Somewhere on the mighty Himalayan range in the northern mountain lands of the Indian state of West Bengal flickered the hilly settlement of Kharapahar. Surrounded by deep jagged cliffs on the east, west and southern sides and a colossal mountain wall in the north, the tiny village was not easily accessible to the outside world. A marvel of human engineering, a masterpiece of rock carving, a man-made stone stairway of more than a thousand meters descended from the southern cliff into the river valley below, forming the only path to and from this enchanting hamlet in the clouds.
Life in Kharapahar was pretty self-sustaining apart from the shortage of one critical ingredient, the elixir of life, water. The village did not have any permanent aquatic source apart from the occasional heavenly patter. Besides scanty bursts during the rainy season, the place was surprisingly rain-less for the rest of the year. Very unusual for a lush-green hilly region.
The villagers said it was due to the peculiar formation of the mountains that forced the rain-bearing clouds away from the village to leak their life-giving contents in other places. Kharapahar was like an oasis in the reverse sense. A secluded patch of a waterless domain in a land of heavy rains.
This, however, did not mean that there were no trees, vegetation, or cultivation in the hamlet. Water deep in the soil and the moisture brought by the wind supported decent flora and fauna for food and raw materials in the village. The only problem was the lack of a constant aquatic source for drinking and other essential uses.
From pots to pans to animal skins to wooden barrels to hollow poles to holes in the ground, the villagers used every possible thing to store every little drop of the precious aqua, which occasionally rained down from the sporadic clouds in the heavens.
The stored scanty sky-water was, however, not sufficient and would always run out. So, the villagers, usually the women, had to descend the treacherous thousand meters now and then to fetch aqua from the river below. There was, however, another problem much more troublesome than the dangerous trek itself.
At the bottom of the valley, there was the human settlement of the Neilghoti village. The pristine and tranquil life-supporting Neil River flowed right through its middle. Now the residents of Neilghoti considered themselves superior to the hilly dwellers of Kharapahar. The flat-landers were very jealous of the mountain people thinking that the other had a richer and healthier life up in their secluded cloudy domain. This hate and jealousy was ancient and never went away.
Water was the only thing that the cliff-hangers did not have up in their heavenly realm, and for centuries the bottom dwellers took advantage of this natural resource amply available in their domain. The mountain men were not allowed to fetch water from the Neil River, they were not even allowed to enter the Neilghoti village, only their women were permitted, and a heavy tax was levied for the same.
For every pail of water, the valley inhabitants charged a hefty sum of money or goods or produce equivalent to its value from the hilly residents. When the women of Kharapahar were unable to pay anything, they were forced to pay in labour. For a bucket of water, a full day’s back-breaking household work or toiling in the rice field was usually considered acceptable payment. At times, however, the hilly women were also exploited in ways unspeakable.
The women would never utter anything about this back at their mountain village, but their men knew that their ladies suffered a lot whenever they went to fetch water from the river of the valley people.
Shilamoy Bhaskor was the last surviving stonemason of the Kharapahar hamlet. Many centuries ago, his ancestors were the ones to carve the incomprehensible granite stairway, which made this heavenly settlement possible.
Over the ages, the Bhaskor’s had failed to pass on their unique stone carving skillset to others in the village. Somehow this gift of moulding rocks seemed to be divinely gifted and genetic. No one outside the Bhaskor family had the strength to perform it or the acumen to learn it. For reasons lost in time, slowly the Bhaskor bloodline thinned, till the seventy-year-old Shilamoy remained as the last of the legendary stonemasons of the Kharapahar village.
As the years went by, the people of Kharapahar did not need the skills of the stonemasons anymore. The fabled granite craftsmen who had painstakingly carved the entire village, etching out the houses and roads from the mountain, were not needed anymore. As the stonemasons gradually died over the centuries, their skills also became redundant. There was no need to carve out any new houses or civic infrastructures in the stone hamlet anymore.
“What on earth do you keep on carving at the back of your cave Shilamoy,” annoyingly enquired the lively Maya while brewing a cup of wildflower tea for the old man on the open charcoal hearth in the middle of the septuagenarian’s stone dwelling.
“The villagers are fed up with the constant noise of your hammer and chisel. They say there is no need for a stonemason anymore. You could at least show me what you are carving, but no, you prefer to work in secret behind the goddam locked wooden door at the back of your cave,” complained the teenager as she poured the boiling wildflower brew into a stone cup for the old mason.
The sixteen-year-old orphan had the gentlest of souls. She lost her mother to an unknown sickness during her infancy, and her father died a year back, leaving the poor girl all alone. Shilamoy was her neighbour and had promised Maya’s father on his deathbed to look after the girl after he was no more. Now, however, rather than Shilamoy looking after the teenager, Maya took care of the old man much more.
“The villagers say you have been obsessed with your masterpiece for more than fifty years now. God only knows what you do in there. It is late, I am going to sleep now. Have to go down to fetch water from the river tomorrow. All your pots and pans have nearly dried. If I don’t go, you will soon die of thirst if not old age first,” angrily blabbered Maya as she walked out of the old man’s hut to sleep in her dwelling next door. “I can feel it. I am very close to completing my masterpiece. It will change our world,” softly spoke the old man as he sipped the steaming mountain concoction from the chalice of stone.
As the first rays of sunlight kissed the jagged cliffs of the celestial hamlet in the early morn, Maya waved goodbye to the old man and descended the stone stairway along with a few other women to fetch water from the village below. Shilamoy waved back at his angel and returned to his rocky abode.
Pulling out a giant antique key which hung on a coarse cord around his neck, always close to his bosom, from under his woollen robe, he unlocked the wooden door at the back of his cave. Lighting a lard-fuelled wooden torch with a pair of flintstones, the stonemason entered the antechamber. Shutting the door behind, he disappeared into the darkness to carry on with his masterpiece uninterrupted, locked away in a world of his own.
On the evening of the second day, Shilamoy stood anxiously at the top of the stone stairway, eagerly waiting for Maya to return from her water trek. As the last of the water-fetching ladies came up the stairs, a sudden ghast of fear engulfed Shilamoy. Maya was not there.
The old man frantically enquired, but no one would say anything. The women would never speak of what happened with them down at the Neilghoti village. That was the ancient custom. That was how they were trained and raised. That was their way, and perhaps for the best.
“The life-giving Neil River is drying up. We don’t know why it is happening. Not to fear though, as we have reached an agreement with the Neilghoti Chieftan. We can continue to fetch water, that’s all we can say,” said an older lady to Shilamoy and went her way.
Days turned to weeks. Weeks turned to months, and the months turned to a year. The amount of water brought back by the women from the valley below kept on dwindling. Shilamoy kept on enquiring with the women about Maya, but no one would say anything.
Since Kharapahar men were barred from entering the Neilghoti village, Shilamoy could also get no information from those of them who went down the mountain. The old man himself could not descend the steps due to his bad knees. He could slowly walk on plain land but climbing down the treacherous stone stairwell was absolutely out of the question.
As the days passed by, the Neil River started drying up at a faster pace. By the end of the year, one day, the women came back from the valley below without any water. “The flat-landers have said that we can’t fetch water from their river anymore. The Neil River is nearly dead. There is hardly any water there. Whatever is left will dry up pretty soon. Both our villages would perish. Their fate is worse than ours. We still know how to live without water. They have no clue,” announced one of the women to everyone gathered in the middle of the mountain village.
After the announcement, Shilamoy slowly entered his sone cave and locked himself away. The villagers could hear the old mason’s hammer and chisel mildly resonating through the stone walls of the village. He was continuously working with hardly any breaks. He now did not come out of his hut. Fifteen days passed this way.
On the morning of the sixteenth day, the villagers heard a huge crack, a massive and thunderous sound like that of mountains breaking apart. The noise was near deafening, and it came from the north wall of the village, right from inside Shilamoy’s stone cave.
As the villagers rushed out of their homes to see what had happened, roaring gushes of violent and boiling water broke through Shilamoy’s hut’s entrance. His main gate, pots and pans, furniture, tools and the inner wooded door at the back of the cave, everything now flowed in the mighty current that rolled from the bowels of his hut, cutting through the middle of the village making its way down the stone stairway.
The steaming flow was so fierce that it ripped apart anything that stood in its way and took with it many things, much of which the villagers were even unable to see or gauge. Within an hour, the gush gradually calmed down to a warm and steady stream carving out a smooth river through the middle of the village cascading down as a beautiful but fierce waterfall down the stone stairwell. The stone-paved meter deep village main road had been transformed into a steaming spring water canal.
No one could see Shilamoy though. They presumed that the slow-moving old man must have been unable to move away from the path of the roaring waters. He must have been washed away along with the contents of his cave. No one could be sure, but that’s what everyone said.
The villagers realised that the old mason somehow knew that there was a hidden hot-water-spring-river buried somewhere deep in the mountain. Did he know about this through divine intervention or sheer intuition, that no one would ever know? They realised that he had dedicated the last fifty years of his life to carving out a tunnel on the northern mountain wall from the back of his hut to finally crack open the hidden water source.
The newly formed river, however, permanently cut off Kharapahar’s only pathway to the valley below. The villagers, however, did not need to go down for anything anymore. Life-giving water now not only flowed through the middle of their village but dropped a thousand meters to feed and slowly replenish the Neil River once more. The selfish Neilghoti villagers were also saved by the old mason’s masterpiece carved out of the mountain core.
Down in the valley below, the Neilghoti villagers had gathered to witness the miracle that within a few hours had rejuvenated their dying river once more. On the bank of the stream stood Maya with a newborn baby clinging to her bosom, and beside her stood the Chieftan, his three wives and two other concubines. In front of them on the bank of the river lay a chisel, a hammer, and an ancient key on a broken and antique wooden door.
Today if you happen to visit the east Indian hilly town of Kalimpong in the Himalayan foothills of the state of West Bengal, do visit the Teesta River Low Dam in Reang. The locals say that when the dam and the hydropower plant was made it cut the water from certain small and unknown rivers in the region, which affected the way of life of certain ancient villages.
If you are adventurous enough and dare to venture into the bowels of the mountain forests in the neighbouring region, who knows you may find a beautiful thousand-meter waterfall coming down from an unreachable hamlet in the clouds. At the bottom of which you will find a beautiful village and a peculiar installation of an antique wooden door with a crossed hammer and chisel, and an ancient key in the middle, erected on a stone pedestal on the bank of the stream. Below the installation, you will find a stone plaque with an inscription in the local language saying, “In Memory Of The Man Who Brought The River… you, we shall never forget.”
Copyright © 2021 TRISHIKH DASGUPTA
This work of fiction, written by Trishikh Dasgupta is the author’s sole intellectual property. Some characters, incidents, places, and facts may be real while some fictitious. All rights are reserved. No part of this story may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including printing, photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the author, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, send an email to the author at trishikh@gmail.com or get in touch with Trishikh on the CONTACT page of this website.
ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Trishikh Dasgupta
Adventurer, philosopher, writer, painter, photographer, craftsman, innovator, or just a momentary speck in the universe flickering to leave behind a footprint on the sands of time... READ MORE
Weekend Stories by Trishikh 
You did it again! I love the blending of fiction with something real in today’s world. I loved the story but wished Maya and the old stone carver could be united.
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Dear Brenda, I treasure your comment so much. Thank you for always taking great interest in my stories. I would have loved that ending too, but perhaps life’s beauty lie in the uncertain and unwanted.
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I know what you mean, I allowed the main character in “Spirited One” to die, and everyone says “I hated the ending” but that says they were so invested in the ending and loved the character, that they hated to see her die. She had to either die or pass the Spirited one on to someone else. Your characters also made me love them and want them to be happy.
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You have so valuable explained the build up of character connection with the reader. I really like your feedback. So happy to have you a friend in the world of storytelling and philosophy.
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I like the plot just as it is. It was apparent that the price for continued access to Neil River water was that Maya would stay in Neilghoti as one of the chieftain’s concubines. Her sacrifice bought precious time for Shilamoy to complete his work. When Shilamoy’s tools and key were found on the river bank, she understood the mysterious project and was there to explain it to the villagers.
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You have explained and analysed my plot so beautifully and simply. I really treasure this appreciation. I must thank you for reading and absorbing my story so deeply. This gives me great joy and brings fruition to my writing efforts.
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The challenge of Sisyphus and the birth of water. If there is a dream, the dream will come true.
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Afterall what are we without our dreams and hopes.
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Yet another amazing read!!
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Thank you so much Arpita, your comments always encourage me greatly.
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A beautiful tale of love, dedication and perseverance, virtues as vital today as they were in ancient times. Modern man thinks that only the demands of progress can provide solutions, ignoring the destruction left behind on those who had adjusted to and dwelled in their given environment for centuries.
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You are very right when you say virtues are vital for every generation. I think they are key human quality. Qualities such Respect, Compassion, and Commitment. Progressing while destroying nature and the very fabric of harmonious life, is on the contrary regression of humanity itself. Thank you for always taking keen interest in my stories and commenting on them. I am ever grateful for your constant support and friendship.
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Reblogged this on Ned Hamson’s Second Line View of the News.
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Thank you so much Ned for promoting this story of mine. Always appreciate your support and strife to share my stories with the larger world.
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Such an amazing story. I literally wait every weekend for your stories.
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And I look forward to your constant appreciation.
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👍❣️
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Thank you so much. Really appreciate your comment.
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Wow this is an amazing story. I love how you described it. Thankyou so much for sharing such a lovely and moving story. This really inspired me. Good day
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It gives me great joy to learn that my little story from India, inspires a friend so far away. This really shows how human beings a connected in a higher spiritual and mental level with geography being no factor for disconnect. I treasure your comment and friendship.
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Well we are all connected by virus called internet i guess. Yes we are are all connected somehow at a spiritual and mental level. The pleasure is all mine. Have a good day
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True, true, very true. “The virus of internet” what an intriguing way to put it. Gives a lot to think. A great day to you too. 🙂
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Great story and wonderful narration.
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Thank you so much Dr. Prabhat. Words of appreciation such as yours acts as the precious fuel to my writing engine.
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To me your story also shows us how precious water is, in fact, and we in our spoilt societies squander it without the least thought about it! Many thanks for this great story:)
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You are very right Martina. I wrote this story keeping in mind the precious nature of water, and how humans have come to squander it, and how in so many parts of the world today people struggle beyond imagination to get a bit of water. All of us need to be conscious about it. Thank you so much for reading, liking, and commenting on my story. I treasure our interaction.
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:):)
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One more gem, Trishikh. Another captivating story. Both main characters, Shilamoy and Maya, have been well conceived. You’re a master storyteller. Keep it up. Stay blessed 😊💐
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Your constant appreciation has blessed me so much. Writing these stories becomes so meaning with coments such as these from treasured friends like you. I am so happy that you liked the two central characters.
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You’re more than welcome, Trishikh. It’s my pleasure to read and comment on your wonderful stories.
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Thank you so much KK, it is indeed a great honour for me.
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I love your stories. So wonderful. I lived on the Navajo reservation for a few years, teaching. Many of the people live in Hogans with no runnng water, having to drive long distances over poor roads to haul water back to their land for crops and just daily use. They have had to learn to conserve water and not take it for granted like those of us with plumbed in water.
I love the main character and his dedication and determination, carrying on his quest in spite of the criticism of his fellow villagers. It is wonderful and takes great courage to continue on a mission with the outcome unseen by others.
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Dear Katelon, first of all I must thank you from the bottom of my heart for not only always reading and liking my stories, but for also investing time on interacting back with treasured reactions and feedback. I so appreciate this friendship of storytelling.
It intrigues me to learn about the water crisis faced by the Navajo, and makes me deeply reflect how this problem of water problem is so global and ultimately effects all life on Earth. All of us need to learn to conserve water even for those of us who have it in abundance.
I am so happy that you liked the main character and his dedication. You are absolutely right, when you say it takes a lot of courage to on a mission, whose ends may seem unrealistic to everyone else. That’s the power of belief.
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Yes, indeed.
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I love this. I especially love how Maya and the old man were reunited at the end. Not in the average way – where they see each other again, but he saved her life as much as she did his. She held a baby in her arms, the next generation and the old pass to bring in the new. She knew what the door was and was able to make sure he was never forgotten among their people.
In the end, their lives remained intertwined. Thank you. Such a hopeful piece!
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Wow Marla, what a thoughtful analysis of my story. I also did not think of it so deeply. You are right when you say “Maya and Shilamoy were reunited” – not in any traditional sence but in a very different way. That is something very precious, that you have found out from this story I think. Hope for the next generation reflected through the baby and respect to the previous generation through the door memorial is also, as you have rightly pointed out. Thank you for this lovely review. I am forever indebted to your analysis and appreciation.
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You’re very welcome.
It was just how I saw it. Is it truly that different than what you saw when you wrote it?
I’m my mind, far too many people see death as a permanent separation. It is not. It is a physical one, not an emotional or mental one. The lessons she learned from Shilamoy, even if that lesson was learned by watching a floating wooden door with a key in it, will be forever written on who she is. She raises the baby and who she is will forever be written on that baby. So even if that child never hears the name Shilamoy in its entire life, who that man was represents a major part of both sides of his family and a huge part of who he is.
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Your philosophical thought process is very admirable. I understand and can relate to what you are saying.
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Thank you. Until you said it, I never even really thought of it as a philosophical question. It’s just how it is for me. If that makes sense. You make it seem so much smarter lol
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My pleasure Marla. That’s the power of sharing knowledge. It can only grow that way. From this little interaction of ours I learner so much from you and believe your also picked up a thing or two. What can be more beautiful. 👍
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Absolutely nothing. It’s the beauty of words. They can enlighten and entertain. They can express and expand. They can encompass and encroach. It just matters how you wield them.
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Well conceived and coined dear friend. Words, they are so powerful, beautiful, destructive, and so many other things too.
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Yes they are. Thank you for understanding.
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My pleasure Marla.
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Also, I just realized My list was all alliteration. I’m gonna keep it that way because I love alliteration!
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Me too, I too am a big fan of the rhyme. In fact I try to rhyme the ends of all my sentences and paragraphs on my stories and general writing also.
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I used to rhyme a lot as well. Then I just stopped. Still don’t know why. But I still love pulling it out for a poem or two 🙂
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We go through different phases in writing.
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Yes, that’s what keeps it interesting.
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Loved the story. I look forward to them.
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I know you are a constant admirer and supporter of my stories. I treasure the so many comments – literary and philosophical interactions that we have had till now. They are really precious to me.
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🙂
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I enjoy them because there’s always a story of courage, bravery, honor, and a simpler times but a much needed lesson is revealed.
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I try my best. Hopefully someday I would be able to publish a collection of these stories in a book form. That would be a big dream come true.
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Your best is splendor. I am sure you will one day be able to put them all together in a book. It will be a great book.
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May your words and prayer come true. Till then I am already thankful for the beautiful readership and friendships that the blog has already brought.
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🙂
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Now that is a hero who will forever live in people’s hearts.
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Very true, it is oud deeds that make us immortal.
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True, good deeds live forever in people’s memories.
Great day.🤝
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A great day to you too Derrick. Have a great time.
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So beautiful story! excellent mixing of fact and fiction. You are a wonderful story writer . Loved to read it. Thank you for your beautiful story 😊🙂🎉💕
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Always treasure your comments Priti. Your words give me great encouragement. Thank you so much for liking and commenting on my story.
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It’s my pleasure 👍🎉🤗
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Sweet story.
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Thank you so much Marthe for liking my story.
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I especially enjoyed your depicting Shilamoy initially as an annoying, self-absorbed old man—and then unfolded his selfless use of his dying craft and waning energy to save his community. Another well-told tale, Trishikh.
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Your retrospection of Shilamoy as “annoying, self-absorbed old man… to save his community” is an analysis I did not think of. Now when you say, I find it to be so true. This proves that when we write thinking certain things with our heart and mind, so much more actually comes ous. Thank you so much for this amazing feedback. I really treasure it.
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Another marvelous tale!
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Thank you Patrick, so glad you liked the story. Appreciation is a precious fuel to my writing engine. I always treasure every ounce of it.
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A wonderful story of a life of dedication to helping others.
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You are so right about this. Yes, indeed a life dedicated to helping others is a life worth living.
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There is nothing much left for me to say, is there 😉 But so much: I thogoughly enjoyed the story, so well written and designed that I could see this village in the sky before my eyes. It would be wonderful, if it existed!
An interesting turn at the end that the old man’s hard work also benefitted those, who had behaved so ghastly.
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Dear Stell, thank you so much for your kind words of appreciation. I am so overjoyed to hear that you find my story well written and descriptive enough for you to visualise the environment.
You have very rightly pointed out that the old man’s actions even benefitted wrongdoers, thereby conveying the vital message that we should even do good for our enemies, irrespective of how they behave with us.
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Wow! Absolutely fantastic!
A story of great sacrifice… 50years isn’t a small time.
Your stories feel more real than just fiction. I’d like to ask if Myths are usually included in your stories or it’s just pure inspiration. I so much love them.
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This story is complete figment of my imagination, inspired by the struggle for water all over the world. My stories usually have a lot of facts, real history, and actual geography in them. Few of them are inspired by myths too. I must thank you for your constant support, kind comments, and beautiful likes.
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This is wonderful. You’re very good at this.
It’s always a pleasure to read you Trishikh.
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The pleasure is equally mine Emmanuel. Thank you for always being so appreciative.
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Thank you so much for promoting this story of mine on your online space.
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A lot of lessons learned
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So glad that you find the lessons in this story appealing. Your compliment gives me much joy.
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This is another splendorous story. Great job!
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Thank you so much Anamika. You are a constant encouragement to my writing efforts.
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“”Mountain men were not allowed to draw water from the river Neil, they were not even allowed to enter the village of Neilghoti, they were only allowed their women, for which they levied a high tax ” “- so back then it was something like prostitution, only that 😂🤣very interesting story, as always, best regards
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It has been seen,.whenever in power men tend to exploit the sexuality of women. This seems to be an inherent and genetic trate of men. Though all men are not like that. Yes, you are right we do not know, in what godforsaken ways the women were being exploited by the not only the men, but perhaps also the women of Neilghoti village. Women too can be cruel to other women, like men too can be cruel to other men, I guess. Thank you so much for your throught provoking comment. It gives me much to think about my story.
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👍
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😊😁
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Thank you from the bottom of my heart for promotion my story in your website.
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Wow! Your story took my breath away. Thank you!
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Reading your kind words of appreciation for my story the first thing in the morning gives me a great sence of joy, especially when I was unable to write anything today morning, as I was feeling lazy. Your comment energises me and acts as a reminder that I need to keep on writing. Thank you friend.
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You are more than welcome. You are an amazing writer with incredible talent and a unique perspective that no one else could have. Your stories contain depth, wisdom, and lasting power– they are gripping. Completely spellbinding. Please do keep writing. You make words matter.
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I can’t thank you enough for your kind words. I will give my best and continue to bring forth more such stories in the future.
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Looking forward to them!
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Thank you so much Tychy for liking and promoting this story of mine.
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Thanks that I found the way to read your stories, Trishikh, because you are such an amazing writer that I can see you becoming after Tagore, the second Indian The Nobel Prize winner! This story about The Man Who Brought The River is fascinating and inspiring beyond words!!
Joanna
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You are too kind with you appreciation Joanna. I can never compare myself to the Noble Laureate, but must confess that I much influenced by his writings too. Glad that you found a way to keep track of my writings. I look forward to your likes and comments. They give me great encouragement.
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Do believe me, Trishikh, because I will tell you how it can be done in a private email if you give me your email address.
Joanna
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I have received and replied to your email Joanna.
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You know that I am right about your future by the number of admiring readers, especially Kaushal as he is a master in his craft and a highly educated man.
Joanna
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Oh yes! KK is a big fan and a very learned man too. He has always appreciated my stories and constantly encouraged me, just like you. My readers are a big reward to my writing efforts.
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Have you? I have not seen it.
Joanna
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I have sent you a message to your email address.
Joanna
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Thank you Joanna, I will check it tomorrow.
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God bless you! 🙏🙏🙏
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Thank you Valy. May God also be with you.
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Thanks to the man who brought this well crafted “story”.
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Thank you Michael, you are kind with your words of appreciation. Thank you so much.
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In an epic Bollywood movie, we saw how a wealthy tourist was scammed and sold the Taj Mahal to him. Is it true?
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Such scams might be true. There are always a lot scam artists around. I have seen this movie, but am not sure whether such an incident really happened. Thanks for liking my story. Always treasure your appreciation.
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