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 thought, wanted me to bethink. In the months of the sun, I flow with my whole whim. I thought it better to destroy now. But no. I must let it pass a sun changeling till I open my wrath.
After two sun changes, I was prepared. For the hermit had cursed Cyra. Whence Cyra fell on my knees and cried like a child fallen on the grass, crying at her mother’s feet.
Then, I opened my doors again to her.
This time, she refused to enter. For I think she heard me. She wanted to see me with my motherly wrath destroying everyone who destroyed her. She wanted to worship me, but I had given her nothing to worship for.
The hermit was outraged at my enthusiast waves. He stared at me with his eyes wide open. Then he looked at her. And said nothing but gave her a proceeding way.
As the moon shined upon me, a hundred or so humans gathered at my very banks and talked, as if hiding secrets from me. They stood, distanced from me. I daresay the hermit had conspired against me. That he would outrage the villagers against me. I immediately slowed myself. I have seen them, how helpless they become when I pause. When I just couldn’t flow. The herd left just as soon as my rippling water left its bank.
Then came the hermit. He looked and paused. He said in a timid voice, ‘O Mother Rivy. Recall me. I am your servant – I heard not his name – I came here. Once, with Cyra, at your very bank.’
I very well recalled him.
My water fountained upon him.
‘I have found what has shaken you. Outraged you. The mother inside you has risen. For you think that Cyra is your child. And indeed, maybe she is. Do not curse us. We are ruled by the laws of the human race. Despising is a trait, of us humans who are merciful of your water. Forgive us. Cyra, your breed, has povertized and shamed herself in the flesh market. We saw her, killing her child from your pure water. I think not that you, the merciful mother, would take him away. And so, we ask your pardon. As an offering, we have nothing.
Except for our mercy for Cyra. Do not violet us. We will forgive her. And we will see to her mother who deserted her. She must, indeed, have your mercy. And she will, or so do we desire, forgive her.’
My water rippled as if saying “indeed”.
The hermit rejoiced.
In the next Sun, a hundred persons assembled again and Cyra was forgiven by placing a garland around herself. Her mother placed a flower, as a gift to me. And my water, returned them, their mercy-filled mother.
THE END
