The Lake

My house in the country side neighbours a lake to its right. From the balcony, I can see it straight ahead. It stretches as far as the eye can go, lined with wild greens on both sides throughout its length. They slowly transform into flaxen wheat fields on one side, the side of the village. The other side, invisible in the lake, is a luxuriant forest home to many peculiarities. I can hear the serene sound of ripples that rise and fall rhythmically from here. It rings throughout the area like a local tune. The moist breeze coming from thence sticks to my skin and my hair but I do not mind it. I devour the calm it brings to my body and mind. It carries away with it all my tire and worry. The water in the lake appears pearl white in the light of the day. The shine is intermittent, curtained by tree branches and leaves that make it more enchanting to look at.

An old legend is associated with the lake before me. It is passed down to us from our elders, to them from theirs and the ones who came married were taught the legend by the village elders. It is passed down to every child born, generation after generation, in the soil nourished by the lake whom it embraces close. It is the string tying the people of this place together for centuries, an indisputable inheritance. 

The legend speaks of the infant village that was prospering, headed by Mr. Danim Merek. He was neither the mayor nor the ruler but the village was run by him. The people believed he was a descendant of the First Lords, they called him ‘The Farishta’. He loved the village and its people. His blessings were the reason for the village’s prosperity, its well-being and the banished starvation of its people. Food had never seen scarcity on this land, the dusk had never set with corpses in place of wheat. He blessed not with words or chants but with ‘Elixon’, the liquid of the opulent harvest. Such was the paradise he had built. The Elixon was used to grow every crop in the village. Mr. Danim Merek gave the liquid, mixed with the water which he brought to every crop field. Water was not drawn from the lake in those days, but rather distributed to the farmers. The Farishta’s blessing was that of healthy yield and full bellies. The people desired for not a better thing. 

Among the village people was a young woman named Cara. Every creature of the same domicile as hers was a friend, a lovely companion to her whose sorrow she could not tolerate. The crop-filled farms and shelves occupied by resources of nature gave her immense joy. She felt secure with the assurance that all the creatures she had met do not go to bed hungry and would not need to for a long time. She loved the yield she made out of her land and she equally loved the little curiosities that the village grounds offered and so she ventured into them as freely as a singsong bird. Some of the curiosities, over time, became her dearest friends. The village provided her with so much for which she was grateful and her admiration for the land reflected in her spirits.

In one of her ventures to places, old and new, she wandered toward the forest on the peripheral edge of the village. It was a capsule of dense greenery, an emerald pearl on land. No one went by in there, the villagers knew as little as a point on the blank about the forest. Cara shifted through the rope-like vines and hanging dishes of leaves. Crossing to the other side, she arrived at the lake. It was her discovery. Until then, the vastness of the natural wonder was unseen, unknown. 

Cara was astounded at the sight, befuddled at her discovery. The lake was

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the finest of the chance encounters she had had with nature. Something as big as a lake was never on the list of her curiosities. The look on her face emanated the shine of a thousand jewels put together and slowly, it faded as she went closer to the the water. It was a gloomy mauve. Her heart turned grave as she spotted a little fish choking on the water. Hurrying, she put the poor creature on her palms. 

“What happened here?”, Cara asked the fish.

“The waters have turned deadly, my dear. The Farishta has cursed us”, she breathed out with difficulty. Those were the last words she ever said.

Cara’s soul ached to see the poor creature who, after so severe a struggle, could not emerge victorious and lay dead on her palms. Tears sprang out her eyes but they burned on her skin as to the last words of the dead fish. 

 

The Farishta has cursed us. 

She could not believe it, she did not want to. But to the creature, so near her death, tied to life with only pain, what good was a lie? No, she had not lied. 

Cara looked around, the grass on the line that touched the water was blue, dead. The soils were heaps of ash. In the river, she noticed now, floated the corpses of numerous fish. The poor fish she held in her hand had endured more than she had thought. Cara placed her afloat in the lake, beside the others of her family.

Cara walked ahead and after a short distance, she found barrels in which The Elixon was distributed. Inside, there was water of the lake. The liquid that helped yield bountiful harvests is poisoning water, taking life away from innocent creatures and turning soil into graveyard remainders. It was unacceptable, she thought. Mr. Danim Merek had started the build of fortune based on a system of deception and crudeness. It had to end somehow, in one way or the other, for worse, for better, it needed to end.

Cara disappeared into the forest that day. No one knew where she was except what lied between the forest sky and the lake. She became a mystery of nature. The trees concealed her existence, hiding her like a treasured chest, a flower blossoming bewitched, a rose of rarest purple. The wind and vines became her guide, teaching her how to step stealthily. She watched the men come with poison and hunt down nature, every time unaware of her presence. She observed them, learning their routine, their vile ways, day after day. Hidden, she saw the light of freedom broad eyed and it sparked a desire within her to make everyone see it. But, Danim Merek's shadow hovered over the village, making the people blind to it. The spark gave way to fire over the years, it burned with a will and burned even more, the only end of it was the end of the Farishta. The end came with Mr. Danim Merek drowning in the lake, under tears, under flames and with it, was washed away Lady Cara too. 

As I sit staring at the lake in the distance, I feel a sense of unified history, a sense of justice, a sense of balance in the nature. There is a reason to why it is one of the few places pollution has not devoured. Its beauty is spared, protected by solitude of the place and the legend of Lady Cara. I have never inspected it in search of a fish but I hear that some bass and salmons are found in the waters. They reside there untamed, unbothered and oblivious. I like to think the lake found a new family to confide in and with it, it healed. Every time, from my childhood to now, when I look at the lake, I am reminded of the woman, who never lived, and yet, was one of the greatest that ever did.