Dawn arrived without ceremony, a pale loosening of the dark that crept along the river like a habit learned over centuries. The Ganga lay broad and patient, its surface carrying the smell of wet stone, ash, and old flowers. Bells began to find their voices one by one, not yet in agreement, their metal notes skipping across the water. Oars knocked softly against hulls. Somewhere, a priest cleared his throat and began to chant, the sound thin at first, then steadier, as if the morning required rehearsal…
To read the full story and 19 other short stories in this series click on the links below:
This story is a part of the book “Lives Between the Dates“, my first printed collection of short stories, bringing together twenty well thought moments from twenty well known lives across twenty Indian cities. These stories do not revisit achievement. They enter the quieter hours around it. The hesitation before action. The doubt behind conviction.
Rooted in real places and shaped by history, this collection gathers the unrecorded moments that define a life more truthfully than any monument.
If you have found something here that stayed with you, some of my other books are now available in print and digital editions. They gather longer journeys, quieter questions, and stories that continue beyond this page.
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
Wonderful and beautiful my friend
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Thank you so much MM. I am sure that you would love the full story also, if you get a chance to read it.
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This is a beautifully evocative piece that draws the reader in with quiet grace. Your opening alone is mesmerizing—the imagery of dawn “loosening the dark” over the river feels timeless, almost sacred, and the sensory details of scent, sound, and motion create a scene so vivid it feels lived rather than merely read. Lines like the bells “not yet in agreement” and the morning that seems to “require rehearsal” are especially striking; they reveal a poetic sensitivity to moments most people overlook.
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Dear Vermaji, your response feels like another layer of dawn settling gently over the river.
Thank you for entering the morning with such attentiveness. When you speak of the dark loosening and the hour feeling sacred, I feel reassured that the stillness I tried to honour did not go unheard. That threshold between night and day has always fascinated me. It is a fragile crossing in itself, uncertain, almost shy, as if the world must gather courage before it begins again.
You noticed the bells not yet in agreement and the morning that seems to require rehearsal. Those were my quiet tributes to the imperfect choreography of life. Nothing truly begins in certainty. Even light arrives hesitantly, testing the air.
I am grateful that you pause long enough to listen to these small tremors of sound and scent. Readers like you do not merely observe a scene. You inhabit it. And that is the most generous gift a storyteller can receive.
Hope that someday perhaps you would get a chance to read the full story, and the 19 other in this series.
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🙏👍
Aum Shanti
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Thank you.
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What stays with me in this piece is not only the river, but the hesitation within the morning. The bells “not yet in agreement” feel like more than sound; they carry the unsettled rhythm of any true crossing.
The title suggests cost, yet you do not declare it. Instead, you let the river breathe, the oars knock softly, the chant gather strength. It feels as though the price of crossing is not spectacle, but surrender—something relinquished quietly before the far bank is reached.
May this weekend unfold like a calm riverbank—unhurried, attentive, and quietly generous with whatever inspiration chooses to appear.
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Dear Livora, your words move with the same unhurried current as that river.
You have understood the crossing exactly as I had hoped it would be felt. The hesitation in the bells was never just sound. It was the tremor before decision, the unsettled rhythm that accompanies any threshold worth crossing. No true passage begins in certainty.
You are right about the cost. I did not wish to name it aloud. Some prices are paid in surrender rather than spectacle. Something must be laid down before the far bank can be claimed. The river knows this. It asks quietly, and it receives quietly.
Your closing wish for the weekend feels like a blessing spoken at the water’s edge. May your own days unfold with that same attentive generosity, where inspiration arrives not in noise, but in the soft knock of oars against wood.
Thank you for reading with such depth and stillness.
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My husband was not keeping good health and I was busy, could not read your stories. I have just ordered your three books on Kindle. Looking forward to read them.
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Dear Lakshmi, wishing for your husband’s speedy recovery. Hope he is doing better now.
I cannot thank you enough for buying my books. You honour me much by doing so. I am sure that you would love my books.
Many more are in the pipeline. To be released/ published gradually.
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Great 👍
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Thank you.
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