When Love is Lost Arjun Shah
His mother stood at the edge of the Ganges, her hair flowing solemnly in the wind. He stepped forward, the icy water attacking, sinking its teeth into his feet and reminding him frequently that he wasn’t entirely numb; that part of him still hurt and that an even smaller part still loved. He watched her, careful not to wander too close. The box hung precariously in her wide arms, accented with drawings of deities, their fierce expressions contrasting awkwardly with the plain face that his mother wore. He remembered when he had first come to the Ghanghes at the age of seven. He had remarked to his parents that the holiest place on earth seemed to be filled, no, overflowing with garbage. They hadn’t paid any attention to his words and scolded him when his frail 7-year old body splashed around in the water, rejoicing, while women in colorful saris held wooden boxes and conducted silent prayers. She had put a bright red powder on her scalp, painted the tips of her fingers a vibrant orange color, and hung all of her gold on crooked wrists. It was rare that she would get the opportunity to stand in the very blood of her country, one that she had said goodbye to many years earlier along with a slew of relatives, friends, and memories that had begged her to stay. Her own son had only recently grown to love the land that had birthed him, sometimes she thought that it was only recently that he had learned to love her.
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