Creativity in Prose - Aranyika Kapur (VII B)

Autobiography of a River

by Aranyika Kapur (VII B)

The ice is thawing and I am growing up. From being a trickle of water I have become a gurgling brook. I know for sure now that it is time for me to leave the safe haven my parents, the icy Himalayan glaciers have provided.

No rollercoaster ride can rival the thrill of gushing down the steep slopes, taking sharp unexpected twists and turns. It is exhilarating. I feel invincible. The leaves and flowers drop into me as I rush along; it makes me feel as if someone is tickling me. In some places I drop several feet forming a waterfall. At places like these lots of people stop to take photographs’. I can`t imagine why but then maybe I can! I know I look gorgeous and people stop to enjoy the beautiful sight and to take pictures.

 The sights along which I flow are quite peaceful, women working in the fields, dogs with shaggy coats roaming around. I also see the occasional SUV pass by, brimming with excited tourists. As I near the foothills my pace slackens and the cars and noise increase.

At this stage of my journey I reach an extremely important religious place where people worship me. They stand on my banks chanting prayers and submerging offerings such as flowers and fruits. These humans get up at unearthly hours to bathe in my waters. I love watching the lamps at night and when some people set afloat little flower boats carrying earthen lamps, it doesn't take long for the boat to overturn and then my waters douse the flame making and the remains tumble into my depths. As you can tell, this is a place where I feel extremely important.

However, as I flow into the plains onwards instead of rushing along like I used to, I move slowly, weighed down by the amount of garbage thrown inside me.

Earlier people threw in flowers and fruit, now instead, I am filled to the brim with bottle caps, shreds of plastic bags, discarded clothes, food, and pollutants from industries. I know that I have a lot of detergent running through me. I feel filthy. Even the air feels heavier and oppressive. I feel as if I am choking. If a river could take a bath I definitely would. The pollution and waste keep adding to my width and increasing the distance between my banks. The noise of traffic, people yelling, almost deafen me; I know that I have reached the worst stretch of my journey. I really loathe passing through this area. It makes me so sad that people with no regard for my feelings just dump all the trash, wash their clothes using soap that makes me feel itchy, in my water. I feel betrayed when I see some of the same people who had sung hymns in my praise and chanted my glory aloud now throwing cartons into me. I long for my carefree days gushing down the Himalayan slopes.

As I reach the lower plains, the way I flow mirrors my mindset, tired. The bends become wider and I can feel that I am nearing my destination, the sea. 

In a way, however, my journey will never end as, depending on how you see it, I am either blessed or cursed to flow for eternity.