Neha wiped mud from her eyes. The sun, breaking through a tear in the clouds, turned the froth into liquid gold. Ahead, the glassy stretch before ‘Golf Course’ rapid reflected the jungle—lush, dripping, impossibly green.

In the silence, they heard it: a bell from the ashram on the cliff above.

Vikram just grinned, pushing the yellow raft into the current at Brahmpuri. “Everyone is a tourist. You asked for an adventure.”

They careened toward ‘Roller Coaster,’ a rapid that in October was a playful bounce. Today, it was a vertical drop. The raft lurched, tilting forty-five degrees. Marco, the Australian backpacker, nearly flew out before Vikram leaned his full weight into the high-side call. The boat kissed the edge of a submerged rock, spun twice, and spat them out into a sudden, breathless calm.