Two Rivers of Change: One Heart
Rockville, MD
2025, Junior, Creative Writing
I walk past the river, as American as it can be. Its beauty makes up for it being one of the few rivers in my crowded area. The ground reacts to the thrashing incoming water, rolling over the ragged stones. The earth trembles beneath the crashing water. The barricades steady the flow, slowing it into tranquil, milky ripples. I’ve passed this river many times before, but never has its reflection touched my heart quite like this. Never has its unrealistically perfect color sparked something so deep in my mind. Coming back to reality, I walk away from its beauty, making my way toward the house I reluctantly call home.
Because my real home smells like sweet mangoes, freshly picked from trees. My home feels like the joy of running barefoot through long grass. My home looks like the vast land in India where my grandmother’s house lies. My long separation from this beloved country ends in a few hours, when my family and I board a plane to India.
“Saanvi, how many times do I have to remind you to hurry up?” my mom calls exasperated. Her usual calmness vanishes when travelling, almost as if travel itself steals it. This time, I don’t mind her urgency. The river has set me in a trance, away from the burdens that come with the adventure called life.
One Day Later:
I wake up slowly, lazily blinking at the familiar ceiling. I remember now that I am in my grandmothers’s house, finally back after the long, tedious journey here. Without missing a beat, I get dressed for the day and head downstairs.
“Saanvi!!” my grandma exclaims, her face lighting up. I kiss her cheek and sit down to eat breakfast, a crispy Indian crepe with creamy chutney. She watches me as I eat, just like she did every morning when I visited two years ago. My mother always says I am my grandma’s twin in spirit. As if reading my thoughts, my grandma smiles and asks, “What would you like to do today, my mini-me?” I ponder my options for a second, with so many things to choose from.
“The river down the field,” I reply. My grandma’s eyes light up. That river is our special place here in India, where we eat, talk, and sit together.
“Perfect,” she says, already assembling a bag. “I haven’t been since you came last.”
Without missing a mere minute, we head off towards the river. As we walk, I take in the nature surrounding us. Long, willowy trees tickle my cheek. I hold Grandma’s hand as she points out various birds.
“That’s the Indian hornbill,” she nods to a colorful bird perched in the trees. I also notice the vast gardens every house has. I pocket that thought in my head for later, as at last, we reach the river. But something is very, very wrong. The river is no longer a mirror of our smiles when we bend down. The river is a thick, murky brown. You can’t see the rocks beneath its shallow surface. As I kneel, I only see darkness, not my reflection. I glance at Grandma, whose face has fallen.
“What happened to the river?” I say at last, attempting to break the silence.
She sighs. “It must be the runoff of substance from the coal-fired power plant in the neighboring city.”
We sit down, saying nothing, absorbing our grief. That moment, I understood the difference between my two homes and the shared struggles of nature in both. I knew then, if we don’t make a difference, this will keep happening.
Later that day…
My grandma and I work on the community garden, carefully planting new tomatoes, corn, mangoes, and more. Our hands are caked with soil; sweat drips down our backs. I kneel beside her, gently covering the earth over the new seeds.
“Follow me,” she says. She leads me to the garden’s edge, where every plant imaginable grows. From juicy guavas and ripe tomatoes to vibrant greens, each plant bursts with color.
“Wow. How do you use them all before they rot?” I ask. She raises an eyebrow in a confused expression.
“What do you mean? To cook, of course,” she replies. My cheeks flush pink. Back in my city in the U.S., gardens are rare, so we rely on grocery stores or pre-made food. A community garden was new to me. That day, for lunch, Grandma made fresh pav bhaji, using vegetables from the community garden. It’s a meal made from care, its bright flavors savoring in my mouth.
The month in India passed by in a blur. We spend our days gardening and building a simple filtration system to clean out the river. Stones, sand, and charcoal, each layer helps. Bit by bit, the water clears.
“Before we head to the airport, Grandma presses a small pouch into my hands.
“Plant these seeds for me in the U.S.,” she whispers. “Tend them like you did here.”
“Of course, grandma. Wait…one second.” Before my family can question anything, I run down the street to the river. Thanks to the filtration system, the water is clearer now. I kneel, careful to avoid stains from coming on my skirt. For the first time in weeks, I see my reflection. I touch the water, feeling its smooth ripples. The rivers in my life, two streams from two worlds, now run clearer, together. I feel the seeds, heavy in my pocket. They are not just plants, they are promises, and I am the bridge between my two homes.
Reflection
Reflection
I came up with the idea for Two Rivers of Change: One Heart while thinking about my two homes, one in the U.S. and one in India. I thought about how nature has been such a big part of my memories for both of these homes. I’ve always felt a deep connection to the rivers, especially when visiting my grandmother’s village, where we spend so much of our time. That relationship inspired this creative writing piece. Writing fiction allows me to explore my emotional connection with nature while also imagining a hopeful solution, like the filtration system in the story. I have written many pieces in the past that have explored my relationship with nature. However, through this contest, I’ve realized that connecting to nature isn’t just about being outside; it’s also about caring and acting for the environment. Writing makes me feel calm and like I’m adding something meaningful to this world. I chose creative writing because it allowed me to express both beauty and urgency. I want the readers to reflect on how nature connects generations and how small acts can become powerful promises.