Anaya pokes her bare toes into the Yamuna at the old stone ghat. The water hums low and strange—a sound she has never heard before.
She grabs her grandmother's sleeve. "Yaaayai, did the river just... sing?"
Grandmother taps the water with a wooden spoon. Plip. Plip. "Every village the Yamuna touches leaves a song here," she says.
Anaya presses her ear close to the water. Nothing but the rush. The lotus pads bob. Bob. Bob.
The river splashes over smooth stones. It bubbles up through the lotus pond. It roars past the old banyan roots.
Anaya pokes and pokes. Pokes and pokes. SPLASH. Cold water sprays up over her hands.
A silver fish leaps out of the current and bops her right on the nose. She spits. Shakes her head like a wet puppy. "It's all jumbled up!"
Anaya steps into the middle of the river. Cool water swallows her knees, and she lets out one wobbly note. The water goes quiet.
Grandmother's fingers curl tight around Anaya's hand. For a long moment, the river hums back.
Anaya climbs back onto the ghat. Water drips from her wet hair—plink, plink—onto the stone. "I'll sing it every morning," she tells the river.
