My mother held me
tightly before my departure, today. I won’t lie, I teared up. It was the day I
would finally make the over two-thousand kilometer long journey to the sea,
just like so many of my sisters.
It was
simultaneously a coming-of-age ceremony, and a farewell. I’d been preparing for
this my whole life. Yet, I teared up; I couldn’t help it. In the arms of my
mother, I seemed to always revert back to a wee baby, protected and safe
against the world.
When she tried to loosen her embrace, I held on tighter, and she did, too. All too soon, it was time to go, and all too soon, my mother was just a silhouette against the stark white sky, and my life had only one direction- to go forward.
Every mother
believes their child to be special, right? Mine was no exception. “Ganga,” she
would say, “you are going to do great things one day. You don’t know your own
power. You will be a deity; a goddess. So, grow, young princess and seize your
destiny.”
dramatic words to
hear from anyone, but my mother had this air about her. Whenever she spoke,
every one listened spellbound. Wherever she walked, either people flocked, or
they fled. My friends had said, a few years ago, that they thought she was cold. She wasn’t to me.
She prepared me for my fate. She held me and told me I was strong.
She prepared me
for my journey towards the east through the rugged terrain.
A family was
enjoying them self, splashing around in the water and their laughter was
infectious. I sent a gentle wave to aid in the sister and brother’s play, and
they let out another shout of joy. Seeing their mother tugged at my heart, and
I saw a father, too, both catching fish for their picnic.
I could have
spent all my time watching them, but alas, it was not meant to be. All too
soon, the path led me out of the clearing, and I found myself bigger, slower
and smelt the air getting bitter, as if angry. In the distance, I could hear…
screams? Mother had not prepared me for this.
Despite the
sudden loss in momentum, I rushed to see who was hurt, but the sight baffled
me. So this was a city. A place where
humans reigned, nature receded into the farthest corners not to be seen, and
where at every hour, metallic beasts walked among people, swallowing them and
spitting them out at different places but if only this could have been the
biggest thing I saw.
No, I saw smoke
leave out of mountains dull and grey, and saw them let out furious wails as
they dirtied my clothes, my skin, my face, my health.
Still, I forged
on, too shocked to process what I’d just witnessed, and sure enough, with time
the dirt disappeared, and I sparkled again. But the next town brought on
another worry I’d never had before.
Humans, I
observed, prided themselves on how much they knew but they knew so little. And
what little they did know, wasn’t even all true. The schools I passed,
institutions of knowledge and truth, spouted nonsense, saying that my mother
would, one day, be no more. Blasphemous.
Such unpleasantness, I encountered a lot, and word after word, I brushed off, yet they still made their burrows in my mind. What kept me going were the words of my mother, and one thing that I will always give humans credit for: music. One song in particular, I loved most, and would often hum to myself as I passed more schools and folk.
In my journey, I experienced many things: joy. Awe. Vexation. And now, I felt anger.
The fifth time those
filthy mountains, those factories soiled my space, I was ready to snap. I felt
the waves surge, and high on the power, I felt like I could do anything. But
before I could bring down my fist, I saw two children, playing by a fountain,
gleeful, content.
Years ago, my
mother had told me a story of my cousin, who was unfortunately no more but of
how her deeds cost the lives of an entire civilisation. She used to be a queen,
rule the land where my sister, Indus, currently flows, and how in her anger,
she drowned a once great settlement. I heard the teachers call that place
Mesopotamia. They might not know the true cause of its demise, but we do. And I
am just as powerful.
If I want, I can rain retribution upon the so-called learned ones who know not the damage they dispense. If I so wish, I can flood their homes. But like mother said, I do not know my own power. If I give in to the temptation, I could turn those smiles upside down, and children shouldn’t have to pay for the crimes of others.
Too late, I leave
the fertile plains, where still, the humans don’t realise how much they depend
on me but I am cheerful, for now, I shall meet my favourite cousin: elder
sister Brahmaputra.
We squeal when we see each other, and I remember something my mother had told me about power, that it can be destructive, as well as beautiful. And with my family by my side, I experience just that. We paint a wonderland so glittering, I can’t help but be proud.
In the sea, I
have nothing but time, and nothing but time to dwell on the worries that I had
so skillfully almost pushed away. What I heard in the schools now makes more
sense than when I’d merely rolled my eyes in derision and I cannot shake the
image of my mother appearing before my eyes, older, weaker, shorter.
Every day, the humans throw more and more factory waste in the sea, and I both regret and don’t regret flooding my banks when I could have.
She is tall.
She is commanding.
And she is
eternal.
I miss my mother
more than I’d like to admit, but if being in her arms means her death, then I
don’t want it. After all, isn’t love sacrifice?
I know you can’t
hear me, mother, but I hope my wishes bless you across the distance. I can
wait. I will wait. So stay there, and
stay strong, Because I quite adore this earth. My sisters. And especially you.
Bahar Dighe
(SYBA)
