The night had been strangely silent, save for the rhythm of insects outside and a soft rustle beneath the palm-thatched roof. But inside Arjun's mind, the heartbeat of fire still echoed. It had settled in his chest like a drumbeat he couldn't unhear. Sleep had come, but uneasily interrupted by dreams of carvings on boats and whispers without tongues.
When he finally rose, the sun was a faint blush on the horizon. Mist clung to the village like an old sari, folding around trees and winding through pathways. Ramapuram was quieter in the morning, but not still. It was never still.
A knock came at the hut door. Not loud. Just… intentional.
Meenakshi stepped in with a woven basket of bananas and palm sugar buns.
"You're late," she said.
Arjun checked his phone 7:10 AM.
"For what?"
"For your next whisper. Today, the river is waiting."
"The river?"
"Come."
The River Path
They walked for about twenty minutes beyond the southern border of the village. The trail curved around old stone walls, broken columns, and moss-covered statues of forgotten gods. Birds chirped, but warily as though they were observing more than just the arrival of humans.
Soon the trees parted, and the River Kaveri revealed herself.
But not the bustling, industrial version Arjun had read about in journals.
This was her ancient form: wide, slow, and silver under the rising sun. She moved like a story told in soft tones, meandering through the curves of the land with a serenity only centuries could teach.
A girl stood at the edge of the river, ankle-deep in the water, her dark hair braided with marigold petals. She was no older than thirteen.
"That's Nila," Meenakshi said. "She's the youngest Listener. And the only one who understands the Whisper of Water."
The Girl and the River
Nila turned and smiled at Arjun.
Her eyes were strange not vacant like Thatha Ranga's, but glassy. Like they didn't see in the way normal eyes did.
"She's blind," Arjun whispered.
"No," Meenakshi replied. "She just sees differently."
Nila motioned for him to come closer.
He hesitated.
"She doesn't speak," Meenakshi added. "But she'll show you."
Arjun removed his sandals and stepped into the cool river. The silt beneath his feet was soft and warm, despite the water's chill. Nila held out a small clay bowl filled with smooth river stones each about the size of a coin. She gently took his hand and dropped three into his palm.
Then, she pointed to the current.
"Throw them?" he asked.
She nodded.
Arjun tossed the first one.
Nothing happened.
Then the second.
Still silence.
But as the third stone broke the surface and vanished beneath the water, something shifted.
A gust of wind rippled across the river, though the trees did not sway. The water shivered. And then he heard it.
A voice.
Not outside.
Inside.
"You search for knowledge as if it hides in books. But what if truth lives in flow, not form?"
"You fear belief, but belief is not blindness. It is a bridge."
"Will you cross it?"
Arjun closed his eyes. The current pulled slightly against his legs now, as though nudging him forward. And in that moment, he saw a vision not a memory, but a possibility.
A temple. Submerged.
Stone steps vanishing into the depths. At its center, a pillar with the triangle-in-tree symbol. And around it… water. Always water.
He gasped and stumbled, blinking hard.
Nila reached out and steadied him with surprising strength.
She smiled, but not kindly. Not sweetly.
Knowingly.
The Submerged Temple
Back on the riverbank, Arjun wiped his face, unsure if it was sweat or river water that clung to him.
"There's something under the river," he said to Meenakshi. "A temple."
She nodded. "The temple of Nayana. It sank over 300 years ago. Or rather, it chose to sink."
Arjun's brow furrowed. "Temples don't choose."
"Not in your books, maybe," Meenakshi said. "But here, things have memory. Especially stone."
Arjun glanced back at the calm waters. "What was that I heard?"
"The Whisper of Water," she replied. "Each river has its voice. But only some hear it. Nila was born with that gift."
"Why me, then?"
"Because you asked questions the river liked."
Return to the Grove
Later that afternoon, they returned to the banyan grove. The sun now glared through the canopy in golden shafts, and Thatha Ranga sat beneath the roots, waiting.
"You saw Nayana," he said before Arjun could speak.
"Yes. How did you ?"
"Because I once saw it too," the old man whispered. "But I never entered. The river never allowed me. Maybe… it will allow you."
Arjun was silent for a long time.
"But why would a temple sink ? Why would anyone build a temple only to lose it to water ?"
Meenakshi sat beside the old man. "That is your question now. And if the river whispered it to you, then the answer lies ahead."
Thatha Ranga leaned in. "But beware. Not all whispers want to be heard. Some are warnings."
A Strange Inscription
That evening, Arjun sat alone at the edge of the banyan grove with his journal open. The sun dipped low, painting the world orange and violet.
He sketched what he remembered: the temple, the submerged spire, the triangle-in-tree.
He wrote the words the water had given him:
"Truth lives in flow, not form."
He traced over the phrase again and again.
Suddenly, a drop of water fell onto the page.
Then another.
He looked up no clouds.
Then he looked down.
His palm.
It was wet.
But not from the river.
A symbol had formed on his skin.
Faint. But unmistakable.
The same triangle-in-tree mark, as though burned into his hand by water itself.