“It’s not water anymore,” he muttered, wiping a tear that was actually a reaction to the sulfur dioxide. “It’s a sewer.”
Arjun saw his own reflection, pale and thin. “Myself.”
Rudra Singh laughed from the podium. “See these fools? They play in holy water!”
Arjun surfaced, gasping. Moti pulled him out. “Now you hear her. Now you know. The Ganga doesn’t need your prayers. She needs your action.”
A voice spoke—not in sound, but in vibration. It was not a goddess. It was a collective . Billions of cells of life, each one crying: Purify us. We are not waste. We are worship.