I am Narayani, the bestower of salvation. Emerging from the lap of the Himalayas, I have for centuries nurtured life, faith, and civilization. While the faith associated with Lord Vishnu—in the form of the *Shaligram*—resides in my waters, my very current flows towards Bihar, touching the soil of Kushinagar, the site of the Buddha’s *Nirvana*. My banks have witnessed countless chapters of Sanatan and Buddhist heritage. Yet, today, for the first time, it feels as though my waves carry less water and more the agony of tragedy.
When the scene of the tragedy originating in the Himalayan region of Nepal reached my waters, I too shuddered. Since August 26, it is not merely wood and mountain soil that have washed into my embrace; flowing along with them are the remnants of ruined homes, household belongings, and the shattered dreams of families who perhaps do not even know in which direction their loved ones were swept away. A heavy silence now hangs over my banks in Kushinagar. My waves crash against the shore and recede, leaving questions in their wake: To which child does this broken toy belong? Of which family are that doorframe, bed, sofa, gas cylinder, and other belongings the final remnants? The bodies found in my embrace make this question weigh even heavier. Looking at these faces—now beyond recognition—one imagines a mother’s eyes searching for her son, a wife waiting for her husband’s return, and a child gazing at the doorway, hoping for a father who never came back.
The search for them has now come to a halt at my waters. I am Narayani. I am known as the bestower of salvation. People’s faith is deeply connected to my waters. Yet, this time, my waves have carried not a tale of salvation, but a story of death and separation. The debris from the devastation in Nepal that washed into my current seems to have shrouded my true form—that of a life-giving, serene river. Until just a few days ago, lamps of faith used to glow along my banks. The voices of bathers would echo here. Farmers looked upon my waters as a source of hope for life. Today, people stand on those very banks, gazing far out at me—perhaps hoping to find a loved one, perhaps hoping for a familiar face to emerge, or perhaps hoping that some object washed ashore might tell the story of a family. The hardest moment for me is when someone tries to recognize an item lying on the bank.
There is hope in their eyes, yet fear upon their faces. They turn the object over and over, examining it, only to step back in disappointment. I witness it all. I have much to return, but how can I restore the loved ones these people are searching for?
I have also felt the fury of the tragedy that devastated homes in Nepal. I can only imagine the terrifying screams that must have filled the air as the waters swallowed everything in their path. Within my embrace lie the remnants of shattered households and the dreams that were scattered along with them; there are bodies, and with them, the stories of families whose wait may never end. I will keep flowing—from the mountains to the plains, from Nepal towards Bihar. Centuries will pass, my banks will change, and the people will change; yet, the story of the Nepal tragedy etched into my waters will not be erased so easily.
