The River’s Embrace

The afternoon sun gazed down upon the River, and with its rays, turned the water into a sheet of molten silver, winding through the heart of the grove. Mannn stood beside it, his feet chilled by the damp earth, his nostrils filled with the fragrance of lotus and wet moss. The canopy of the grove arched above him, filtering the light into patches of dappled rays that danced upon his skin. He had wandered here sometime after dawn, restless wanderings gnawing in his chest like something nameless and therefore irresistible. The villager's warning had kept reviving in his consciousness: The grove claims those who love too dearly. His fingers clutched at the locket around his neck: heavy with the past, heavy with Lila, his first love, who still giggled in his dreams.

Water lapped against the bank, whispering secrets older than the stones. All at once, Mannn knelt and, cupping his hands, drank. The river was cold, rattling against his lips, as with that swallowing, a shiver very nearly spidered through him. Cold? No. Awareness. He was not alone. The air underlined in the presence made him pulse a little quicker. Mannn rose slowly, scanning the grove with a growing apprehension. The banyan trees stood like sentinels with their roots entwined into the very earth deep below. The soft wind picked up, carrying with it a dull hum, nearly a song, soughing from the river.

He stepped closer to the water's edge, catching a flicker of movement across the rivulet. There, where the river widened into a shallow pool, a figure emerged from the light. A woman. She stood waist-deep in the water, glued in glare from the sun. Her long, dark hair lay down her shoulders glistening like polished obsidian. She moved, bending the world around her; she moved so that there was grace in every movement, as if the river answered to her. Mannn found his breath caught within him: No, not a villager, not a mortal. A hymn, a pulse of divinity, resonated in his bones.

He should have looked away. An idea struck him, sharp and insistent, with terror and awe combined. Looking at her would be defilement—like stealing fire from the altar of a temple. Yet his eyes were glued to her. She bent down, her hands trailing in the water, rippling out from her hand on light. Her skin glowed—almost as though she wasn't reflecting light but emanating it—as if woven from starlight. Mannn's heart thudded in awe and longing. Another step, slurping mud between his toes, became another step on an increasingly narrow path toward only her.

She turned then, and time slowed as their gazes locked. Her gaze sliced through him, layered by grief, guilt, unuttered prayers. Eyes deeper than and longer lasting than the night sky of the desert where he had once wandered lost after Lila's death. But there was warmth in them, there was kindness that turned him to jelly. For a moment, time dripped away: He saw her not just as she was now, bathing in the river, but as something who transcended time—a being that had always been and would always be. His lips opened, but there came no sound. What could he possibly say to a goddess?

The woman tilted her head, and there was a slight smile settled upon her lips: so human, so intimate, that the divine veil shattered. A yearning returned into him with a vengeance—an ache he had not felt since Lila. His thoughts flooded back in: Lila with jasmine in her hair, laughing, sharing moments of joy as they danced under the monsoon sky. But this woman was neither Lila nor the other. She was more and less and everything. The locket burned against his skin, setting fire to his promises, to his loss. Was this desire a betrayal? Was this dishonor for Lila that he stood here, bewitched by a vision that might tear him apart?

The woman lifted her hand, water dripping from her fingers like liquid diamonds. Come, the gesture seemed to say. It was light and almost imperceptible, but it dug into his core, plucking a thread right through to his soul. He stepped into the river, letting the cold bite his ankles first, then claws of ice crept up to his knees. The swelling current was gentle, but it felt alive, swirling all around him as though it was testing his will to remain. He entered deeper, his focus on hers, fighting through fear and reverence. What was he doing? The villagers' words clawing at him—those who love too deeply—but the warning was a faraway sound drowned by the thrum of her presence. 

Halfway through the river, she disappeared. One moment she was there, luminous and solid; the next, gone, leaving only the spreading ripples which dimmed again. Mannn stood entranced, with the water lapping his thighs. He gasped for breath, and his mind spun. Had she been real? Or was the grove playing tricks, building illusions out of his sorrow? He spun again, scanning the bank, the trees, the sky. Nothing. Just the river, the grove, and the heavy silence clung to her absence.

Then it came—the sound that shattered the stillness. A deep, sonorous bell tolled from the direction of the village temple. Mannn's heart lurched. He knew that temple, had passed it on his way to the grove. It was ancient, rusty, and neglected for years, its rope frayed and useless. But the sound rang clearly, an isolated note that hovered in the air, trembling with such power that it raised the hairs on the back of his neck. It was no human hand that had struck it. The grove, too, began to hum, leaves trembling although there was no breeze.

Mannn trudged toward the lodge, each step seeming heavier, fewer questions storming through his mind. The bell rang again, its declining sound a still-dominant authority. He sank to his knees in mud, trembling fingers grasping the locket. The vision of Lila floated across—her smile and shining eyes, the soft whisper of her name in the darkness. He had loved her with every fiber of his being, had buried her with the dust of his blood when fever claimed her. That love had shaped him, broken him, and now this grove, this woman, awakened something different inside of him-something scared and sacred.-Something divine? Oh! Trouble is: The longings for that goddess-woman, do they lessen what he had felt for Lila, or are they, maybe, an extension now of it, a deeper call he had not yet understood? 

He pressed the locket against his lips, the metal cold against his skin. "Forgive me," he whispered, unsure of whom he was addressing—Lila, the goddess, or himself? After all, the river continued on, polishing away her memory in its indifference; at present, it moved under a smoothened surface with no memory of her. Yet to him, her presence lingered somewhere in the air and in his blood pulse. She was here, somewhere, watching. It brought him the shivering blend of fear and desire. 

He picked himself up, clothes clinging to his skin, and walked with the curve of the river toward the temple. The bell no more sounded, but its echo would not leave his chest, for it was an invitation he could not ignore. The path was not wide, and ferns and wildflowers grew profusely beside it; he felt their petals brush against his legs like soft fingers. The grove appeared to be watching him, the silence pregnant with expectation. He passed by some lotuses, all bright pink against the green, and paused. Of all the flowers, one was different, as if it refused to be bound in tranquil perfection, tremulous under unseen fingers. His breath caught. Was it her? A sign? He reached out, then stopped, afraid to disturb such delicate beauty.

The temple came into view, weather-beaten yet proud stone walls embraced in vines that seemed to cradle rather than choke. An open bell tower, its body pockmarked with age, had long since lost a halter hanging from it. Mannn was agog and quickened his breathing. No one was ever there. Not a priest, nor a villager, nor the wind strong enough to move such ancient weight. Yet he had heard it, felt it in his bones. He mounted the stairwell, his bare feet silent on cool stone, standing in front of the sanctum: a small stone statue of a goddess laid her gaze back upon him—Parvati perhaps? Or possibly Durga?—serene and piercing.

He knelt, hands clasped in prayer, with no words whatsoever presenting themselves to his tongue. His heart and head were full, yet strangely fragmented. The woman from the river, the bell, the grove—all fragments of a jigsaw puzzle he could not yet hold. He thought, though, of Lila again and of their nights spent dreaming of a future they would never share. He had sworn that he would carry her with him in memory and let it be his guide. Yet this new yearning, this sacred one, felt an undertow drowning him. Was it then a sin to desire her, the divine woman who appeared to know him and call him without uttering a word? Or was it a blessing for him, a chance of Welling up all the wounds left behind by Lila's death?

The locket slipped from his grip and landed on the stone with a soft clink. He stared at the thing, throat clogged. It was all that he had left to her: a lock of hair; a silver promise. He took it in shaking fingers and opened it. Lila's face looked back at him, not an image painted but a memory, vibrant and alive. He could see her as she had been, laughing in a mustard field, her sari flying in the wind. Then the face of the divine woman had come unbidden over hers, two faces merging until he could not tell one from the other. He snapped the locket shut, gasping.

"I don't comprehend," he said aloud, his voice echoing inside the temple. "What do you want of me?" The words were aimed at the goddess, at Lila, and the grove itself. But the only reply was a faint rustling of leaves outside, while the river murmured somewhere far off. Mannn stood, his legs barely able to support him, and stepped into the grove. The sun had declined far over; finger-like shadows cast thick across the ground. He felt vulnerable, raw—the grove had lifted its skin to let see through to his heart.

He returned to the river, unable to resist its pull. The pool where she had stood was empty; the water lay still, mirroring only the sky. Mannn sat on the bank, pulling his knees to his chest while keeping his gaze upon the surface. The fear was still there, a cold knot in his gut, yet reverence and longing lay alongside it, each heartbeat a prayer. He could not tell if he was after the goddess or ghost, for truth or madness. All he knew was that the grove had claimed him, as the villager had warned. And he was not so sure he wanted to be free.

The sun fell slowly on the horizon, and time drifted suspended. Only the river would flow on while Mannn resisted, heavy with longings for Lila-since all that was left of his life, the life they had planned, has turned to dust. His mind envisioned misses of the divine woman, the sparkle of her eyes, her smile, and the graceful movement of her inviting hand. Then came the bell ringing, without a thought, without a hand to strike it, a high call from immense and unknown. He wondered, in a fear near to hope, what will it be that the grove will call upon him for next.

The river keeps flowing, whispering gently but insistently, and Mannn was hearing it, trapped between his yesterday and a feeling of tomorrow that seemed too sacred to touch.