The river skirts the city and moves in slow, languid movements on days when the Universe is at peace. It is as ancient as the sea and as fickle as the winds that dance with the sea waves. It has a mind of its own and though the people swarm towards it on holy days, it flows past with discernible disinterest, callously shaking off the offerings left behind after the day’s worship. Provoke it, and it shall bare its fangs and eat its way into the city, breaching the ground floors of the houses and stripping the city down to its most naked state. It rages, till the storm dies and then it slowly ebbs away.
………
Everyone knew her story. Some feared her. Some condemned her. Many kept a stoic silence, each time her name was mentioned. A few ignored her.
She lived in a quiet, unobtrusive house in a bylane on the eastern fringes of the city. She rarely came out and the path leading to the house was deserted on the days she did. For people have good memories and stories like hers are like clay tablets, baked to perfection and passed on. Everybody trusts the storyteller and follows the lesson that the story conveys. Never mess with people who can drive a knife into someone’s heart. It does not matter why they did it. What matters is they did it. And she had done it.
She had done it one monsoon night when the rain was beating down and the house was plunged in darkness. There was something fearsome about the darkness that night – it hung oppressively over the house and the wind kept howling hysterically.
She went up to the top of the house with a lantern to fasten the terrace door. She did not hear him enter through the broken window at the back. On her way down, she paused to pick up the clothes that had been left to dry on the landing. The rain was pelting down on the asbestos sheet just above the landing, drowning the silence.
When she reached the ground floor, she saw him.He was standing over her young daughter. She screamed. He strode towards her menacingly. She dodged his flailing arms and rushed to her daughter. The girl was lying in a pool of blood. She let out a cry, trying to rouse her still form. He meanwhile, was heading towards the window through which he had come.
He had barely managed to reach it when something hit him from behind. He spun around and before he knew it, a sharp pain shot through him as something pierced his chest. He let out a cry and landed in a heap at her feet.
At dawn, the rain abated. The morning light weaved its way through the heaving clouds and when the neighbours woke up, they heard her weep. They rushed to her but froze at the sight that greeted them. A thwarted lover had killed a young girl and her mother had punished him.
The world spoke about it for years. There were hushed conversations in corners and behind closed doors about what was right and what was wrong with what she had done. Some spoke about the dead daughter’s ways.
She returned home after six years in prison. The rage within had subsided into a dull ache. They did not speak to her. They let her walk past their closed doors and watched her through their curtains. When she returned home, they opened their doors.
The river knew her story though and had wept with her that night. When she let the ashes of her dead daughter slip through her fingers, it had gathered them within its womb. It did not question her. Nor did it pass a verdict. For the river never judges us. It knows our thoughts and our struggles. We have travelled together from the beginning of time and our stories have always been the same – eternal and unchanging.
Jaya Pillai
Image : Ameya Sawant ( Unsplash)
