The Last Ferryman of Lohit

The Lohit River, on a clear day, was a shimmering ribbon of green and blue, cutting through the Arunachal Pradesh hills like a deity’s discarded sash. But on that monsoon morning, it was a churning, mud-brown beast, swollen with the fury of the Himalayas, its usual placid hum replaced by a guttural roar. Bijoy, the youngest ferryman in Tezu, squinted through the relentless curtain of rain, his hands gripping the tiller of the ancient wooden ferry, the ‘Brahmaputra’s Daughter’.

His father, the legendary Narayan Singh, had taught him everything: how to read the river’s treacherous currents, how to coax the reluctant engine to life, how to spot the submerged rocks that lay like hungry teeth beneath the surface. But even Narayan, with his fifty years of river lore etched into his weathered face, would have cursed this weather. The mist, thick and clammy, clung to the river like a shroud, reducing visibility to mere feet. The usual landmarks, the towering Sal trees on the far bank, the lone Shiva temple perched precariously on a cliff, were swallowed whole.

Bijoy was making his first solo run of the day, a short crossing to the small Mishing village of Koloriang. It was barely dawn, but a small group of villagers, mostly women with baskets of fresh produce and a couple of old men heading to the market in Tezu, huddled under the ferry’s canvas canopy. Their faces, usually animated with morning chatter, were grim, their eyes darting nervously at the swirling water.

Halfway across, the engine coughed, sputtered, and then died. A collective gasp rose from the passengers. Bijoy’s heart hammered against his ribs. He swore under his breath, a string of Mishing curses he’d picked up from his father. He yanked at the pull-cord, again and again, but the engine remained stubbornly silent. The ferry, now a toy in the river’s grip, began to drift, pulled inexorably downstream, away from Koloriang, towards the deeper, more dangerous bends where the Lohit met the Brahmaputra.

Panic, cold and sharp, pricked at Bijoy. He looked at the passengers, their faces pale with fear. He had to stay calm. He was Narayan Singh’s son. He grabbed the emergency oar, its wood smooth and heavy in his hands, and began to row, digging deep into the churning water, trying to steer the ‘Brahmaputra’s Daughter’ towards the nearest visible bank. It was a losing battle. The current was too strong, the ferry too heavy.

Then, through the mist, a shadow emerged. Not a tree, not a rock. Something larger, darker, moving with an unnatural swiftness. It was a country boat, a long, slender vessel, its single oil lamp a flickering beacon in the gloom. Bijoy let out a shout of relief, but the words caught in his throat. There was no one at the helm. The boat was empty, drifting just like his own, yet its movement was somehow more purposeful, almost guided.

As it drew closer, Bijoy saw the inscription carved into its weathered bow: “Ananta”. The Eternal. A name whispered in hushed tones along the Lohit, for it was the boat of the old man, Jaganath, the reclusive fisherman who lived further upstream, near the ancient ruins of Tamreswari Temple. Jaganath, who was rumoured to speak to the river spirits, and who had not been seen for days.

The empty ‘Ananta’ bumped gently against the ‘Brahmaputra’s Daughter’. One of the older men, a Mishing elder named Kiron, reached out and grabbed the ropes of the drifting boat, securing it to their own. “Jaganath,” he murmured, his voice laced with foreboding. “Where is he?”

Bijoy, his mind still reeling from the engine failure, felt a chill that had nothing to do with the driving rain. Jaganath was an expert boatman, a man who knew the Lohit’s every mood. For his boat to be adrift, empty, meant something truly amiss. And then, as the ‘Ananta’ swung around in the current, Bijoy saw it. Streaked across the rough wooden floorboards, a dark, viscous stain. It was too dark for water, too thick for mud. The metallic tang, even in the damp air, was unmistakable.

Blood. A lot of it.

The ‘Brahmaputra’s Daughter’ continued its helpless drift, now tethered to the silent, blood-stained ghost of the ‘Ananta’. The mist seemed to thicken, pressing in on them, and the river’s roar grew louder, a hungry growl. Bijoy looked at the terrified faces of his passengers, then back at the empty, blood-soaked boat. Whatever had happened to Jaganath, it had happened out here, on this treacherous river, shrouded in this unforgiving mist. And now, with his own engine dead, Bijoy realised they were all adrift, vulnerable, and perhaps, next.