My memories of baghmati river are that of fearful and hefty seasonal river as seen from a bridge in Bihar. In that trip to far east of india, bihar seemed a place deep into wilderness. Like in that scene of the movie Gandhi, I saw people taking their train rides on the top of the train. The pricing of tickets, the slip of schedules of those trains were too distant ideas for the people who rode those trains. Baghmati was an image of that fearful wilderness.
In that same trip, we had met an old couple, who were traveling for free in the first class compartment. The old man had a privilege, of having been a freedom fighter against the British. Later in my life, I would recall how strange it sounded to have fought against the british to be rewarded with what british had left. It sounded preposterous for once, but if you traveled with that old man, who seemed unmoved with the scorching heat or the wilderness and chaos that bothered me, you would realize how modest was a free ticket as a reward to his spirits.
His wife told me that baghmati changes its course every year and causes a lot of havoc that way. It could more formally be considered as a seasonal flood. But the woman talked about baghmati with a sense of comfort and acceptance of the floods. She might not have known science but she knew that if flooding stops the regular alluvialization of the lands would stop and we would all starve anyways. It was that acceptance of natural calamities that still amazes me.
It is unique and somewhat distinctive of the Eastern culture. This photograph just seemed to have put all of that in perspective.