From the travelogue: The Hindu myth about how Ganga Sagar in West Bengal became a pilgrimage site

After our darshan, I was moving with the others towards a large banyan tree under which Swamiji was about to begin his sermon of the day: the story of Ganga Sagar. The sun was strong but the tree’s branches provided the ideal cover so everybody was bunching up in the shade. Prahlad, Saroj and their children sat down in the front row beside Sarla Aunty, who was patting the sweat on her forehead dry. And Veeranwali Mataji, adjusting her hearing aid, sat behind them, as did Subhadra Aunty.

The front rows were thus occupied. Which was just as well, because Rashmi Masi said she couldn’t sit on the floor anyway and Mayank had only just found a plastic chair for her. We found a place at the back.

Gracefully crossing his legs, Swamiji sat down on the tree’s circular cement base. It made for the ideal podium. He then licked his lips. “Everybody comfortable?”

“Ji, Swamiji!” Srishti said.

Swamiji smiled at her, clapped his hands. “Sab ready?” And the hubbub of voices went down a decibel.

“There was a King Sagar,” he began, and the chattering now altogether ceased. “… And one day, he summoned his kingdom’s learned saints and astrologers to his court. He asked,...

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