The undeciphered language of the Saraswati was music for their fatigued souls after walking thousands of miles in search of a place to settle, a place they could perhaps call home without any prejudice. Some smiled, some sighed, while others eagerly waited for their elders to speak; Hindavi stood on a cliff overlooking the route beneath, the one they had left behind.
Something was pulling at his heart, and a strange eagerness swept through his veins. For a moment, he couldn't breathe because the pain from his memories replaced his desire to live. Every limb of his body refused to look ahead. The past seemed to have become his beloved habit.
What made them leave the great, rich, fertile and magnificent citadel by the Sindhu really made him wonder. Such second-to-none prosperity, all wiped by mere dice of fate, how much more burden of the rocks forced on his feeble shoulders would he have to bear at such a tender age, bothered him. As tired women cradled their children on fatigued legs, Hindavi lay down beside a rock. Trying hard to remember the name of the foreigners, 'Arjan'- the old potter seemed to have read his thoughts. Are those foreigners really to blame for dividing their civilisation and making them abandon their homes out of sheer despondency?
As the wind blew and a blade of grass got stuck in Hindavi's hair with it, he felt it like a familiar touch, almost caressing the very locks. It was the distance from Tarangvati that played like a flute on the breezy banks of Sindhu. The grass was adamant, and so were his memoirs of her. Then, as the sun stole a brilliant peek behind the trees, a thought brought warmth to the livid heart of Hindavi.
It was the distance that tormented him, for he felt the tune of Tarangvati's flute swaying over the ripples of the Saraswati, gently lying by the sheepish hillocks and watching the day come to a close. Every appearing star was a rhyme on its own; every word he spoke was a tribute to her charm, and in the sea of their endless memories, he was drowning in a trance.
Far away beyond Sindhu in the citadel, the first rays of the morning sun fell through the window onto her face. Her eyes stirred as she fluttered them open. Tarangvati's eyelids were heavy from the sleepless night. Every time she closed her eyes, she could see them leave. Troops of men, groups of women, carts and animals. Among them was a face that haunted her most. A face she wished wouldn't vanish into the horizon. She sat up on her haystack bed, her hair falling over her face as her eyes searched for something. Distances were getting longer. Perhaps the only way she could reach him now was through the music of her soul. She picked up her flute.
The old man on the street wondered why the jolly flute he heard every day played a melancholy tune of longing and heartbreak today. It was speaking to someone with a longing heart. The old man sighed. Most of the people in the citadel had heavy hearts today. They had parted with friends and foes, families and acquaintances. Yet, the music of this flute was like something torn apart in him. He didn't know anyone who had left very closely. Yet now, he felt like he knew them all. The music grew louder.
Tarangvati couldn't continue. Her music was fading into the sounds of the street down below. The market was coming alive. Everyone went about their day. Everything seemed normal. But was it? She held the flute close to her bosom and sighed. He was now far beyond her reach. Yet she felt him right there in the wind that seemed to whisper his praises to her ears. In the air of the citadel, she could smell him. A sudden gust of wind brought in the petals of a red flower through her window. Tarangvati knelt down to pick them up, carefully on her palm. Memories flooded her heart. The flute, the longing, the afternoons spent away from the citadel. Could she ever have imagined this day, a day without him hearing her play?
The flute dropped to the ground. The petals slipped from her other hand and once again caught the wind as she kneeled down to pick up the flute. The flute chipped on one end as it hit the floor. Tarangvati tried shrieking in agony, but not a sound escaped her lips. She broke into a quiet sob, but not a tear escaped. She lay down on the floor over her soiled clothes from the previous day, holding the flute beside her as though she was caressing him. His face; she ran her hand through the tip of the flute that touched her lips. His hair she caressed the end with a feather. His breath, she felt the holes in the flute with her nails. She closed her eyes and inhaled. No thirst or hunger came to her, except that of his touch and feel. She opened her eyes when the stars veiled the night sky.
Tarangvati sat down by the window, looking up at the half-eaten moon. How far had he travelled? How could her words and music reach him now? She wondered.
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The Indus Saraswati civilisation grew around the river beds of the North Western part of the subcontinent before spreading further East and South. 2500 sites have been found around the five rivers of Punjab, the Indus, Ghaggar, Saraswati basins and so on. The theory of the Aryan Invasion has now been discarded with enough evidence of the non-violent inclusion of the Aryans who came in layers through eras into the sub-continent, cross-cultural breeding and even adaptation of culture and ways of life. The Indigenous people who initially started off the IVC soon blended in with the nomadic Aryans in the later stages of the civilisation and had evident trade relations with Egypt, Mesopotamia and other contemporary civilisations.
