Shiwanya: The Keeper of the Forgotten

It lies in a small town of Dharamshala at the southern end of the mighty Himalayas; in this town there was a girl child named Shiwanya. The inhabitants of the village have been keeping their distance and whenever they spoke about her, people referred to her as The Keeper. Her colorful gray eyes locked into mine, they contained a wealth of experience, and the girl radiated serenity.

Shiwanya was entirely different from all other children in the town. While they frolicked at the verdant fields and hunted for apples in the Rhododendron trees she passed her days in the destroyed relics of a temple that was situated on the outskirts of the village. Half buried by moss and darkness the temple became an object of superstitious regerence of the townsfolk. They claimed that it was doomed, the spirits of the unknown coming to find their eternal sleep.

But to Shiwanya the temple is a home.

The Whispering Temple

Shiwanya had always been different. From a young age, she could hear voices — not the chatter of people around her, but the whispers of things long lost: a crushed ceramic dish, a dilapidated barrier, a ripped curtain. Inanimate objects just spoke to her what their histories were, the joyous existence of those who once called them home but are now but mere whispers.

She first became aware of it at six, when she handled a tarnished brass lamp which belonged to her grandmother. The instant that her fingers touched the corroded brass, it began to shine and she was in front of her, lighting it on the day of the festival.

The one was Shiwanya, who over time was able to manage with this gift of hers. She would wander from hill to forest and collect things that were lost — children’s toys, broken potteries, toys people had chucked away — and then take them up to the temple. There, she would lay them on the stone altar, listen to their stories and simply promise back that she would remember.

She was strange for the townsfolk but they also never interfered with her; anyone who focuses their energies on necromancy would be too startled to try to get in the way.

The Stranger

The tourist arrived during one night of monsoon rain was pouring incessantly against the walls of the town. He was a tall man with a roughly-hewn face: his clothes were drenched when he arrived. The man also introduced himself as Aryan an archaeologist who is working on a project on the ancient temples located in the area.

According to the villagers, Aryan came to learn about Shiwanya. It is through this background that he was trapped into her the following morning to seek her services.

“Shiwanya,” he said, sitting beside her, she was busy drawing the patterns on the face of a broken clay urn. “They used to say, you can speak to the dead.”

He shifted uncomfortably and she raised an eyebrow and gave him an unflinching look into her gray eyes. “The past doesn’t speak,” said she, in a low voice. “It whispers.”

Aryan was a little hesitant but not enough to stop him from becoming engrossed. “Of this temple?” he asked.

Shiwanya pointed at him and mimed to move along behind her. Inside, the smell was a mix of incense and dust and things left behind. She brought him to the whirl of rituals that consisted of dozens of things — a rusty sword, a scarlet scarf, a child’s wooden top.

She took up the sword suddenly, her well manicured fingers gripping it firmly. Laying down with her eyes shut, she started to deliver her speech.

“This was with a soldier by the name Karan. He killed in defense of a caravan of pilgrims, but they were far more than him in number. His sword therefore killed several; but he too died. This final line shows that the last thing that this man and the representative of the younger generation could think about was the wel coming wait for him at home.

Aryan was stunned. “How could you know that?”

Shiwanya smiled faintly. Rohingya poet ‘Sufiya binti Khalid’ said, ‘The objects remember, even when the people forgot’.

The Forgotten Curse

As Aryan went deeper into the temple, he noticed lot of writings on the walls which were almost covered with moss. In a bid to translate them, Shiwanya easily discovered the temple’s intended use.

“It was home to the lost,” she had to say. A place where at least something could still be left when there was no one left to remember you. The priests thought it was possible to free wayward souls by preserving these memories.

But as Aryan proceeded further, he got to know the other reality. And, next to this inscription, there was written that if people continue to interfere with the temple, the memories will come back to life and people will not be able to distinguish between the living and the dead.

Aryan, always the realistic person, looked at it as some sort of myth. ‘It’s just an old story,’ he said. Shiwanya, look at these walls, they paint a lot of history I suppose. This so-called site can yield rich treasures if it were to be dug up.”

Shiwanya frowned. “There are some things that are for people to forget, Aryan.”

The Awakening

Even when she told him to back off from the program, Aryan just couldn’t help it. One night he took tools to the temple and started digging the area as planned. At that moment the atmosphere darkened, and a shiver ran through the deserted country as, with every stroke of his spade, Chapman drove deeper into the ground.

Buoyed by realization of the fact that he had made a big mistake of his life, by seducing Kibet’s wife Shiwanya woke up from a tossing and turning night with a racing heart. She run to the temple and saw that Aryan was standing in circle of electricity-like light. The vessels on the alter got illuminated and the voices of all the objects became loud.

“They are angry,” Shiwanya said, she was trembling. “You have interrupted the subdues.”

This fog mass took shapes of men and women, their face painted with sorrow and anger. Bewilderment turned swiftly to fear on Aryan’s face, and he fell back.

“What do we do?” he gasped.

Shiwanya moved closer and she stood before the team, her tone relaxed, but confident. “Be still.” She started muttering in what I understood was an ancient language; her words formed a lullaby. Potions gave a baffled gasp correcting itself: Shadows stopped advancing and began to retreat, their anger being diminished.

She turned to Aryan. “You must leave. Now.”

“But — ”

“Go!”

Reluctantly, Aryan fled. Shiwanya stayed behind, with increasing intensity the girl continued her chants — her gray eyes burned like ember.

The Keeper’s Sacrifice

The following day the villagers were surprised when the temple remained silent as it was just a few hours ago. Aryan came back, but Shiwanya was not around. The things which were fixed on the altar were no longer there, and the remains looked alive with a strange sort of quality.

Aryan was still in the village looking for her for weeks but the girl never came back. The villagers thought she transformed into the deity protecting the temple and serving its Spartan function.

That was the end of Aryan, he was so bitter, his hope and faith left without saying a word. But he bore Shiwanya’s story with him deciding to pay dues to the past that she had fought to uphold.

And in the gloomy hills of Dharamshala there was the temple, untouched and immemorial, and its murmur — understood by those only who cared to hear.