Three children went to meet the River. They said to me, Aibee Auntie, she is old, our River, very very old and very beautiful.
The River was old but the children were young, with eyes that danced like sunlight on a river's breast at high noon.
"Mamma," they chirped, "we'll bathe in the River, float with her fishes!!!!" Their faces swum with delight, and their artless excitement infected even my been-there-done-that soul.
Chattering like a flock of sandy Babblers, we soon came upon the bridge that spanned the River. And suddenly, there was silence, the children's chatter frozen in shock.
"Where is the water, Mamma?" They whispered. "Where has the water gone?"
"Mamma?"
"Mamma?"
A wasted river lay beneath us, dark streaks of morbid liquid overrun with upstart hyacinths. The River no longer flowed, hemmed in by baked earth crisscrossed with cracks, naked sand, exposed stones and the sludge of plastic.
"Where is the water, Mamma?" Their voices were whispered wails of disappointment.
But I knew. I knew where the water was. There, up ahead, imprisoned by the dam it's waters were being disciplined, being trained, being fattened :
to burn our lights, to turn our motors, to churn out our foods....
"Mamma?"
But Mamma was looking far away. She turned to me, "Aibee, I grew up on the River's bank here you know. Papa would bring us here to swim in her waters."
"Of course, I never could learn to swim!" She laughed, a little apologetically.
"And now the water is gone."
The dancing sunlight had dimmed and faded from the children's eyes. Only their parched gazes now looked out over the dessicated River.
To that God whose temple stood on the banks of the River, I sent out a frantic prayer I had heard on the lips of a friend from many years back , uttered as she was driving over bridges after bridges on rivers that were all dried up: "Saare dariya bhar de Bhagwan, Saare dariya bhar de....."
The River was old but the children were young, with eyes that danced like sunlight on a river's breast at high noon.
"Mamma," they chirped, "we'll bathe in the River, float with her fishes!!!!" Their faces swum with delight, and their artless excitement infected even my been-there-done-that soul.
Chattering like a flock of sandy Babblers, we soon came upon the bridge that spanned the River. And suddenly, there was silence, the children's chatter frozen in shock.
"Where is the water, Mamma?" They whispered. "Where has the water gone?"
"Mamma?"
"Mamma?"
A wasted river lay beneath us, dark streaks of morbid liquid overrun with upstart hyacinths. The River no longer flowed, hemmed in by baked earth crisscrossed with cracks, naked sand, exposed stones and the sludge of plastic.
"Where is the water, Mamma?" Their voices were whispered wails of disappointment.
But I knew. I knew where the water was. There, up ahead, imprisoned by the dam it's waters were being disciplined, being trained, being fattened :
to burn our lights, to turn our motors, to churn out our foods....
"Mamma?"
But Mamma was looking far away. She turned to me, "Aibee, I grew up on the River's bank here you know. Papa would bring us here to swim in her waters."
"Of course, I never could learn to swim!" She laughed, a little apologetically.
"And now the water is gone."
The dancing sunlight had dimmed and faded from the children's eyes. Only their parched gazes now looked out over the dessicated River.
To that God whose temple stood on the banks of the River, I sent out a frantic prayer I had heard on the lips of a friend from many years back , uttered as she was driving over bridges after bridges on rivers that were all dried up: "Saare dariya bhar de Bhagwan, Saare dariya bhar de....."
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