When the River Took Everything

Aarav always knew the river by its sounds. In the morning, it was gentle enough to hear the temple bell across the water. In winter, his father took him there to wash their old motorcycle. During summer evenings, Aarav and his little sister Maya sat on the stone steps. They threw pebbles into it. That night, the river sounded different. It was almost midnight when Aarav woke to the smell of wet earth. Then he heard his mother. “Aarav, get up. Don’t ask questions. Just get up.” He opened his eyes and saw water moving across the floor. For a moment, he thought he was dreaming. Their red plastic bucket was floating beside his bed. Maya was crying from the next room. Aarav ran toward her, but the water was already above his ankles. He remembered the little wooden box beneath his bed. It contained his school certificates and the photograph of his grandfather. He reached for it. His father grabbed his arm. “Leave it.” “But Baba—” “People first.” Those two words stayed inside Aarav long after everything else disappeared. They climbed onto the roof with almost nothing. Maya was still holding the stuffed rabbit she had slept with since childhood. From above, Aarav watched their village disappear. The tea shop where his father bought his morning tea was gone. The yellow gate of their neighbour’s house was gone. Even the narrow path where Aarav had walked to school every day had become part of the river. Maya whispered, “Will our house still be here tomorrow?” Aarav wanted to say yes. He couldn't. Then he heard something. Not the rain. Not the river. A child crying. Across the darkness, someone was clinging to a tree. Aarav's father held his shoulder tightly. “Don't go.” Aarav looked at Maya. Then at the child. For the first time that night, he understood something frightening: Sometimes surviving means watching someone else disappear. And sometimes you have to decide whether you can live with that.