In the vibrant village of Roshan Pura, nestled on the banks of the grand Chenab River, lived a young artist named Armaan. Armaan possessed a rare gift: he could capture the very soul of the river on his canvases. His brushstrokes danced with the rhythm of its currents, the colours sang with the sunsets over its waters, and his paintings were admired throughout the surrounding tehsil.
One day, a renowned storyteller, Dadi Jaan, arrived in Roshan Pura. Dadi Jaan was famed for her captivating qissa’s (tales), woven with ancient myths and moral lessons. She would sit on a wooden charpoy in the village dera, her voice carrying across the open fields, drawing listeners from every mohallah.
Armaan, however, found Dadi Jaan’s stories frustrating. He felt they often painted the world in broad strokes, with heroes always purely virtuous and villains always purely wicked. He preferred the subtle nuances he found in observing the river, the way the same water could reflect a stormy sky or a peaceful dawn.
One evening, Dadi Jaan began a new tale about the “Darya Ka Raazdaar”, a mythical creature said to dwell in the deepest parts of the Chenab. She described it as a fearsome beast with scales like hardened steel and eyes that glowed with a malevolent green light. The villagers listened with a mixture of awe and fear, their imaginations painting a terrifying picture.
Armaan felt a familiar wave of disagreement. He had spent countless hours observing the river, even venturing out in his small nao (boat) during quiet twilight hours. He had sensed a powerful presence in the depths, but never one of malice. He believed the “Darya Ka Raazdaar” was simply misunderstood.
Determined to offer another perspective, Armaan began a new painting. He used deep blues and greens to represent the river’s mysterious depths, but instead of sharp edges and glowing red, he painted soft, flowing lines and a gentle, luminous glow emanating from the centre. He tried to capture a sense of ancient wisdom and quiet strength.
When Armaan unveiled his painting near Dadi Jaan’s charpoy the next day, it caused a stir. Some villagers were intrigued by his serene depiction, while others scoffed.
“That is not the Darya Ka Raazdaar!” exclaimed an older fisherman, puffing on his huqqa. “Dadi Jaan’s qissa paints a truer picture of the danger lurking beneath!”
Armaan tried to explain his interpretation, speaking of the river’s vital role in their lives, its capacity for both calm and dangerous floods, and the possibility that the “Raazdaar” was simply a powerful force, not inherently good or evil. But his words seemed to fall on deaf ears, overshadowed by Dadi Jaan’s captivating narrative.
Feeling disheartened, Armaan sought the advice of his grandfather, Baba Rehmat, a quiet man known for his deep understanding of the river’s moods and the secrets of the land. Baba Rehmat listened patiently to Armaan’s frustration.
“My grandson,” he said gently, stroking his white beard, “Dadi Jaan tells stories that resonate with the collective understanding, often shaped by fear and the need for simple explanations. Your paintings offer a different kind of dastaan, one that requires deeper observation and a willingness to see beyond the surface.”
“But how can I make them understand?” Armaan asked. “They only hear the fear in Dadi Jaan’s words.”
“You cannot force them to see,” Baba Rehmat replied. “But you can offer them a different way of seeing. Continue to paint your truth, the truth of the river as you perceive it. And perhaps, in time, some eyes will learn to see the silence in your colours.”
Armaan took his grandfather’s words to heart. He continued to paint the Chenab, focusing on the subtle currents, the changing reflections of the sky, and the sense of profound mystery he felt. He painted the migratory fish that sustained the village, the delicate nilofar that bloomed in the shallows, and the ancient roots of the submerged trees that seemed to anchor the very spirit of Roshan Pura.
Slowly, subtly, Armaan’s paintings began to influence how some villagers viewed the river. Teenagers, especially, were drawn to his nuanced depictions. They spent more time observing the water themselves, noticing the intricate ecosystems and the delicate balance of life within. They started questioning the simplistic portrayal of the “Darya Ka Raazdaar.”
One day, a sudden, fierce monsoon flood swept across the Chenab, more violent than any they had seen in years. Boats were tossed, homes along the bank swayed precariously, and fear gripped the village. During the height of the flood, some villagers claimed to have seen a dark, immense shape moving beneath the churning water, seemingly confirming Dadi Jaan’s terrifying description.
But Armaan, watching from a safe vantage point on the highest bund, noticed something else. The immense shape seemed to be deflecting the strongest currents away from the village homes, its movements somehow protecting the more vulnerable parts of Roshan Pura. After the flood subsided, and the waters began to calm, an old fisherman, whose nao had been miraculously spared, spoke up.
“I saw it,” he said, his voice filled with awe. “The Darya Ka Raazdaar. It wasn’t attacking; it was… guiding the water, shielding us from the fiercest currents.”
Others began to share similar observations. They realized they had only focused on the surface appearance and the fearful stories, never truly understanding the powerful force that resided beneath.
Dadi Jaan, ever the astute storyteller, saw the shift in the villagers’ perception. She approached Armaan, her eyes filled with respect. “Your paintings, young artist,” she said, “have painted a silence that speaks louder than my qissa’s. You have shown us that even in the deepest mysteries, there can be a truth beyond our initial understanding.”
From that day forward, the legend of the Darya Ka Raazdaar evolved in Roshan Pura. It was no longer seen as a purely malevolent beast, but as a powerful, enigmatic protector of the river, its intentions often silent and unseen, requiring careful observation and a willingness to look beyond fear-based narratives. Armaan continued to paint, his art teaching the villagers, especially the younger generation, that true understanding often lies in seeking diverse perspectives and appreciating the complexities that lie beneath the surface of assumptions.
Moral of the StoryTrue understanding emerges when we look beyond simple narratives, embrace diverse perspectives, and cultivate the patience to observe the subtle complexities of the world around us.
