Ivy Akinyi The Whispers of Niyamgiri

The Whispers of Niyamgiri

Ivy Akinyi

She stares at me, firmly rooted by the stream crashing against the black rocks. Her dance, mild and elegant, accompanies the soft wind, as if speaking out unknown words. Is she speaking to me? The melody of the river crashes against a cacophony of alien insects. Her chlorophyll paints itself on my iris. The name, Niyamgiri, appears.

It’s bizarre, the power she has over me. I can see blood flowing in her green veins. My vision pans, noticing the map they inscribe. The map of Odisha. The place where she stands by the stream is marked with a clot of blood. Her whispers return. “She comes back to remember them.”

Who?

“Avani. She comes back for the ones that were murdered. She found her sister’s head right by this rock, golden earrings still dangling on her. Most of the time, the bandits would take such valuables with them, but I suppose they did not want a reminder of her screams. Avani says her sister was only sixteen. And with child.”

I don’t know what to say. Even Niyamgiri is silent, as if waiting for my answer. I take courage in the wind, in the water, so I ask.

Why did they kill her sister?

“The rich ones from the factory had been asking her family to give up their farm for a long time. Naturally, they refused. And can you blame them? This was a land ploughed, shoveled and harvested by the strength of an entire generation in preparation for the many generations to come. It was

an empire of its own,” Niyamgiri smiles, “and their names were written on every mango tree enclosing it.”

Her smile fades. “But the rich ones cared little for their rights and of the mango trees. They were vicious in their determination.”

What happened exactly?

Niyamigiri meets my eyes. They gleam with sorrow. “On the day of the ambush, the sky was beautiful. Like ink soup coming to a boil. A hazy curtain of rain hovered in the air, a blessing as the rice paddies were drying up fast. The family were rice farmers, so they rejoiced in the rain, laughing and humming to their songs.

“By nightfall, their blood watered my veins, their bodies and limbs strewn on the fields like scattered rice seeds. Only Avani escaped, but she returned when the bandits were gone. Trying so hard to piece together those she loved. She walked many miles to recover the last piece of her sister.”

I am cold with horror.

What of the bandits?

“Avani went to court,” she continues. “She had their IDs as proof of their existence, the title deeds that dated back generations, even rice grains from their farm. Every evidence to claim justice for her family.”

“But she didn’t get it.”

“No, she did not.”

“She comes to me sometimes,” Niyamgiri adds after a while. “Weeping. Begging for death. Telling me her story, so that I may tell it to others like you.”

The screen suddenly cuts to black. I blink as my eyes readjust to the tungsten light slowly fading onto the dark screen. They turn into a pair of headlights from a tuk tuk. I feel vague and intense at the same time.

“Ma’am, the gallery is closing in five minutes,” the guard returns, blinding my eyes with his flashlight. Some of the light spills onto my notebook, revealing roughly jotted facts. “Ma’am?” the guard persists. With a hard sigh, I gather what’s left and leave the gallery. I mutter the phrase, ‘Sovereign Forest’ with some reassurance. Avani’s truth, deep-rooted in a whispering sapling, will spread by the echoing wind. And I will speak out.