Fiction Park
Submerging
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 waSampurnata
Just like every day in the past 297 days, I wake up to the sound of a rooster. It is the most pestering sound. It is strange 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 with 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 would never come out of his deep sleep to catch me in my act of 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; coming out of that damp tiny room in that congested building into the real world outside gives me a sense of freedom. If I had money and the wherewithal to make money, I would never return to that room. 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 oranges I stole from my sister-in-law’s room and I give it to them. They smile and give me blessings. I smile back and walk ahead. I make my way towards Pashupatinath—I feel like it is the heart of the city. I find its golden shrine and ancient architecture and the river Bagmati in the background magical. There is also death here. No one’s eyes can escape the weight of the souls that the Bagmati River carries. But the purity and divinity that is held by the currents of this holy river is hidden beneath the dirt and ignorance all around. Its secrets are so subtle.
I stand on the riverbank and gaze upon my reflection. I stare at the dark brown mud and the green weeds growing from it. I walk to the river’s edge, bend down and scoop up some river-water with my cupped palms and wash my face. I then dip my pot in and pour more water over my face.
The splash awakens something in me, and I feel a strange peace. 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. The sun’s rays touch my skin and slowly dry up the last drip, and I sit there just closing my eyes.
“Not many of you do that.”
I jump back, startled. When I look to see where the voice is coming from, I see an old man sitting by a rock, watching me. His hair reaches his thighs and his forehead is smeared with markings. I do not know if he looks amused, or if that’s 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 have not heard him.
“The 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 your laughter, unlike every other person I see.”
I still don’t speak and pretend not to hear.
“Alas. So young. You are not a coward, but you are also not brave. You hide but you want to fly. You people don’t know what this life could mean if you were to just fight that fear.”
I start scooping up more water with the pot and pouring it over my body, pretending to be completely immersed in the act of bathing.
“You know what my peace is. It is eating these pigeons. Every day I eat one. Usually an old one, or an injured one. I help get rid of its pain. I kill it and drink its blood and feast on its bones. It’s the same as what you are doing 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 towards the old man, and I find that he is now smiling. He is playing with the pigeons, talking to them.
“Not many have the mind to discover their inner peace. You seem to have it. At an early age. At your age I ran after women and robbed helpless people. You are wise. You have the power of choice. I am off to kill this pigeon. You have your answer.”
He leaves with a pigeon and walks towards the streets. I don’t want to see more.
I look at the river again—my river so beautiful. I can see below the brown and scum. I can feel the depths beneath the muck. The currents under the muck are drawn to the sky and the sky is drawn by them. They pull the clouds and dare them to burst into a shower over the river. Secretly, they beg for peace. They call me.
I can feel the river’s dark heart drawing me in. Slowly, we pull each other. Eager to embrace it, I close my eyes and jump into the river and lose myself to the currents. I come up for air and then plunge in again. Four, five, six times.
I don’t want to come out. Slowly I flow with the currents. Like the river. I am in the river. I am the river.