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The Collector of Sins

by Sreya

The Toyota Qualis is a large and rugged car which speeds by the many miles of lush green land that surround the long, twisted roads. The large red blossoms flash their beautiful petals in the air that is thick with rain. Farmland and long, large huts whiz by the too-large windows, but it is all going backwards because I�m the first to say goodbye and always the last to say hello.

I am going to Nizamabad, home of the holy Godhavari river which has swelled more than ever in the past twelve years. From the city of Hyderabad, it takes four hours, but the distance cannot be long enough while driving through these beautiful fields. I wonder if this is how the Jews feel when they move to Israel, or what the Muslims wonder when they trek to the Hajj. I can tell someone that I am going on a pilgrimage and that alone makes me feel devout even though I am anything but.

Before I left for the river, many of our relatives had come to my aunt�s house in Hyderabad, asking my mother and I whether we were going there or not. When the river swells once every twelve years, so the legend goes, the Godhavari river will cleanse all sins for those who step in it. No matter what I believe, the prospect of going to such a place teeming with the history of my ancestors intrigues me. It seemed that my family were the only ones going on this pilgrimage this time; we were on vacation and could afford the time necessary to go and take a dip in the muddy waters of the Godavari.

This did not stop the flood of requests. Perhaps they thought that if I prayed for them, their sins, too, would dissolve in the river. �When I was in Kindergarten,� began my younger cousin Vallabh had said while shrugging his small shoulders, sheepishly. �I had to let a girl put the rakhi string on my wrist.�

�So?� I asked, confused. �How is that a sin?�

�I slapped my teacher in the face for asking me to do it,� he told me, solemnly. �Do you think Lord Vishnu would forgive me?�

�Why do you ask?�

�I want you to take this to the Godhavari for me.�

This was the first but certainly not the last time I would be asked this. The previous day, one of my aunts came to our house the day before we left, completely in tears. She wanted us to ask for forgiveness because of her cruelty toward her mother-in-law. These were some of the more frivolous of the sins we were to dissolve, but even these carried weight on my conscience. Did they really expect all of this to go away? There were other, more unsettling requests that stuck with me even now as I ride to the river, wondering what to expect.

While I was writing in my journal for the day before we were to leave, I sat next to my cousin, Vishnu, who was supposed to be studying his math, but instead sat at his desk, his head in his arms.

�What are you thinking?� I asked, firmly scribbling in my journal.

�I�m thinking about how I failed my math test.� This was strange, I thought. This particular cousin of mine never took failure to hear t at all, so this really was a bit perturbing.

�Why is it THAT much of a concern?�

He turned to face me with a smile I had never seen on him before. It was a sort of stark, bittersweet smile that is mastered by old men after a life of sadness, and it was out of place on his round, mild face.

�Last time I failed a math test was when Appa [father] was mad at me and locked me in my room ... it was the first time he ever got that angry at me-�

�He�d never sent you to your room before?�

�No ... it was because I hadn�t eaten after I came back from school and I was really hungry,� he said, cracking a smile, �But after awhile Appa came in with some puri and chole [traditional indian dish] and sat next to me. �Vishnu,� he told me, �Whenever I wanted to study for my tests when I was a young boy, I used to sit on the toilet. That gave me the inspiration,� I always study on the toilet - I take my math book and everything and it annoys Vallabh no end.� he paused, �But I forgot to do that for my last test, and guess what happened?�

There was something deeper in all of this; since the death of their father, my beloved uncle, my cousins Vishnu and Vallabh have taken his words extremely to heart. I did not find this a bad thing at all; it was quite gratifying to see how mature my cousins were compared to their peers due to these words of wisdom. I only wish my uncle were still alive so that he could see what good his words of wisdom have done for my generation.

�Ok,� I conceded. �What do you want me to do?�

�Bring the Godhavari to me,� he said, �and I�ll pour the water over my feet while I study on my commode.�

Before I had gone to sleep that night, my cousin Pratyusha had come to pick me up so that I could stay with her in her house in Jubilee hills, where the movie actors had their winter homes.

�Someone wants to ask you something.�

I was brought to her car, and within sat a girl dressed in a bright pink sari which accented her beautiful, dark skin. I thought she looked vaguely familiar.

�Hi,� she chattered in Telugu. �Remember me?�

I stared at her blindly as my cousin translated. Then I had as sudden realization; she was Rama, the daughter my grandmother�s assistant who was my brother�s playmate many years ago! I could not understand her because she spoke only Telugu, but she was my age, and had grown up magnificently.

As the car rumbled through to Jubliee Hills, Rama began to talk, aided by Pratyusha.

�My grandmother,� she began �gave me her ashes a year ago.�

I shrugged. �How can someone who�s still alive-�

�She willed it,� my cousin explained.

�And if I cannot scatter them elsewhere,� Rama continued, �she will not be taken to her next birth.� She fiddled with her expansive golden chain. �I have to scatter them over a river ... Nayanamma had said ... you know ... that she had committed many bad things in her life ...�

Before I could say anything, Rama clasped a hand into my own and gave me a small urn and a large hug. I could smell the freshly picked jasmine blossoms in her hair.

�Take her sins to the Godhavari.�

My great uncle, my Simachalam Tata, is waiting for us as we pull into his large house in Nizamabad. We are to go to the river straightaway, while the sun beats down on us furiously.

After the preliminary introductions, my great uncle walks up to me and shakes my hand. Then, winking, he asks-�How many people asked you to take their sins to the river?�

�More than I can remember,� I grumble, helping him into the car.

The river waits for us, at the end of a winding path. Before me, the penitent Pilgrims trudge in the blinding heat. My uncle looks ahead at the tiny stretch of water in the distance. The brown, muddy river snakes through the fertile lands in the distance.

�Twelve years of sin,� he tells me, smiling. �I wonder how the river can hold all of these.� What of me? I carry many times his burden.

The stone steps are cold and filthy. Drones of lazy flies gather around a sodden cracker, and I just avoid being eaten by a stray dog who is set on the leftovers which lay on the steps. Finally, I finally stand here, feet soaking up the water, the water in turn soaking up the sins.

The daughter-in-law�s strife and the failed math test drain into the rushing river, evaporating off of the face of the earth. How ironic, I think, admiring the muddy foulness of the river. From here I will leave, having cleansed my conscience, and the conscience of those before me. I know I that when I leave I will look back at the river, wondering where it is running with twelve years of my sin.