “We travelled from Kashmir to Tibet and everywhere, we came across tributaries of the Ganga or references to her,” he said.
But this curiosity and love for travel are just as much an ode to his late father, who hailed from Benaras. “My father passed away during Covid. I didn’t get a chance to say goodbye, and that was hard, but this loss also gave me a sense of urgency. I hoped that reaching his city would give me closure,” he said. The 2,700 km journey completed over 70 days gave Moitra more than that.
Moitra started his journey from Gaumukh, the snout of the Gangotri glacier and the source of the Bhagirathi, a major tributary of the Ganga. It is here that Moitra’s worries faded as the river whispered its first lesson. “The sight was surreal. Seeing the drops of the water trickle down from the glacier, starting as a tiny stream before becoming a mighty river, was profound. It made me realise that big things often start small,” he said. Moitra’s trail included pitstops at Rishikesh, Narora, Kanpur, Varanasi, Patna, Bhagalpur, Murshidabad, and Kolkata.
Just two hours from Gaumukh and en route to Rishikesh, Moitra came across a quaint hamlet named Bagori where the river revealed a side of herself that he never knew. “The village was so serene, with barely a few houses around. There were apple orchards till the eye could see. Here, people practise Buddhism but still hold the river close. Just an hour ago, I had visited a Hindu temple in Gangotri, and here, I was at a Buddhist monastery. We often view the river from the perspective of the Hindu religion, but she is special for all,” he said.
In Benaras, Moitra witnessed a different kind of love for the river, one so deep that imagining a life away from it is impossible. Here, the river is life itself.
“Benaras is full of paradoxes. It is where life and death coexist. I was still grieving my father’s passing, so it was an emotionally charged experience, but I also saw the incredible way in which people’s daily lives are intertwined with the river. For instance, I met a jalebiwala who was hit hard due to Covid-19’s impact on tourism. But he didn’t want to leave the riverside, so he adapted and started making jalebis in the shape of Walt Disney characters to attract children and the few tourists who came. All this just so he could stay near the river,” he said.
This is just the first of the many stories Moitra encountered. The more people he met, he understood that “in Benaras, the connection to the river is everything. It is their identity, their sustenance, and their home.”
“This is what astounds me about the Ganga. There’s a love, almost an obsession, that ties people to it. People are born here, live here, and many want to die here. I don’t know of any other river that commands this kind of deep, emotional devotion.”
Moitra also talks about meeting Jamuna Devi, India’s only female dom (a member of the caste that performs cremations).
“Her story is extraordinary. After losing her husband at a young age, she was left abandoned. One day, she sat by the riverside, watching bodies being cremated. But what struck her was the inequality—rich people’s bodies were being burned with full rites, while the poor were left to decay, sometimes eaten by scavenger birds. That was her moment of purpose. She decided that everyone deserved dignity in death, regardless of gender or wealth. Slowly, step by step, she entered this male-dominated space and made it her profession.
I’ve seen her at work—it’s almost like watching a warrior in battle. In her home, she’s soft-spoken and grounded, but at the cremation grounds, she’s fierce and unrelenting. During the Covid crisis, when bodies were arriving in overwhelming numbers, she told her team, 'We don’t have time to go home. Set up cots here, keep sipping glucose, and make sure no body goes unattended.' For nearly 12 days straight, she and her team worked tirelessly. And miraculously, none of them contracted Covid.
Jamuna Devi embodies the strength of the river. She once told me, 'The river shows us the path, especially when everything feels lost.' And she’s right,” he said.
Devi is not the only one to whom the river is a companion and a confidant. The river’s significance is often traced to history, mythology, or something deeper. But the reason, in fact, is even simpler, which Moitra found out when he was cycling through Bihar.
“One day, while cycling, I found myself alone because my crew had a technical issue with the drone. They told me to go ahead, and they’d catch up. So, for about an hour and a half, I was completely alone, cycling next to the river. It was a bit eerie but since I didn’t carry my phone with me, I had no way of contacting my team. I stopped near a big tree by the river to rest and hydrate. While I was there, I saw an old scooter approaching with a young married couple on it. The woman was carrying a bunch of goodies. They didn’t notice me as they parked and walked to the river. The man sat right by the riverbank, while the woman sat about 50 metres away. They sat in silence, each lost in their own thoughts, for about 15–20 minutes. Then they returned to their scooter.
Curious, I asked them, ‘Why did you sit apart like that?’ The man explained. ‘We got married just before Covid. We live in a joint family, and my wife barely has any personal space. She’s surrounded by people all the time, so sometimes, she just needs to be alone, to talk to someone or something that won’t judge her.’
So, twice a week, he brings her to the river so she can talk to it. ‘Why the river?’ I asked him. ‘Because the river flows. It carries her words away. It doesn’t hold on to them, doesn’t judge.’
That hit me hard. This was therapy—India’s way of coping with emotional burdens. She didn’t go to a therapist or write in a journal. She came to the river. This is why the Ganga is more than just a river. It’s a silent listener, a source of strength for countless people."
“But does the river speak to you?” I asked. He answers my question with a memory he shared with singer Sid Sriram aboard a wooden boat, with the river’s moss-green placid waters spread around them.
“The river has its own rhythm, its own voice, but you can only truly listen in solitude and in the right state of mind. I had heard Sriram’s music long before he became the huge name he is today. When I asked him to be a part of this so that we could compose music together from this experience, he agreed without hesitation. He flew all the way from the US and landed directly in Bihar—no fancy hotels, no big setups—just straight into the wilderness.
One day, while shooting the video for the song, our drone battery ran out of charge. The boatman refused to take us back to the river bank and return without charging extra, so we waited for the battery to be recharged on a sailboat in the middle of the river, far from the banks. After nearly ten minutes of silence, I suddenly asked Sid, ‘Are you okay with where your life is at the moment?’ I have no idea where that question came from. It wasn’t planned—it just surfaced.
Sid looked at me and said, ‘That’s strange. That’s exactly what I was thinking about.’
He opened up, telling me he was at a crossroads in his life. His career as a pure Carnatic vocalist was gaining momentum. At the same time, he was diving into R&B, film music, and pop—genres that were skyrocketing in popularity for him. But he was conflicted. Am I doing too much? He wondered. ‘Should I focus on one path? And if I do, will I disappoint people who expect something else from me?’
As we sat there, the river almost spoke through me. I told him ‘You love music. Don’t categorise it. Don’t box it into names or genres. Music has many forms—just enjoy it, like this river.’
That’s the magic of the Ganga. It has this way of pulling out the questions you’re too afraid to ask yourself—and sometimes, it even hands you the answers.
I cycled alongside this river from its source to where it meets the sea. Despite all attempts by humans to control it, the river flows relentlessly forward. When it merges with the sea, it loses its identity, becoming part of something greater. Every drop, from beginning to end, is still the river."
What has changed in him after the journey, I asked. “Everything,” said Moitra. “I’ve met people saving others from suicide and women helping to cremate unclaimed bodies. Through it all, the river connects them. After their work, they sit by it, silently reflecting. I live by the sea in Bombay but can’t recall the last time I sat and simply stared. The river creates a unique bond, as if saying, 'Thank you for today.' It changed how I view my music, life, and what I value—my family. I’ve become more aware, less likely to take things for granted.”
