The Other Side

In a drizzling rain, I stood alone,

Where the Meenachil river whispered soft and slow.

The water moved with memory's weight,

And I waited, unsure,

But knowing: it was time to go.

The ferry pier, rotted and worn,

Slick with moss and yesterday’s grief,

Reached out like a broken hand

To the mist—

To the far bank—

To belief.

They said she vanished in the harvest,

Gone like a flame in the morning dew,

Her name spoken only in hushed regret:

Sree.

The girl I once knew.

One day she danced barefoot in dust,

Laughter like drums over red-soil ground.

The next, she was wind,

She was hush,

She was myth,

She was never found.

But I heard her—still—

In the river’s breath,

In dreams the rain would bring.

And when the boat appeared,

My chest throbbed

Like a drum remembering how to sing.

The skiff broke the fog like a question.

An old man paddled, face carved in wood.

A basket of cassava and catfish gleamed at his feet—

And there

She stood.

She looked younger than my longing,

But her eyes were wild and known.

No smile, no nod—just silence shared,

Like the river speaks

To stone.

“Sree,” I said, but only inside,

For the mouth can betray the heart.

She stepped from the boat,

Barefoot still,

As if she'd never been apart.

“Time to cross?” she asked the rain.

I nodded. Words were few.

“I thought you were gone,” I whispered low.

“I was,”

She said.

“But the river remembers you.”

The boat waited.

She stepped aboard.

The old man said nothing—just stared.

She placed the cassava beside her knees,

Then looked at me,

Unprepared.

“I waited,” I said, my voice half broke,

Like a paddle against the tide.

“I know,” she breathed, not soft, not sharp—

But with something still alive inside.

“Are you ready?” she asked, not smiling.

Not sad. Not afraid.

The river held its breath between us,

As if time

Could be delayed.

I stepped aboard.

The boat pushed off.

The bank grew thin and wide.

And the rain kept falling,

As we drifted slow,

To the other side.