On a bright, sunny day in early October, 2009, I joined a group of river runners to journey down the Ganga from Kanpur to Varanasi. Amidst a modest crowd of curious onlookers, the 12 of us sped along in three inflatable boats, each powered by 40-horsepower engines, cutting through the tranquil waters of the river.
Starting from the historic Massacre Ghat in Kanpur, our fluorescent orange boats quickly became a source of fascination. Such vessels were rare in these waters, where smaller, more traditional boats were typically used. People gathered along the banks, while children ran alongside, waving enthusiastically. As we made our way toward Dalmau, between Raebareli and Fatehpur, human habitation grew sparse. While the boats navigated the shifting channels to find the smoothest path, I saw it as a unique opportunity to learn firsthand how a river flows and shifts with time.
As the river flows onward, it steadily carves one side of the bank, becoming heavy with mud and sand. Too weary to carry it further, the river deposits its load on the opposite shore, much like a relieved porter setting down his burden. I watched as the mud cliffs crumbled and melted into the current, layer by layer. The river battered the rocky cliffs, but they stood unshaken, marked only by a few crevices or holes, which swallows, martins, and bee-eaters happily turned into nesting sites. Kingfishers darted in and out, effortlessly catching fish.
As we sailed, we passed ancient temples, mosques, and ruins, all swept along by the river's flowing current. Occasionally, we got stuck on hidden sandbanks, finding ourselves knee-deep in water as we jumped out to push the boat free. Despite our efforts to avoid the sandbanks, we kept getting stuck, leading to a long day of jump-push-restart as we navigated the river's tricky waters.
The river stretched before us like a molten, muddy highway, erasing all traces of human presence. We passed countless villages, their names unknown to us, yet their people greeted us with warmth, cheering from a distance. After a long day of cruising and manoeuvering through silt, we finally reached the Dalmau Bridge, where our support team awaited with refreshments and fuel for the engines.
With our bodies and boat replenished, we dropped anchor and searched for a secluded spot to camp. The beauty of sailing expeditions like this is the sense of freedom they bring—a nomadic lifestyle where you settle wherever you choose, leaving whenever the wanderlust calls, constantly chasing the unattainable.
The howling of jackals disturbed our night, but exhaustion overcame us, and we drifted into a peaceful sleep. By morning, we were back in "drill mode," repacking and preparing to depart. However, the sky had darkened, and the wind made the river feel more like the sea, with waves tossing the boat relentlessly. As we continued, dolphins appeared, leaping in pairs or groups, sometimes a whole school surfacing after a meal.
We stopped at Bhitori, a small village on the way to Allahabad (now Prayagraj), where the villagers were thrilled to host us. They helped us anchor and treated us to an array of pakoras, samosas, and tea in kulhads. Afterwards, we navigated the river's sweeping "S" curve, aiming for the concave side of the banks where the water flowed strongest, allowing us to ride the tide towards our next destination.
Everything was in full swing, from celebratory pujas to cremation rites, as we tackled the strong currents of the two river systems. The cross-currents took a toll on one of the engines, and we had to park on one of the sandbanks to fix it. This sandbank was massive, a mini-island with a rolling wide, languid and flat beach.
The next day brought a change of plans. We realised that instead of the scheduled night halt at Mirzapur, we could make it to Varanasi by day’s end. So, we began the long stretch without many diversions, not even the dolphins. As we navigated the river, the human presence increased, with small fishing and ferry boats filling the waters. Men sat along the banks, patiently waiting with their fishing rods. Some waved at us, while others kept a keen eye on the slightest movement in their lines.
We were soon halted by a heap of ancient ruins at Akbarpur. This was not the famous Akbarpur where a meteorite fell in 1838, but a lesser-known, humble namesake. Among the ruins, we discovered a beautiful unmarked mausoleum and a quaint tea shop. After a brief tea break, we pressed on, the river widening and deepening as we moved ahead.
By midday, we reached the Mirzapur Bridge for a refuel and a delicious consignment of samosas. A few hours later, we cruised past the historic Chunar Fort, its majestic ramparts looming over the river. By dusk, we finally saw the ghats of Varanasi in the distance. Before entering, we slowed to admire the Ramnagar fort and palace, rising magnificently from the waters. Built by Maharaja Balwant Singh in the 18th century, it houses a museum of vintage cars, swords, antique clocks, and more. We ended this leg of the journey at Tulsi Ghat, near the iconic Assi Ghat.
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