The Water Diviner: Himal Fiction Fest 2025

This story is part of the Himal Fiction Fest 2025, a showcase of original Southasian speculative fiction..Himal Fiction Fest 2025: Southasian speculative fiction.“Sing my name when afraid. O sing my name before the start of a journey. Sing my name with love and a pure heart. I was Radha. I was Meera. I was Fathima. I was Ashan Bibi too. I come to you now, my brothers and sisters, I the blind yet all-seeing Mehrunisa. Lose not hope nor live in dread. The door will open sooner than you know.”.Sulu knows this part of the long verse by heart. So she recites it with Mai, who kneels with her head covered and, in the dim light of the lamp, reads from the book, which is forbidden. The book is a slim volume, almost a pamphlet. It is old and brittle. Its words have been transferred from mouth to ear for generations. It was first chanted by the great Saint Mehrunisa herself, as she sat in a trance three centuries ago outside the rubble of her home. Since then it has been passed down, orally at first, and then in slim, clandestine books like the one Ammi is reading from. .The book is the soul of their community. And while plastic copies and embroidered-on-cloth versions of it exist, this paper book — the last of the originals — is entrusted to the care of their leader. According to myth, when an original Holy Book crumbles or is destroyed by a nonbeliever, a new one appears almost miraculously. So far, it is only a beautiful story. This little community of believers have not faced such a tragedy, despite their countless hardships and humiliations..The book is read out during all auspicious and sorrowful occasions to the families and friends of the fortunate and unfortunate. And to the entire community before any important journey – for who knows when such a journey will herald an expedition, or a communal exodus? .Ishmael Bhishti, Sulu’s father and husband to Durga Bibi, the leader of the outcast community of Settlement Kanpur #1b Subdivision 7653, or SK-7653, possibly holds the single most important job in their settlement, despite his lowly status. Which is why he must be extra cautious when he goes out without permission. The punishment is worse than death. So the community gathers before every expedition, to pray together. The fate of his people rests on Ishmael. .Today’s expedition, though, holds greater significance. Today Ishmael will induct his daughter into his art. They have made many practice runs before. But today, Sulu will be tested, young as she is. Sulu knows this. She is proud to be the chosen one. She is too young to feel the stab of apprehension. Her concentration brings a smile to those gathered in the room. Even Durga Bibi pauses to cast a fond look her way. A mother’s love is like prayer. It is never a disturbance, even during a pious ritual..Afterwards, all will rise to embrace the father and daughter. The elders will give their blessings first, followed by the rest. Then each member will leave, slipping into the narrow, corridor-like lanes that entwine their small dwellings. There are no lamps to light their path. They blend into the dark, like shadows..Mai serves a simple dinner. They eat after giving the customary thanks. They turn in early. The things they will need for their journey are packed and kept ready near the door. The night is quiet except for the distant whine of dogs..The moon is a slim smile on the sky’s face. The night is just beginning to change into day. Its inkiness is mellowing into a velvety, deep royal blue. The air carries the delicate sweetness of imminent predawn..Ishmael peeps through a crack in his front door. The dirt road looks white. A cool breeze ruffles his cheeks and beard. The street dogs have curled up at last and do not get up to greet them. A goat bleats in the distance. Ishmael presses himself against the wall. Nothing stirs. He breathes again..“Ready, my precious? Lamp of my eyes?”.“Yes abbu,” comes the whisper at his knee. The voice has almost lost its lisp, but still retains a baby treble..The duo slips out. Ishmael shuts the door as quietly as he can. He pauses. Nothing stirs. The leafless, dry trees, standing with their outspread branches as if beseeching a boon, watch them go. Light-footed, bare toes scuffing dust as fine as talc, Ishmael and Sulu – or Sultana Ganga, which is her full name – sprint towards the horizon, where the boundary wall looms..Ishmael holds Sulu’s hand and ducks under some thorny bushes. She instinctively shields her face. The thorns, though not poisonous, are sharp. Ishmael kneels and gets to work on the dry soil. One or two of the shrubs are plastic decoys. He sets them aside, and inserts his hand into the hole underneath..A click and a whirr make Sulu clap her hands over her mouth. She looks fearfully around her. A grate rises from the ground and slides into a groove in the wall..“Now!” says Ishmael, in an urgent whisper..Sulu slips through the opening, clutching her little goatskin. Ishmael follows, grunting softly as he squeezes through. Once on the other side, he picks up a large stone and places it under the grate. Then, he quickly arranges uprooted bushes, dry branches and decoys around the stone..They scramble over the sandy soil and scamper towards a stand of low, stunted trees, with boulders big and small and more thorny bushes. This is where Ishmael has hidden his double-wheeled solmobile. It’s an old model, someone’s tossed-aside junk that he found and took apart, transported outside their settlement piece by piece and put back together again with the necessary repairs. It took him a long time. It is slow but, powered by the sun, it never runs out of fuel. And, best of all, it sails on the air as silently as a bat..“Blessed be the relics and the discarded! Blessed be the many boons of the Saint,” mutters Ishmael..Ishmael removes the dry branches that conceal the vehicle. He seats Sulu first and secures her safety belt before climbing on himself. The wind blows through Sulu’s hair. After they have ridden for a while, she looks behind. Their settlement twinkles like a pinprick of light, growing smaller and smaller. When at last they stop, and Ishmael finds a hiding place for the solmobile, the dark has a metallic sheen to it, as if dawn is pushing its way in..Ishmael drops to one knee and studies the ground. He is a hereditary water diviner, gifted, like his father and his father’s father and his and his before him. He is the one who has led SK-7653 to fresh water sources in the past. When one source dries up, he is ordered to find another. He is not always successful. But the small sources that he manages to find help him retain his job and keep his family within the safety of SK-7653..There are other settlements, but they are not in contact with them, for fear of losing their water. It is safer to live inside than out, like nomads, forever at the mercy of the elements, of militant groups and wild mutant creatures that evolved after the nuclear wars and climate catastrophes of the past centuries. Uncontaminated sweet water has been scarce for so long, no one remembers how the rivers used to flow and how the waterfalls used to dance..When Ishmael goes out on an official water hunt, SK-7653’s council provides him with four armed guards, military-level drones and combat-bots, an armoured van with an overhead water tank, food and tents for night halts. Sometimes they spend days, even weeks outside the settlement, prospecting for fresh water. Ishmael keeps his nose to the barred opening on the van’s floor. He speaks into a walkie-talkie when he thinks he should step out to investigate. Then they stop and open the door, and he jumps out and sniffs the ground, squat-walking, until he finds the source. .They tank up as much water as they can and mark the spot, leaving behind a few drones and combat-bots to guard the place and alert them should water-thieves come sniffing. Other, larger tankers will reach the place later and fill up. They will do this every day until the source is depleted..Sometimes the groundwater returns to the same spot again, giving them hope of a permanent underground watering hole. This is rare, almost like a miracle. Sometimes Ishmael senses the return of the water but does not report it to his employers. Sometimes he indicates that the water is finished when there are still a few tank-loads left. Water needs time to rejuvenate, like all things on Earth. Ishmael, being a true diviner, understands and respects Earth’s needs..Now Sulu imitates his actions as he moves. She knows what abbu is sniffing for. Her six-year-old heart grows fierce with intent. Ishmael squat-walks a little of the way. He stops. Sulu does the same. He reaches for her hand and tugs, indicating she should keep close and follow. They move swiftly towards a denser clump of trees, which leads them to more trees growing from the cracks and crevices of boulders and shattered hills..The trees have small, sickly leaves. Sulu gently presses some on a low branch. She runs her fingers along the trunk. The bark is peeling, dry and old before its time. Ishmael kneels and puts his ear to the ground. Sulu follows suit. The earth speaks to her..Ishmael locates a narrow opening between two gigantic boulders. It is almost hidden by rock debris blasted out of the hillocks by humans long ago. He discovered this place during his last official search. The scent of water was strong, and he had to suppress his excitement so as not to give himself away to the guards. He had known instinctively that this was a big find..He had urged his guards to move further, towards the west, cutting a curved path away from the site. That day’s search had been fruitless. He returned to the 50 lashings every failed search earned him. But his jubilance within had helped him bear the pain. If they found out, he would be hanged and his family cast out..Ishmael has been on a quest for a long time now. Durga put the idea into his head. She has a plan that involves not just him and Sulu but their entire community. When the time comes, their fellow outcasts will do her bidding. Without fear, without hesitation, without a single doubting question in their hearts..Father and daughter push into the opening and enter a long tunnel, open to the sky. When they come out on the other side, they face a wall of rocks, rubble and scrub. Ishmael now produces a solar-powered torch to light their way. A façade like this would fool anyone, but not Ishmael. The path was there, hiding in plain sight. Someone in the past had set this up. Was it his great grandfather, or an earlier ancestor? Ishmael had heard a family story, an old legend, but it was rarely told, as if to speak of it was to beckon danger. By the time he was a grown man, he had all but forgotten it. .They climb up and then climb down. They tumble into a lake of canna plants. The plants look darker than the darkness around them. They wave their long leaves in the breeze as if to welcome them. These plants are the children of the children of an ancient canna patch. This place must have been one of the natural water-purification centres set up by eco-practitioners long ago. .A damp vegetal scent, mingled with the smell of clay, wafts up. There are rocks here too, but also soft earth. The trees standing at the edge of the canna patch look healthier than the ones they have left behind. The rocks here are flat, like stepping stones, as if they had once bordered a water body. There is a light phosphorescent glow. The way is slippery. Long-legged birds with scruffy feathers look at them warily, their eyes shiny under Ishmael’s torch. .Sulu looks at her abbu..“No, Sulu, my little moon,” says Ishmael. “These are not good for eating. But if we are lucky we may catch a fish yonder, for this water is pure. I can smell it.” He points towards something beyond her line of sight..They hurry towards the end of the sloping ground. Ishmael begins to crawl, feeling the earth with his hands, his two goatskins secure against his back. He stops near what looks like a curtain of green and brown – vines and leaves, intertwined. And suddenly, Sulu can hear the faint sound of water rushing over stones..They push past the green curtain. Ishmael has his knife out and his eyes flit here and there. His other hand holds Sulu close. The creatures here could be venomous. Yellow orbs gleam in the dark and vanish. Soft hisses and snarls reach their ears. Sulu knows this is the sound of fear. The creatures would prefer to run rather than attack, which they surely will if cornered and denied escape..“Man has been king of Earth for aeons, but never a just and kind king,” whispers Ishmael, as he draws Sulu closer still..The words of an old prayer come to Sulu’s lips. Mai had taught it to Sulu like her own mother had taught her. Just like Mai’s grandmother had done. Each generation of women teaching the prayer to the next. Another voice joins hers. She looks up at abbu. He is singing with her, softly, so softly. .The words, asking forgiveness of Mother Earth, of all Earth-living brothers and sisters, whether human or not, fall like leaves to the ground. They sense the retreat of the hidden creatures: small predators, the larger ones having long gone extinct. And then, just as suddenly, they are out in the open, beneath a widening sky. A thin, shallow brook gurgles with clear water until it disappears again into the undergrowth..“Ganga Mai,” says Ishmael, and mutters another prayer, a quick one, of gratitude. He fingers the amulet hanging from a black string around his neck..This prayer is to Mehrunisa, the saint who had shown them the way more than 200 years ago, when humankind was beginning to limp back to civilisation and attempting to heal Earth in the process. Half the Subcontinent had already been swallowed by the sea. Broken earth had swallowed up the rivers. Yet, despite the great upheavals, the ancient caste system had remained, stronger than ever, in every settlement. The Chamars and Doms, the neech-jati, were put to work as cleaners of cesspools and latrines, as cremators of humans and animals alike. Even so, Mehrunisa had not died in vain. She had foretold a future of freedom and dignity. And she had taught them lessons in survival, medical skills, and the art of herbal healing. Most of all, she had chosen from her disciples a select group to whom she imparted the secret of water divination. Her preachings and teachings had been passed down from mother to daughter and from father to son. .It did not take long for the upper castes to realise how precious the water diviners were. Because of them, the entire community was able to survive, some in each settlement. When the water bodies shrank, and the Ganga’s sweet, pure waters became almost mythical, the descendants of the first water diviners stepped in to quench the settlements’ thirst and make sure their own community was let inside..The Ganga and the other rivers had literally gone underground, but pools of waters still gurgled up to the surface in places hidden to all but the keenest water diviners. The Thar Desert ruled most of the Subcontinent, and dense scrub jungles took over where it did not. Arid land and bare rock glared at the remaining population under the sun. Mutant flora and fauna took root. Strange new beasts rose from the ashes of the old. Nothing was the same. So, it was good that some people remembered the old wisdom, passed down from one generation to the next. .“Ganga Mai,” says Sulu with reverence and a little pride, for isn’t it also her middle name?.They fill up their goatskins. They splash the sweet water on their faces. They scoop with their cupped hands and drink. They look at each other and grin with joy. Ishmael bends low and runs along the short length of the brook, scanning its shallow waters. A movement in the water alerts him. He stops, stiffens and listens. .A minute later he plunges his hand in with the swiftness of one with long practice. A slender, foot-long fish with sharp teeth wriggles in his hand. Sulu has a stone ready. She hands it to her abbu. He lays the fish on a flat rock and slams the stone on its head, stilling it instantly. He quickly positions it at his waist, and arranges his lungi around it like a belt, tying a knot to keep it secure. He checks to be doubly sure there is no chance of it falling out..He slings his goatskins over his back. Sulu slips her tiny replica under her frock, and off they go, back the way they came..Sulu tugs at Ishmael’s hand. He stops and smiles in the dark. She has managed to pick out the scent of ripe lantana berries. The clever little girl has even brought along a small cloth bag, just in case. She is a fast learner, she is. His Sultana Ganga. Soon she will learn to find the hidden brooks of Ganga Mai alone. She is a born Bhishti. .By scent and feel they gather the ripe berries. Sulu, unable to resist, stuffs some into her mouth. The juice dribbles down her chin. Once her bag is full, she carefully slings it around her neck. They turn back the way they came, board the solmobile and sail back to the stand of bushes and boulders near the settlement. They work quickly to conceal their trusty ride. .Dawn’s thin, pale lip nudges against the horizon. Ishmael and Sulu hurry towards their spot in the wall. They can see their way in the diminishing gloom. This means they can be seen as well, and they had better be quick and more careful. They reach the grate and manage to crawl through it without incident. Ishmael is relieved their hidden route has not been discovered. It is in a disused and shabby part of the settlement, an area earlier used for a garbage dump and sanitation depot. It is not a place the foot soldiers of the law like to muck around in..Once upon a time a drain had passed through the grate. It was used for channelling excrement and other refuse out of SK-7653. The settlement, like others scattered across the land, has since developed better, solar-powered machines for recycling organic waste, both solid and liquid. But Ishmael and his people are not fooled. They know the water distributed to them by the municipality is not the same as what goes to the others. They are given the worst of the recycled water. .In stealth and secrecy, they work with their own tiny, makeshift refining machines. They separate solid waste and turn it into good soil. They extract good water, as far as possible. They try. They try as much as it is possible without getting caught..The early risers are already stirring when Ishmael and Sulu take the turn that will take them back to their lane. The sky has turned a silver colour shot through with rose. A few crows are raising a hue and cry. Most other birds are either extinct or have evolved into something new and most likely venomous. .Ishmael’s sharpened senses make him slow down. Sulu, always alert and attentive, slows down as well. She lifts the neck of her frock and slips the bag of berries inside. The bulge is visible, as she already has the little goatskin inside. She starts to walk with a hunch, keeping her head down. They walk as casually as they can, but without appearing too casual. Ishmael repositions one of his goatskins..“Water? Water for your kitchen, mother. Water?” He calls out in a singsong voice. But not too loudly..“Hey! Halt!”.Ishmael and Sulu freeze..Ram Lal and Lakhan Pal, stun guns ready in their hands, automatic rapid-fire guns slung across their backs, combat boots splattering the soil, are rushing towards them. Their assault-proof, metal-enhanced suits gleam in the morning light. Their moustaches are turned upwards and kiss the air whistling past their cheeks. A stripe of vermillion glows like an ember on each of their foreheads..“Rascal! Where were you?!” says Ram Lal..“Asshole! Where are you coming from?!” says Lakhan Pal..Ishmael is instantly on his knees, arms behind his head. One of the goatskins slides to the ground. He is not supposed to look them in the eye. Sulu, shaking with fright, keeps her head low, her chin touching her thin chest. She hangs back, a few feet away from her abbu..“Mai baap!” gasps Ishmael. “Just delivering water. You know me, sir. I’m Ishmael Bhishti. I find water.”.“We know who you are, you son of a pig!” says Ram Lal..Ishmael winces at the slur. His ears grow hot..“Where did you get this water? We didn’t see you at the municipal tap,” says Lakhan Pal..“I… I was there, mai baap,” stammers Ishmael. “Early today. Very early. Then I was j… just talking… ”.“Who were you talking with?” Ram Lal prods him with a boot..“Only bitiya here, mai baap. My little Sulu.”.Ram Lal leers at Sulu. “Chhee! What a ragged thing. Bring her to us when she has put on some flesh.” He lifts Ishmael by his right ear. “Now, bastard, show me the water!”.Ishmael unties the leather string from the goatskin’s mouth. He holds the neck of the goatskin forward to show its contents..“Pour,” says Lakhan Pal. His voice is a quiet menace in the still morning..“Mai baap…”.“Did you not hear him, swine?” roars Ram Lal. He snatches the goatskin and throws it violently away. Clear water runs out and is quickly absorbed by the hungry ground. Tears run down Ishmael’s cheeks and are quickly absorbed by his wiry beard. “Take us for fools, do you? Marrying a Hindu woman would have cost you your life if she was not a lowly Dom herself!”.“Did you ever see such crystal-clear water?” announces Lakhan Pal to the eyes and ears hidden behind narrow windows and tenement walls. “Did you?! See how much the councillors care for you. You, ingrates! And, you still complain! You heard him, right? He got the water from the municipal tap. Your tap!” He snatches the other goatskin from Ishmael’s shoulder. “Now I’ll show you what kind of water you bastards deserve!”.Lakhan Pal unties the goatskin and unzips his pants. He grunts, then giggles as the acrid stream hits the mouth of the goatskin. Most of it spills out, but enough goes in to defile the water. .“Now tie it up and go on your way, you pig scum!” roars Lakhan Pal. .Ishmael scrambles up to take the goatskin. Ram Lal kicks him and laughs coarsely when he stumbles. Sulu gasps. She covers her face with her hands. She shivers and squeezes her legs together, willing herself to hold. Hold, hold, until she’s home. She stands like that, frozen, unseeing, her ears buzzing so loudly it is the only sound left in the universe for her. .A light touch on her shoulder startles her. She loses her balance and falls. The shock loosens her bladder and the sour-smelling wetness spreads around her, dampening her frock and the ground..“Sulu, my little moon, they are gone,” says Ishmael softly. He gently pulls her up. “Let’s go home, my jewel.” Sulu hears the defeat in his voice. “Let’s go home to Mai.”.In twos and threes their neighbours and friends come out of their little homes and gather in the open. No one speaks. They all look at the goatskins like they have lost something so precious it cannot be replaced. Some are crying, but silently. At last, an old man points at the defiled goatskin..“Don’t discard it, brother Ishmael,” he whispers. “We will purify it.”.Ishmael nods. He hands the goatskin to the man. He picks up his other goatskin from the ground. The goatskins are family heirlooms, and respected in their community. Holding Sulu close, he leads her away..Durga Bibi is quiet as she squats on the floor beside their solar chula. The news has already reached her. She sits as calm as a rock in a windswept desert. Her hands move rhythmically, rolling bajra rotis for their morning meal. There is little that can throw her off balance..“Wipe your hands and feet with that wet towel there,” she says, pointing to a hand-spun piece of cloth next to a bucket of water. “Come eat.”.“How is Zukiya?” asks Ishmael. He unrolls his lungi to take out the fish..“Any time now. Her water already broke.” Durga looks at the fish and smiles. Her eyes meet his, willing him to let the small blessing caress him. One must be grateful for every little thing..“Mai,” whispers Sulu. “Mai.” She takes out her bag of lantana berries and places them gently near her mother. The berries are mostly squashed. Durga’s smile widens, but a tear also shines in her eye. “Mai,” whispers Sulu again. She wriggles and pulls out the goatskin. There is a slight sloshing sound as she lays it on the ground. The goatskin is round with Ganga water..Durga stares at Sulu for a few moments. Then she flings her arms around the little girl, almost crying with relief and joy..“It’s better than nothing,” says Ishmael..“It’s everything,” gushes Durga. She covers Sulu’s face with kisses..A couple of hours later, the sound of a newborn’s wail winds and unwinds through the narrow lanes. Durga emerges from Zukiya’s home, beaming. The baby’s cries are drowned out by the ululations and chants of well-wishers. Someone beats a rhythm on a metal pot..“Both the mother and baby are fine,” Durga says to no one in particular. .“Were you able...” says Ishmael..“Oh yes!” Durga replies, patting the tiny goatskin hanging from her waist. “A drop is enough for a newborn. And a ladleful for the mother will see her through.” She raises her folded hands and chants, “Ganga, Ganga. Ganga Mai ki jai!”.“I’ll have to go again, this won’t last,” says Ishmael. “But Ganga Mai is there for us. Small and secretive, but bountiful. There is no mistaking it. I knew the instant I tasted the water. And you must come one of these days, to see for yourself. We must be very careful, though.”.Sulu watches, feeling a little shy, as her mai stands on her toes to stroke her abbu’s beard. “Ishmael Bhishti,” says Durga, and her voice grows soft and plump with love. “Ishmael Bhishti, your family has brought the water of life to the needy for generations. Mehrunisa will always protect you.” Then she draws Sulu close, as if to complete their little circle. “This time, though, all of us will go together.”.Ishmael looks at her, nonplussed..“All of us,” says Durga, and there is a quiet force in her voice. “We who have been purifying water for those people” – and here she flings out a dismissive hand – “we will now move out and grow our own settlement. You have found a source, a good source, Ishmael, my husband. Now you shall lead us all to it.”.“But they have weapons. They will kill us!”.“They could not kill us all these centuries. Mother Earth will protect us. Ganga Mai will protect us. Have faith, Ishmael Bhishti. We, our people, are strong. Much stronger than anyone gives us credit for.”.Durga Bibi’s words float into the narrow lanes. Their people hear the drift of her words and sense a change in the air. They turn towards Ishmael Bhishti’s door, and they wait. They wait as the faithful do before the altar of their messiah..Durga Bibi sees the growing throng and she nudges Ishmael. Her eyes sparkle the way they used to all those years ago, when Ishmael first set his eyes on her and fell in love.