The River That Never Hurried

Dev had had a rushing sort of day. He had rushed to school and rushed through his lunch. He had rushed his homework and been told to do it again. Now he lay in bed, and his legs still wanted to run.

"I cannot slow down," he told his grandfather.

Grandfather sat on the edge of the bed. "Then let me tell you about the river in my village."

"It was a wide brown river, and it never hurried. Not once. In the morning the buses raced along the road beside it, honking. The river went at its own pace. Boys ran along its bank, late for school, as you were today. The river went at its own pace."

"When it met a big rock, it did not push or shout. It went around. When it came to a place where the ground was flat, it spread out and rested in the sun. When the ground sloped, it went a little faster, and it did not worry about that either."

"Did it ever get anywhere?" asked Dev.

"It went all the way to the sea. Hundreds of kilometres. It watered the fields of wheat and mustard on the way. It turned the wheel of the flour mill. It carried boats, and it gave the buffaloes a place to bathe. It did more work in a day than all the buses put together. And it never hurried."

Dev thought about the river. He imagined lying on his back in a small boat, with the water carrying him. He did not need to row. He did not need to steer.

His legs stopped wanting to run. His breath went in slowly, and out slowly, like small waves against a bank.

"Grandfather," he said, with his eyes closed, "is the river still going now? In the night?"

"All night," said Grandfather. "It is going right now, under the stars, with nobody watching."

Dev did not answer. He had floated around the bend, and into sleep.