From the memoir: How a writer went looking for knowledge after life’s plans went awry

So, how did I find myself on the banks of the Ganga on my birthday? And why did I come to pay heed to this unusual stream of knowledge that flowed down through the centuries like the river?

Let me rewind a little.

I was happily ensconced in the costume drama of life in Mumbai, surrounded by people wearing brilliant disguises designed to attract applause. The goals had been set early – we were cheered on to win the lemon-and-spoon race, score the best marks in school, land the right job, cultivate a personality, find a partner, acquire a home, a second home … The list went on and on. And we would repeat the cycle on autopilot with our children.

I, too, had learnt to curate my life intelligently, with all the requisite masks and costumes. I went to the right schools and colleges. I had a rocking career as a journalist with The Times of India and was a published author; my adorable young son and I were cocooned amidst a warm extended family and had wonderful friends.

For various reasons, my husband – let’s call him P – and I lived in separate homes after about ten years of marriage, though we never gave up on our...

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