It was very early in the morning. Mathuranath, as usual, took his holy dip in the Ganga. Barefoot and clad in a dhoti , a namavali wrapped around his body like a shawl, he was hastening back home. In the copper vessel in his hand, there was holy water. His feet were mud-smeared, he was mumbling slokas from the Gita. This daily ritual protected him from the cold during winter and gave him comfort in summer. In the cool half-light of early morning, he was walking with rapid strides, all by himself.  Mathuranath had been doing this for the last 30 years, except when seriously ill. Ten or twelve years ago, there were people to accompany him. Some of them were dead now, a few had become infirm, and the rest had left Rampur. After the death of Banwarilal, the last of his companions, he was all alone.  Now, every morning as he touched the water of the river, a strange feeling came over him. It seemed as though he belonged to the river, and it waited for him daily at dawn. And when he came ne