Background: This story is set in Kathmandu, the capital of my country Nepal. Girls are married off at an early age and expected to treat their men like god.
There is a temple Pashupati and river that flows besides it called Bagmati. Bagmati is a a very holy river for the Hindus, yet it is extremely polluted. People are ignorant
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The sad thing about the place I belong to is that it could have been more and more beautiful, had we not tampered with its course. But alas, we have is what we have, and what are we to gain from complaining about what we couldn't do and what we don’t have?
Just like everyday of the past two hundred and ninety seven days I wake up to the sound of a rooster. It is the most pestering sound. Weird it is that it seems to pierce through only and only my ears. Every morning, I wake up with a start. I cast a glance on the other side of the bed and see him sleep peacefully besides me. My husband. I don’t love him, but he is a nice man. I have never been beaten or forced and he brings me flowers every now and then. But I don’t love him. He is too ugly and old for me. I am beautiful and can thrive. But I must comply to his needs and serve him to the fullest. Well, that is what everyone says. Secretly, I see no God in him and I stopped drinking water from his feet after I found out that he will never come out of the deep sleep to catch my crime.
I place an empty pot on my slim waist and swiftly get out of the house. Dawn has just begun to crack and the road outside is silent. Some street dogs lie fast asleep on the paved roads. I walk further. I cherish these mornings, for coming out of that damp tiny room in that congested building to the real world of Kathmandu gives me a sense of freedom. if I had money and mind to make money I would never return back to that room. I would never return back to where my mother bore me. I would run and run. From people and from what they say.
I see a few people on the sidewalk. They are old and sick. They beg me for money and cry out in pain. I have five stolen oranges from my sister in law’s room and give it to them.They smile and give me blessings. I smile back and walk ahead. The temple of Pashupati lies in the heart of the city and of the people that live here. Its golden shrine and ancient architecture and the river Bagmati in the background is magical.The dirt and death in the river is lucid. No one’s eyes can escape the weight of the souls Bagmati river carries. But the purity and divinity that is held within this holy river is hidden beneath the dirt and ignorance. Its secrets lie subtle.
I stand on the very bank of this river and gaze upon my reflection. But all that is to it is dark brown mud and green plants. I cannot feel its beauty. However, I bend down and collect a handful and wash my face.
Splash it goes against my face. I smile to myself. I feel awake. It is not the water, it is more. It is refreshing. It lightens up my face, it seeps into me and alerts my inner being. It is my moment to rise and shine. The sun plays its game and slowly dries away the last drip and I sit there just closing my eyes.
“ Not many of you do that.”
I jump. When I look back I see an old man sitting by a rock and watch me. His hair reached his thighs and forehead bore markings. I do not know if he looks amused or its simply the way he is. But he looks at me knowingly. As if he can see beyond my face. I know not to mingle too much with these street people disguised as fortune tellers and pretend to not have heard him.
“ Human mind works in strange ways. There is yours. You are the first in many years who truly loves the purity of this impure water. You have nothing hidden in that glee like every other person I see.”
I still don’t speak and pretend not to hear.
“ Alas. So young. You are not a coward but not brave. You hide but you want to fly. You people. Dont know what this life could mean if you just fight that fear.”
I fill the pot and pour the water over my body and pretend to be immersed in it.
“ You know what my peace is. It is eating these pigeons. Everyday i eat one. Usually an old one, or an injured one. I help it get rid of the pain. I kill it ad fry it and drink its blood and feast on its bone. It's the same you do with the water. Do you not feel immortal? Why aren’t we all like that.”
I stop what I am doing and stare at the water flowing away. I wonder where it goes. Maybe nowhere. Maybe it just goes on and on. Never stops. No end and no start. It just is there.
I look back at the saint and he is now smiling. He is playing with the pigeons and is talking with them.
“ Not many have the mind to discover their inner peace. You seem to have. At an early age. Your age I ran after women ad robbed helpless people. You are wise. You have the choice. I am off to eating. You have your answer.”
He leaves with a pigeon and walks towards the street. I don’t want to see more.
I look at the river again. My river so beautiful. I can see beneath brown and scum, I can see the beauty beneath the picture these people have painted. It dances against the sky. It teases the clouds and dares them to shower upon it. Secretly it begs for peace. It calls me.
I can feel it come towards me . Slowly we pull towards each other. Eager to embrace. I close my eyes and jump into it and immerse in its beauty. Four five six times. I don’t want come out. Slowly I flow with the current on an endless journey. Like the river. I am in the river. I am the river.
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A few days later they found her sari, her bangles, her shoes and the pot. The pot showed a flowing river that never ended and a single feather of a bird.
Some say it was a pigeon.
Some believed it to be god and built temples upon it.
The river still smells of rotten ignorance and hypocrisy.
