The monsoon clouds had passed, leaving the air heavy with the scent of drenched soil and jasmine. Asma stood at the edge of the river once again, watching the current twist like silver threads beneath the faint moonlight. It had been weeks since she found the brass-tiger cord, yet her nights still whispered with the river's voice.
The villagers said the river carried memories, but now it felt like it carried warnings.
That evening, her grandmother sat near the hearth, murmuring a prayer she hadn't said in years. The flames flickered blue, strange and unnatural. When Asma asked why, the old woman only whispered, "The river is restless again. When it returns something, it also takes something away."
The words clung to her mind like fog.
The next morning, she noticed something strange — the old banyan tree near the temple had split open at its roots, as if struck from within. Children said they saw a faint light inside the crack, but when elders went to look, there was nothing. Just dark soil… and a faint hum, like a distant song trapped beneath the earth.
By noon, Asma met Alok again. His eyes looked tired; sleeplessness had carved shadows beneath them. He was clutching an old map, ink fading along its creases.
"I found this in the archives of Guwahati," he said. "It shows an old settlement that once stood where your village is now. Its name was Nivara — the lost village of the Serpent God."
"The Serpent God?" Asma repeated, uneasy.
He nodded. "A river spirit. The people of Nivara believed it protected them in exchange for one promise — every century, the river would choose a keeper, someone to bear its memory. The cord you found… was a mark of that keeper."
Asma's breath caught. "You mean me?"
Alok hesitated. "Maybe. Or maybe the river hasn't decided yet."
That night, she dreamed again — but this time, it wasn't just whispers. She was standing by the riverbank under a blood-red moon. The water shimmered, then rose like a living thing. Out of it emerged a woman draped in silver, her eyes glowing like pearls beneath the surface.
"You carry what was lost," the woman said, her voice echoing through the dream. "But beware — what is found must one day return."
When Asma awoke, the brass charm around her neck felt hot, almost burning against her skin.
She rushed outside to the river, heart pounding. The sky was gray, the wind silent, yet the river moved strangely — against its usual current, curling backward as though time itself had faltered. And there, by the bank, she saw something that made her blood freeze.
A faint shape stood by the water — a man cloaked in mist, unmoving. His reflection shimmered, but his body cast no shadow.
"Who are you?" Asma whispered.
The man turned slowly, revealing eyes as deep as the river's depth.
"I am what the river remembers," he said. "And what it refuses to forget."
Before she could speak again, he dissolved into water, leaving behind ripples that shimmered with blue light.
She fell to her knees, trembling.
When she returned home, she found Alok waiting, visibly shaken. "Did you feel that?" he asked. "For a few moments, all the rivers in this region changed direction. Scientists can't explain it. But I think it was calling to you."
Asma didn't answer. She could still feel the river's pulse beneath her skin, as if it flowed through her veins.
That evening, her grandmother finally spoke of what she had hidden for decades.
"Long ago, our ancestors made a pact with the river," she said, eyes glistening. "It gave us life — crops, fish, rain — but in return, it demanded memory. One chosen keeper in each generation, bound by the tiger cord, would carry its voice."
"Why didn't you tell me before?" Asma asked, tears welling up.
"Because the last keeper disappeared," her grandmother whispered. "He followed the river's call and never returned."
Asma stared at the cord, realization dawning. "The boy from your story… he wasn't just a lover, was he?"
Her grandmother smiled faintly. "He was the last keeper. And perhaps, my greatest loss."
That night, unable to sleep, Asma sat by the river once more. The moon hung low, its reflection trembling in the dark waters.
"Why me?" she whispered. "Why now?"
The water rippled, and a faint voice answered, carried by the wind.
"Because the river remembers everything — even what you are meant to become."
A faint light began to glow from beneath the surface. Slowly, letters started to emerge — ancient symbols carved on smooth stones, forming words in a forgotten tongue. Alok appeared beside her, awe-struck.
"This language… it's pre-Sanskrit," he said. "No one should be able to read it."
But Asma could. The symbols made sense to her, as if they had always lived within her mind. She read aloud, her voice trembling:
> "When the river forgets its keeper, the land shall drown in silence.
The voice must rise again from those who dream of the water."
As she finished, the river roared — a sudden surge of power. The air thickened with mist, and both of them stepped back. The water began to spiral upward, forming the faint shape of a coiling serpent made entirely of silver light.
Alok shielded his face, shouting, "Asma, it's real!"
The serpent turned its luminous eyes toward her, then dissolved, leaving behind a single glowing scale that floated onto the bank. It shimmered, humming softly before fading into her palm.
Her skin glowed faintly where it touched.
"Asma," Alok said breathlessly, "You… you're becoming the next keeper."
The realization hit her like lightning. The dreams, the voices, the relics — all were pieces of a destiny unfolding through her.
But deep within her, another voice whispered — darker, older.
"The keeper's gift is also her curse. To guard the river is to forget yourself."
Asma looked at the river, her reflection wavering between light and shadow. Somewhere in that reflection, for just a moment, she saw not herself — but the face of the boy from her grandmother's story, smiling faintly, whispering something she couldn't hear.
The river rippled once, as if sealing a silent vow.
And from the distant jungle, a horn sounded — low and mournful. The wind shifted, carrying with it the scent of rain and something else… something ancient waking beneath the waters.
Asma turned to Alok. "Whatever this is," she said, "it's only beginning."
He nodded, tightening his grip on his camera. "Then we'd better be ready to follow it — wherever it leads."
The river shimmered in the moonlight, its surface smooth as glass. Somewhere within its depths, old memories stirred — waiting, watching, whispering her name.
> "Asma…"
The wind died. The night grew still.
And the secret of the village — the one buried for generations — began to awaken once more.