Prose · 05 / 08 · Edition 01

This side of the river

on the side that blooms without being looked after

By Ashwika Tripathi · Sep 2026 · 1 min read

I am on this side of the river.

The side where flowers bloom on their own. The side where the grass survives with whatever it gets. The side which is doing just fine on its own.

What's on the other side, you ask? The other side has flowers too. But those flowers are nurtured. Watered and fed. Protected from what weather does to things left alone.

The other side is never tired.

This side only appears that way.

Nobody sees what lies beneath the soil. Nobody watches the roots stretching deeper and deeper in search of water. Nobody hears them crack against stone. Nobody notices how much of themselves they surrender just to keep the flowers alive.

All anyone sees are the flowers it bore. Not the droughts it survived.

Maybe that is why this side learned not to ask for rain. Why it learned to bloom in silence. Why it stopped expecting anyone to notice.

The flowers are proof enough, aren't they?

Only the river knows which side was left to fend for itself.

And perhaps that's the cruelest part—they all look the same.