We all have a safe haven tucked away in the corner of our mind, where we take refuge each time things go wrong in life. My refuge is beside a river…

Each time I close my eyes, images of my native place, crosses my mind. The small village near Thiruvalla, on the banks of the mighty Pamba river still holds importance in my life.

The old towering house nestled amid aging trees, overgrown creepers and flowering shrubs, always gave me the shivers. But I always loved it for its mysteries and shadows. And still do.

There were two things I cherished here; one was my grandfather’s old and dusty library overlooking the river and second, the river ghat. Every morning after breakfast, I would rush to the ghat and make sure no villager had occupied the place for bathing or washing.

It is the most beautiful place I have ever seen. Rectangular slabs of granite, with jagged sides, lead us into the river. Weeds run up to the cold granite steps and shady trees droop over the muddy bank. Tall coconut trees sway their manes and create fleeting images on the crystal-clear water. Tiny red and black-stripped guppies nibble at my feet as I tiptoe into the warm water. I used to sit on the stone step laden with dry leaves and withered flowers, and look at the fishing and passenger boats gliding by occasionally. Everyone seemed to be in a hurry, like the river, never stopping for anyone.

She flirted and danced with the wanton wind, with fallen leaves and flowers adorning her hair. The sun played games with her while she smiled coyly, her laughter echoing all the way downhill. She used to beckon me to join her, but all I ever did was go knee-deep. Yet she didn’t complain, she went on like a song, forgiving and smiling.

It was just she and I, whispering secrets and shutting out the world. I could see, at a distance, the old creaking bridge overcrowded with vehicles. But I rather enjoyed the company of the water snake and the beaver, who emerged at intervals, as if to keep watch. I could see the fishermen hauling shellfish and huge lobsters from the riverbed and throwing them on the kettuvallam (big black boats). It’s all fresh in my mind.

I haven’t gone back in years, but still I see her everyday, she is in me always. She might have changed for others, but for me she hasn’t. Sometimes it’s so much easier to fool yourself and believe that the past is unchanging, the present constant and the future decided. We prefer to believe that nothing has changed and that nothing will.

Often we fear to go back into the past for the fear of rekindling the same old agonies and regrets. We live in this cocooned sanctuary, which exists only in our mind, and try to believe that everything happens for good. Tis not true, but what does it matter?