During the first days of their marriage, Srivasthava and Kamala visited Mangalore. As strangers in a new place, the seaside town gave them the privacy and anonymity needed in those new days. They sauntered leisurely through the busy throng of people hurrying around them, colorful clothing blowing hither and thither in the sea breeze, as if they had their entire lives stretching endlessly before them. They picked seashells of different colors at the seashore in Bandar. They named the little garden in the center of town with its distant views of the sea “the island of perpetual peace.”  In the evenings, they exchanged their favorite memories, sitting in the shade of the casuarina trees at Ullal beach. The colors of the setting sun glistened gently on the waters of the Nethravathi river estuary. They gazed at the drifting colors in the river, feeling that the inlets in their own minds were about to open. At dusk, when a train that sped by beating a rhythm on the Nethravathi bridge frightened Kamala with its two burning eyes, they returned to nights filled with only the roar of the sea.

One bright holiday morning, they started for the Mookambika temple in their sky-blue car.  The temple idol at Mookambika was the form of the goddess Kamala cherished. Shrivasthava was excited, too, when he heard about the temple in the middle of the forest . . . wild flowers in bright colors . . . streams and waterfalls tumbling down from deep within the forest like children scampering down a slope  . . . giant birds hiding in tall trees . . . imagination seized Shrivasthava.

The verdure of south Karnataka. Long bridges . . . paddy fields painted with the slanting shadows of coconut palms . . . so many rivers meandering to the ocean . . . tourists racing to reach Goa . . . Kamala’s chatter . . . the trip was lively. But when the road turned from the main highway onto the narrow forest path to the temple, their minds became quiet and focused. When Kamala turned silent in anxious anticipation of the temple, Shrivasthava listened for the gentle sounds of the forest.

The forest was reborn from the recent rains. A gentle breeze whispering prayers to tender leaf buds circulated in the forest air. There was almost no sunlight in the cloudy sky. It felt like all the creatures in the forest were resting, hiding away from sight. The occasional cry of a wild bird broke the imposing silence of the forest.

But on the grounds of the temple, a large throng of devotees had assembled as if unconcerned by the indifference of the nature around them. A bustling port at the far end of a green ocean, Shrivasthava said to himself.

At the temple, Shrivasthava felt disappointed. He retreated to a corner, discouraged by the crowd and discontented that the temple did not rouse as much awe as the lifelike sculptures at Belur, or the statuary at Mahabalipuram, like the enchanting dream of a sculptor who fell asleep on the beach. But Kamala, who recalled the many childhood stories about the gracious mercy of the goddess, was feeling euphoric. For a while Shrivasthava, who felt sympathy for the elephant calf with its trunk raised to bless the many bowed heads of devotees who had lined up with balls of jaggery and bananas, made the rounds behind Kamala. Finally, after finding a place for Kamala to sit and wait until the special prayers had commenced, Shrivasthava walked outside. He walked among the street vendors. He found an elderly flower seller sitting by himself, whom he wanted to ask his questions about the forest. The old man pointed out the Kudajadri mountain ranges, recounting their myths and legends. He described the river that flowed around the temple, the Souparnika.

The proud, mist-covered peaks of Kudajadri watched Shrivasthava. The verdant mountains enveloped by the sky began to tempt his mind. Beyond the wooded thickets, past the trails pounded by wild animals were the ruins of a small, dilapidated shrine. Doors that opened onto a far distant past . . . He fixed his gaze on the mountain ranges, thinking how if he were here alone, without Kamala, he would climb the Kudajadri with a small group of pilgrims. 

Shrivasthava turned away with a sigh when Kamala came back and called out to him. As they walked towards Souparnika along the path described by the flower seller, Kudajadri’s blue intensity seemed to line his eyes.

Souparnika’s shore was deserted. Behind a curtain of thick green vines, Souparnika gurgled over the rocks, sounding like a dancer. Shrivasthava began to forget Kudajadri.

Leaving Kamala to sit and wait on a shade-covered rock, Shrivasthava stepped into the currents of Souparnika as if sinking rapturously into a beloved’s embrace. Kamala was joyous as her gaze fell on the colorful fish and the wild water birds flitting off the surface of the river.

Diving into the water, Shrivasthava opened his eyes inside the clear current of the river and saw stones of different sizes, shapes and colors scattered across Souparnika’s riverbed.

The transformation of stones had always fascinated Shrivasthava. Stones that build houses and prisons . . . milestones that measure distance . . . boundary stones that mark the borders of enmity . . . stones reborn as true-to-life images . . . dead tombstones . . . But apart from such transformations matched to the destinies of humans were these stones, untouched by human hands, signs of a primeval nature. Shrivasthava believed that human evolution progressed side by side with the evolution of stones. 

Selecting stones from Souparnika that looked particularly ancient and unique, Shrivasthava put together a small collection and displayed them for Kamala with the excitement of a child showcasing his inventions.

In an unexpected burst of emotion Kamala cried out, “Stop . . . Don’t take stones from Souparnika . . . Those belong to the goddess . . .”

Remembering his ancestor, who had tried to keep the stones of Souparnika for himself by covering them in a cloak of faith that hid some kind of Truth, Shrivasthava smiled and swam ashore with the stones in his hands. Kamala tried to grab the stones from him and repeated once again, “No, please don’t. You can ask anyone . . . No one takes stones from Souparnika.”

“It doesn’t matter, Kamala. We can start worshipping these stones the same way we worship gods . . .” Shrivasthava walked towards the car with the stones in his hands. Kamala followed behind silently.

In the car, Shrivasthava noticed that Kamala didn’t speak the whole journey. Shrivasthava glanced at her sullen face with curiosity and kept driving. Their car got into a minor accident at the junction where the road diverged into the woods. Trying to avoid a calf that ran out into the road, the car skidded and came to a standstill against an earthen mound. Kamala was tossed forward but was able to balance on her extended palms to break the impact, saving herself. Regaining his equanimity, Shrivasthava attempted to lean over lightheartedly and bring Kamala close, to embrace and console her. Kamala pushed Shrivasthava’s hands aside and lashed out angrily: “What did I tell you? The stones of Souparnika . . .” Kamala burst into tears.

Shrivasthava removed his hands from around Kamala, stunned. After waiting a few minutes, he put the car in reverse and started to drive.

Souparnika’s shores once again . . . Day had folded into dusk. Souparnika’s babbling cascades were at their loudest.

Shrivasthava got down from the car and threw the stones back into Souparnika. The stones sank into the riverbed, dissipating the saffron hues of the twilight sky reflected on the surface of the water. Wild sparrows flew away in a chorus of alarming cries.

Shrivasthava got back into the car with a darkened expression and resumed driving without looking at Kamala. Melancholy seized her as she gazed at the road in front of them with indifference and anxiety. When they reached the turn out of the woods, darkness had spread completely, and they became invisible to each other.

Each mind is a Souparnika, Shrivasthava thought to himself. The currents above . . . beliefs like stones in the riverbed . . . singular forms.

In the forest, the cicadas had begun their collective chorusing.