The letters etched into the ferry railing, including “Asha and Rafi,” were still being held in place by Zara’s fingers. She pictured them as young lovers like herself, sitting at the edge of something familiar, looking out across the river to an unknown future.
In a village where women shared secrets over spiced fish and old men smoked until their faces were covered by clouds, Zara had spent the first half of her life on one side of the river. It was her first time visiting her family in Canada since leaving almost ten years ago. She was a stranger in her own country, but her mother’s phone call had assured her that she was at home with her family.
The ferry vibrated a little, and Zara grasped the rail. A mixture of deep greens and faded earth tones—the colors of her childhood—characterized the horizon across the water. With her eyes closed, she could almost smell the hibiscus sprouting on the riverbanks, hear nightly prayers drifting over the water, and see children running barefoot through thick mud.
A child ran past her, laughing, and she opened her eyes. Kite-like, the girl was chasing after her mother’s handkerchief, which flapped in the breeze. As she looked around, Zara felt a pain in her chest. The absence of questions about her family or marital status in Canada allowed her to remain free. On this river, she felt a stronger sense of belonging—an attachment to her past that could not be undone by distance.
The ferry arrived at the dock in a slow-paced motion. Zara’s feet met the ground as she stepped off, her heart racing with familiarity. A group of women in colorful saris passed by her, discussing the wedding of a long-gone cousin. She found solace in their smiles, the melodious sound of their words engulfing her.
At the gate, her mother stood with untidy silver hair in a bun, symbolizing strength. Gazing up at the wrinkles around her mother’s eyes, Zara contemplated with fascination—each one a memory, a story. Despite her mother’s calls for her to come, they collided in a hug neither wanted to break.
Her mother held Zara’s face in her hands, thumbs brushing her cheeks as if she had memorized every line and change.
“You’ve lost some weight,” her mother said with a slight tone of disapproval, though pride was also evident in her voice.
As they re-entered the village, the bus traveled along familiar dirt roads scented with damp earth and night jasmine. With each passing moment, Zara’s heart swelled and contracted as she stared out the window.
She recognized the landscape, though it had changed—riverbanks had thinned, fields teemed with unfamiliar weeds, and the sky appeared pale. Yet, there was a vitality and life force she hadn’t experienced in years.
Zara’s younger cousins gathered around her at home, their eyes wide with curiosity, peppering her with questions about her life in Canada. She responded with laughter, her native tongue returning as her foreignness dissolved with each word exchanged. She told them about snow, peculiar cuisines, and long, silent nights like thick fog.
Walking through the house’s familiar rooms, Zara captured each object as if preserving a memory: the carved wooden frame that had adorned her parents’ bed since she was ten, the clay pots stacked in the kitchen corner, and the fragrance of turmeric and cardamom that lingered in the air. Her mother watched her with a bittersweet smile, her eyes reflecting both joy and the ache of years lost.
One afternoon, Zara wandered alone along the riverbank, her feet sinking into the cold, damp earth. The water lapped at her shoes as she ventured toward the edge. She remembered crossing the river as a child with her father to visit the market on the other side. She recalled the excitement, terror, and warmth of holding his hand.
With a raspy voice, she whispered, “Baba,” to the water. She hadn’t been able to attend his funeral two years ago and now felt his absence acutely as she watched the flow—slowly carrying leaves, memories, and fragments of life downstream. For a fleeting moment, it felt as if time had stopped. She sensed his presence in the river, still and quiet, lingering beneath the surface.
Her mother found her standing motionless in the dim light and placed a comforting hand on her shoulder. They stood together in silence, tethered by shared grief.
As they walked home, Zara felt contentment in knowing that her life, choices, and identity were woven into a larger fabric—knit with the resilience of the women in her village and the perseverance of the river. Watching the village glow in the amber light of the rising sun, she felt embraced by an inner stillness.
In the days that followed, Zara reconnected with her roots, visiting old friends, sharing meals, and immersing herself in the stories that had shaped her family and, in turn, her identity. But she also learned of the river’s slow decline, encroached upon by advancing gravel. She watched as the women discussed a new road that would cut through fields her ancestors had cultivated. Guilt crept into her thoughts as she considered her decision to leave home for the West while her village contended with external forces.
One evening, Zara and her mother sat in the courtyard, the air fragrant with night-blooming flowers. Her mother, with a familiar and gentle expression, braided Zara’s hair. “Do you miss it there?” she asked softly.
Zara thought for a long moment. “Yes… and no. It’s strange. Canada feels like freedom, but here, I feel… rooted.”
Her mother smiled knowingly. “Sometimes, freedom means roots,” she whispered, her fingers weaving through Zara’s hair.
That night, Zara drifted into dreamless sleep, cocooned by the sounds of insects outside her window and the distant murmur of the river. In her mind’s eye, she ran barefoot through the village as a child, laughing under endless skies.
On the day Zara left, her mother handed her a small container of river water. “Take this,” she said softly. “When you feel lost, remember where you came from.”
Zara held the jar tightly, promising herself that she would never let it slip through her fingers. As the ferry pulled away from the dock, her heart felt divided between two worlds. But as she looked down at the water, for the first time, she didn’t feel torn—she felt whole.