Our rivers, Godavari and Krishna

Told in English, Telugu.

Every summer, Lasya and her cousin Kiran stayed with Ammamma and Tatayya in their house near Rajahmundry. Lasya lived in that very town, close to the Godavari. Kiran came all the way from Vijayawada, where the Krishna flows past the hill of Kanaka Durga Amma.

And every summer, the two of them argued.

"The Godavari is the biggest river," said Lasya one evening, swinging on the uyyala. "It is so wide, you can hardly see the other side."

"The Krishna is better," said Kiran, crossing his arms. "It has the Prakasam Barrage. Hundreds of people cross it every day. And the Krishna has the big dam at Srisailam."

"Godavari has the Papikondalu hills!"

"Krishna has Durga Amma's temple!"

Ammamma came out with two plates of hot punugulu. "Such loud voices for such small people," she laughed. "Tatayya, did you hear these two? Fighting over rivers again."

Tatayya folded his newspaper and smiled a slow smile. "Tomorrow morning, before the sun gets hot, we will go out on the Godavari in Appanna's boat. Maybe the river will settle this fight herself."

The next morning, the sky was soft and pink. Appanna, the boatman, waited at the ghat with his little wooden boat. It had a small engine at the back, and two long oars lying inside.

"Namaskaram, Appanna mama," said the children.

"Climb in carefully," said Appanna. "Sit in the middle. The Godavari is gentle today, but she is always strong."

The engine went put put put, and the boat slid away from the steps. The water was wide and brown and shining. Fishermen were throwing their nets. White birds stood on the sandbanks like little statues. A kingfisher flashed blue and dived into the water.

"See, Kiran?" whispered Lasya. "So big."

Kiran did not answer, but his eyes were very round.

They went far out, to where the river was deepest. And then, the engine coughed. Put put... put... phut. And it stopped.

Everything went quiet. The boat began to turn slowly, and the water carried it along, away from the ghat.

Lasya grabbed Tatayya's hand. Kiran held the side of the boat. "Appanna mama," he said in a small voice, "why are we moving by ourselves?"

"That is the current," said Appanna calmly. "The river is always walking toward the sea, and she is taking us with her. Don't worry, children. This old engine does this sometimes. That is why I always keep these."

He picked up the long oars and began to row. Dip, pull. Dip, pull. His arms were strong and steady. Slowly, slowly, the boat turned, and moved toward a sandy bank under a big tree.

Can you row with Appanna? Dip, pull. Dip, pull. Good!

At last the boat bumped softly onto the sand. Everyone let out a big breath. Appanna began to fix the engine, humming to himself.

The children sat on the cool sand beside Tatayya. Lasya's heart was still beating fast. "The river is very strong, Tatayya," she said.

"Yes, kanna. Now, shall I tell you a secret about your two rivers?"

They both nodded.

"The Godavari begins far, far away, in the hills of Maharashtra, near a town called Nashik. At first she is just a tiny stream. Then other streams join her, and she grows and grows. She travels across Maharashtra and Telangana, and into our Andhra Pradesh. She is the longest river in all of south India."

Lasya sat up proudly.

"And the Krishna," Tatayya went on, looking at Kiran, "also begins in the hills of Maharashtra, near a place called Mahabaleshwar. She too starts small. She flows through Karnataka and Telangana, and comes to Vijayawada, and then she too goes into the sea."

Kiran frowned. "Which sea, Tatayya?"

"The same sea. The Bay of Bengal. Both rivers start in the same far-away hills, and both end in the same big sea. Just like two sisters who leave the same home and come back to the same mother."

Lasya and Kiran looked at each other.

"And near the sea," said Tatayya, "each river spreads into many streams and makes a green delta. That is where so much of our rice grows. The rice in your plate, Kiran, and the rice in your plate, Lasya, both came from these rivers. Your coconuts, your bananas, the fish your Ammamma fries so nicely. The rivers do not ask who is from Rajahmundry and who is from Vijayawada. They give to everyone."

Kiran was quiet for a long time. Then he said, "So they are not fighting. Only we were fighting."

Tatayya laughed and patted his head. "Exactly."

Just then, Lasya noticed something. Kiran's empty water bottle had rolled out of the boat and was lying at the edge of the water. One little wave, and the river would carry it away.

"Kiran, your bottle!"

Kiran jumped up and caught it just in time. He looked at the bottle, then at the river. "If we throw rubbish in her, she has to carry it all the way to the sea," he said. He put the bottle inside his bag. "I will take it home."

"Now you are a true child of the river," said Tatayya.

Put put put! The engine came back to life. Appanna grinned. "All aboard, river children!"

All the way back to the ghat, Lasya and Kiran did not argue even once. Instead, they made a plan. Next summer, Lasya would visit Vijayawada and see the Krishna, and Kiran would show her Durga Amma's hill. And they would both bring cloth bags, so no rubbish would ever reach their rivers.

That night, as they fell asleep, Lasya whispered, "Goodnight, Godavari."

And Kiran whispered, "Goodnight, Krishna."

And far away, the two sister rivers kept flowing quietly toward the same sea, under the same bright stars.