The Last Ferryman of Lohit

The metallic tang clung to the air, a grim perfume. Bijoy stared at the blood, a dark, congealed mass on the floorboards of Jaganath’s boat, the ‘Ananta’. His father’s words echoed, the warnings about the Lohit’s hunger, its ancient secrets. But this wasn’t the river taking its due in a storm. This was something else, something violent and deliberate. The fear in his passengers’ eyes was a mirror of his own, only he couldn’t show it. He was the ferryman, the one who knew the river, the one responsible.

“Stay calm,” he called out, his voice a little hoarse above the wind and rain. “Just stay calm.” He moved to the ‘Ananta’, careful not to touch the grim evidence. The blood was concentrated near the stern, almost as if Jaganath had been dragged from that spot. Bijoy’s gaze swept the small boat, searching for any sign, a clue. He saw a worn fishing net, a coil of rope, and then, tucked beneath a makeshift wooden seat, a small, canvas bag. He pulled it out. It was damp, heavy. Inside, wrapped in oilcloth, was an old, leather-bound journal. Its pages were water-stained, but the writing, in Assamese, was clear enough.

“What is it, Bijoy?” asked one of the passengers, an elderly woman named Aai, her voice trembling. She was a regular on his ferry, making the trip to Sadiya for market days. Her face was etched with worry, her gaze fixed on the blood.

“It’s Jaganath’s journal,” Bijoy replied, flipping open the cover. He recognised Jaganath’s familiar, spidery script. The first few entries were mundane, weather observations, fishing hauls. But then, the tone shifted. Dates became sporadic, the entries more urgent.

“June 14th. Saw the lights again. Not the village, not a boat. Deeper in the river. Near the bend where the old temple ruins are said to be. They’re digging.”

Bijoy frowned. Digging? What would anyone be digging for in the middle of the Lohit? His mind flashed to the old tales, whispered in hushed tones by the elders, of the Tamreswari Temple, a site of ancient worship and, some said, forgotten treasures, swallowed by the river centuries ago. The temple itself was real, its ruins known, but the location Jaganath mentioned was deeper, an area traditionally avoided by fishermen due to treacherous currents and submerged rocks.

“June 20th. Confronted them. Men I’ve never seen. Strangers. They wore no uniform, but carried tools. Said they were surveying. Lied. Saw the dredger marks. They know about the ‘Nagakanya’s Tears’.”

Bijoy’s breath hitched. Nagakanya’s Tears. The mythical jewels, said to be offerings to the river gods, buried deep within the Lohit, near the forgotten altar of the Tamreswari. This was no mere fishing dispute. This was something far more dangerous. Jaganath, known for his reclusiveness, was also fiercely protective of the river, a quiet guardian of its secrets.

“Bijoy, what’s happening?” Aai’s voice pulled him back. He looked at her, then at the other passengers, their faces pale, illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning. He couldn’t tell them everything, not yet. Not with the engine dead and them adrift on this raging river.

“Jaganath was investigating something,” he said, trying to keep his voice steady. “Something to do with people digging in the riverbed.” He omitted the treasure, the Nagakanya’s Tears. No need to add to their fear.

He continued to read, his eyes scanning the water-damaged pages. The entries grew more frantic. Jaganath had been tracking these men, observing their activities. He’d noted their boat, a larger, powerful vessel, unlike any local fishing boat. He’d even described a symbol, a coiled serpent with a jewel in its mouth, painted on its hull.

“July 1st. They almost caught me. I saw what they found. Not the jewels, not yet. Something else. Ancient carvings. They are disturbing the old places. The river is angry. I feel it. The Naga Raja will not suffer this desecration.”

The Naga Raja. The Water God. Bijoy felt a shiver run down his spine, despite the humid air. The elders spoke of the Naga Raja in reverent tones, a powerful deity who guarded the Lohit’s depths, swift to punish those who defiled its sacred waters. Was this what Jaganath believed? Or was it a metaphor for something else entirely? A sense of unease, deeper than the fear of the storm, settled upon Bijoy.

He turned another page. This entry was dated yesterday, the day Jaganath was last seen. It was barely legible, scrawled in haste.

“July 4th. They found me. Near the bend. The red mud. They know. The blood of the old ones. The river is stirring.”

The red mud. Bijoy remembered the patches of reddish earth sometimes churned up by the Lohit’s powerful currents, believed by some to be ancient sediment, by others, a sign of the river’s anger. And ‘the blood of the old ones’? Was Jaganath referring to a literal bloodline, or something else entirely, a symbolic desecration? The journal ended there, abruptly, with that chilling, fragmented sentence.

Bijoy looked at the blood-stained boat, then at the churning, rain-lashed waters. His own engine was dead. They were at the mercy of the current, drifting towards the very bends Jaganath had written about. The old temple ruins. The digging. The strangers. Jaganath hadn’t simply vanished; he had been silenced. And whatever he had uncovered, whatever ancient powers or human greed he had disturbed, was now out there, in the churning depths, waiting. Bijoy clutched the journal, its damp leather cold against his palm. The river’s roar seemed to take on a new, menacing tone, a whisper of unseen forces, human and otherwise, converging in the heart of the Lohit. He had to get his engine working. He had to warn someone. But first, he had to survive the night.