पदपङ्कजं यस्य जलात् शुद्धं करोति।
स एव भक्तस्य हृदयं स्वयमेव विशोदयति॥
"He, whose feet purify the waters they touch,
Cleanses the hearts of his devotees without effort."
On the Banks of the River That Knew God
The river Sarayu flowed like a hymn that had forgotten its end. Its waves whispered lullabies to the pebbles and kissed the roots of banyans that stood like sages in tapasya. The first blue blush of morning had just bloomed on the sky's canvas, and dew still clung to the grass like blessings not yet claimed.
A lone boat rested on the bank, half-cupped by mud and half-swaying with the current. Sitting beside it, bare feet soaked in the river, was a man of earth and wind—Kevat, the ferryman. His hair was tied in a simple knot, his face was brown like parched wheat, and his eyes... they held a calm born not of ignorance, but of quiet acceptance.
He hummed a tune—old as the soil, wordless and wise.
He did not know that in mere moments, history would knock on his oar.
Or that someone older than history was already watching him.
There was a slight rustle of feathers. A black shape landed on a rock nearby. A crow—ordinary to the unknowing, but the air around it shifted like it bore the scent of other worlds.
It blinked once.
And then, spoke.
"You have been waiting without knowing it, Kevat."
Startled, the boatman turned. The crow shimmered, and before him stood a man cloaked in robes darker than the riverbed. His hair coiled like roots, his eyes like the night sky without stars. A single feather adorned his shoulder.
Kevat stood quickly. "Forgive me, Sir. The ferry is closed until the sun rises higher."
The man smiled, unmoved. "I seek not a crossing of rivers, but of hearts."
Kevat blinked. "Are you a sadhu?"
The man did not answer directly. Instead, he looked at the boat.
"Tell me, Kevat—do you believe in destiny?"
The question rang like a temple bell in the morning silence.
Kevat answered carefully. "I believe a boat floats because it must. And sinks when it should."
The man laughed. It echoed like wisdom wrapped in mirth.
"Spoken like one who ferries more than bodies. You ferry fates."
Kevat said nothing, but his eyes narrowed.
The stranger walked toward the river, gazing at its flow.
"In the stories of gods and kings, your name is a brief line—yet it echoes across centuries. You, who touch the feet of the Lord before the rishis do."
Kevat's hands trembled slightly. "What are you saying?"
"I say this, O son of the sacred soil," the man turned to him, voice steady like flowing water,
"You are not poor. You are prepared. You are not forgotten. You are foretold."
Kevat stepped back, his breath caught. "I... I am just a boatman. What glory lies in ferrying mud-soaked travelers?"
The old man stepped closer, his eyes aglow.
"When Shri Rama walks to your boat, with dust upon His feet and exile in His breath, you shall pause. You shall say, 'I must wash your feet before you step aboard.' Not because you fear dirt, but because your heart knows—those feet bear the weight of creation itself."
Kevat's lips parted in disbelief.
"You will bathe those divine feet not with water... but with your tears. Not from sorrow.
From the knowing that the Lord of all Lokas waited for you to offer passage."
The wind whispered through the trees.
Kevat sank to his knees.
"Is this true? Do such tales live in tomorrow?"
"They live," the man said, voice heavy with worlds,"because bhakti breathes before history. You shall be remembered not as a poor man…but as the one who touched the Infinite with both humility and love."
Kevat rose and bowed instinctively.
"You wear no crown, and no matted locks—neither rishi nor rāja. And yet your gaze holds the silence of forests and the sound of scriptures. Who are you, O wanderer, whose voice tastes of forgotten yugas?"
The stranger stepped lightly upon the soil, as if even the dust remembered him.
"I am the murmur between births, the witness of karma unspooled," he said, his smile deep as a forest pool. "I am Kakbhushundi, the crow who has seen time devour itself. I come not to bless, nor to warn—but to awaken the slumbering lamp within you."
Kevat's brow furrowed. "Awaken? I am but a boatman. What have I to awaken to?"
Kakbhushundi walked slowly to the river, kneeling to touch its water.
"The river carries many things—mud, prayers, ashes, even kingdoms forgotten. But today, it prepares to carry God Himself. And your boat shall be the ark of that moment."
Kevat looked at his cracked hands, at his oar resting like a sleeping child. "You speak of impossibilities. How can this wooden boat, carved by my father's hand, carry God?"
Kakbhushundi laughed softly.
"Ah! The lotus does not ask how it floats, nor the mountain why it stands. Do you not know, Kevat? Of all the great sages, kings, and warriors—it is you the Lord chooses first."
Kevat's lips trembled. "But I am poor. I own no shrine. My speech is unlearned. What merit do I hold?"
Kakbhushundi's voice turned low, like a mantra etched in time.
"It is not poverty of coin that defines man, but the richness of surrender. You are not poor, Kevat. You are the one whom even the Devas envy—for you shall touch the Lord not with ritual, but with love. And when He smiles at you, the heavens shall be silenced."
The wind paused. The river stilled. Even the sun, rising behind the eastern trees, seemed to halt in reverence.
Kevat sat slowly, as if gravity had deepened.
"Will He… speak to me?" he whispered.
"He will call you bandhu," Kakbhushundi said, eyes glowing. "And in one universe I saw, when the Lord stood upon your boat, the river ceased to flow—afraid to wash away your blessing."
Kevat covered his face with his shawl. Tears slid through the threads.
"And in another telling," the sage continued, "you refused to take coin. You said, 'When the giver of the universe grants me His presence, what can I take from Him in return?' And Rama… Rama smiled with a smile that the Vedas cannot describe. It was the smile that rose before creation and will remain after pralaya."
Kevat looked at the old boat, its paint chipped by seasons.
"Will I be remembered?"
"Not in palaces," Kakbhushundi whispered. "But in the hearts of every devotee who ever wished they could ferry God just once. For you are not the boatman of wood and rope—you are the boatman of faith and bhakti eternal."
A moment passed like an entire age.
Kevat stood and bowed low, hands joined.
"Then let the river remember me. Let my boat remember. If this be the tale written for me, I accept it with folded soul."
Kakbhushundi stepped back, smiling.
"And so, it begins. The Lord walks toward you even now, bare-footed, crowned not by jewels—but by silence."
The raven cawed from the tree. A gust of wind rose and took the sage away.
Kevat stood alone.
But not empty.
His hands reached for the oar—not with effort, but with reverence.
And as the morning bloomed across the Sarayu, the poorest man in Ayodhya stood at the threshold of becoming the most beloved in eternity.