The River Still Flows

The river has always been a part of their lives.  It ran behind their house in Nedumudi - peaceful in summer, violent in monsoon — muttering stories only the wind understood.  After the accident, no one ventured near it.

 Amal sat alone on the lawn, his tea turning cold.  It had been six months since the night of the tragedy.  The home, once filled with laughing and Amma’s piercing voice scolding him about everything from weather to careless driving, now stood too silent.  His younger brother, Neeraj, was gone.

 He could still hear Neeraj’s voice from that night.

 "Chetta, don't go too quickly.  The road’s damp."
 "It's OK, da.  We'll be home in five minutes."
 One bend, one flare of headlights.  Water.  Silence.

 Amal was driving.  He survived.  Neeraj didn’t.

 Amma hadn’t looked him in the eye since the burial.

 Once the home had smelled like fish curry and tulsi.  Now it smelled of Dettol and was quiet.  Amal kept to his room.  His father, once a noisy guy with strong beliefs on cricket and coconut oil, had turned skinny and silent.

 One morning, Amma left a note: “Gone to temple.”  Amal followed.  He hadn’t ventured out in weeks.

 He discovered her kneeling on the temple steps, eyes closed, mouthing hushed prayers.  When she opened them, she didn’t flinch at his presence.  That was progress.

 “Amma,” he muttered.

 She didn’t react.  But she didn’t walk away either.

 Later that evening, Amal stood near the stream.  The same river where Neeraj used to swim like a fish, where they previously constructed sand dams as youngsters, where they hurled pebbles and dreams.

 He took up a smooth stone.  Held it in his hand.

 “Sorry, da,” he muttered.  “I killed you.”

 Behind him, his father’s voice pierced the quiet.  “You didn’t kill him.  It was an accident.”

 Amal turned, tears streaming freely now.  “But I was driving…”

 “And I was the one who let you take the car that night,” his father remarked, strolling behind him.  “And your mother — she told me to let you boys go enjoy the rain.”

 “We all made small choices.  And we all lost.”

 Grief is a peculiar beast in Kerala houses.  It hides beneath banana leaves and traditional prayers.  But mending comes slowly, with tea sipped in solitude and silent forgiveness.

 One week later, Amma knocked on Amal’s door.

 I made meen curry.  Come eat.”

 It wasn’t an embrace.  But that was a start.

 Days went into weeks.  Amal began going on walks, then to the library.  He joined a support group in Alappuzha for accident survivors.  He met others - a bus operator who lost his limb, a teacher who lost her son.  He recounted his tale.  He cried.  He listened.

 One day, he spoke at a school program about traffic safety.  He taught them how one instant may take away everything you never imagined you'd lose.

 “Neeraj wanted to be a wildlife photographer,” he told the kids.  “Now I take photos.  For him.”

 One evening, Amal accompanied Amma and Appa to the river.  It was full again, flowing smoothly, as if nothing had changed.

 But everything had.

 He placed a little wooden box in the water: Neeraj’s beloved toy camera, a printed photo of the three of them, and a folded note.

 The water swept it gently away.

 They waited till the box faded into the bright horizon.

 For the first time in months, Amma grasped Amal’s hand.