I have just realized that I haven't figured out why Jwala had so much hatred for Sindhu during the battle.
Hmmm, there must be a reason for that. Only one man could answer: Mr. Tripathi.
I found him on the ghats, just as the last of the sun bled into the Kaveri. The river was a sheet of beaten copper, reflecting the last of the sun. Temple bells clanged faintly in the distance, and the air was thick with marigolds, diesel, and the sharp tang of burning ghee from the evening aarti."
The renowned Brahmin was on the stone step beside me. His dhoti was crisp, white, and his eyes held the deep, still patience of a well. I could feel the weight of his knowledge.
I greeted him, explaining my question.
He took a moment of silence and then began to speak, his voice rolled through the dusk, heavy as riverbed stone.
"The Sols..." he began, his voice a low rumble like stones shifting in a deep current. "They are the Kaveri's greatest threat."
"Why?" I pressed, leaning closer. "What fuels such hatred?"
He paused, letting the hum of the evening aarti carry his words away.
"The Sundarban." He said the name as if it were a prayer and a curse. "'For centuries, we've fought an endless battle the Sols for this sacred soil."
"For this land? What's so special about it ?"
"Special?" He let the words hang in the humid air, heavy with the scent of damp earth and night-blooming jasmine. His eyes were not fiery, but deep and still, like the darkest part of the river. "Sundarban is not merely a land. It is the holy place for our goddess 'Kaveri ma'"
He picked up a handful of water, letting it slip through his fingers like time itself. "The Sols claim the Sundarban as their god's temple, as if their fickle deity could rival our sacred embrace." His voice hardened, each word a stone dropped into the river's flow. "Every time, these bastards have tried to seize it, but our people—" he tapped his chest in glory, pride flaring in his eyes, "—have shown them they cannot stand against us."
He gestured to the river, its surface now a mirror of stars. "My grandfather's blood is mixed with this water. My nephew's ashes drift here still defending this shore. And you ask me to look at their souls and call their sacrifice a 'dispute over territory'?"
His gaze met mine, and I felt the full weight of my careless words. "So do not speak to me of 'land'."
He turned back to the river, his final words dropping into the silence. "The fact is that you still think this is about land. Only someone who hasn't lost blood to this river could think that."
His gaze stayed on the current. "It's about devotion — and the price it demands..." His words lingered, low and tired. "...Maybe too high a price."
The river carried the words away, as if it had heard them before.