A hermit came at my footstep. He saw me intently. He gazed at my ever-flow. He then said that I was angry. And built a courtyard at my banks. No one paid heed to him. He thought him a madman. The next sunrise, he sat by me. He kept looking at me. Shame is an emotion, I could not express. Yet, as he sat there, with his eyes questioning me, I felt ashamed. Was I to flood? What if Cyra, too, would become a product of a disaster? Will she be remembered? No. For I think not. The hermit, I