Tragedy strikes Jivitputrika Festival in Rohtas: river claims lives, including 7-year-old Bijoy
When they finally found him, he was miles downstream, caught in the roots of a tree that jutted into the water. His small body lay limp, his red shirt torn, his face pale. I screamed—a raw, guttural sound that felt as if it tore through my soul. “Bring him back!” I sobbed, clutching onto the impossible hope. “He is not gone!” But he was. My husband held me back as I struggled to reach him, to somehow breathe life back into his still, fragile body. My world crumbled; nothing would ever be the same.
- 5 days ago
December 10, 2024
Festival prayers by Riverside. | Photo courtesy of Priyanka Chandani.
ROHTAS, Bihar — The river danced with us that day, its currents alive with joy, mirroring the laughter and celebrations of Jivitputrika—a festival of prayers, blessings, and devotion to children’s well-being. It was a day filled with hope and togetherness to honor life. Yet, in a cruel twist, the same river that carried our joy, within hours, turned into a merciless force, shattering my world and leaving me heartbroken for life.
Read more environment stories at Orato World Media.
A joyful family life before the festival
Bijoy, my seven-year-old son, held the cherished role of the youngest among all the children. Two months have passed, yet the pain cuts as deeply as the moment I confront the reality of his absence. Bijoy arrived after my three daughters, the long-awaited heir my in-laws demanded to carry forward the family name. Though we are not wealthy, having a boy in the family was considered essential—a duty imposed without compromise. As my only son, he became the center of affection, adored and endlessly pampered by everyone around him.
His mischievous nature often tested my patience, and I sometimes scolded or lightly smacked him in frustration. Yet, like every mother, my heart overflowed with love and the best intentions for him. No matter the moments of annoyance, he remained my closest child, the pride and light of my life. Now, that light is extinguished, leaving behind an emptiness words cannot convey.
In Jaipur, far from our hometown in Rohtas, I work as a housemaid in multiple homes to support my family. My husband and I worked tirelessly to achieve a shared dream—building a new house in our home district. On Raksha Bandhan, a Hindu festival, I returned home where my husband lives with our other children. I stayed there with Bijoy and my eldest daughter, who lived with me in Jaipur. After the housewarming and accompanying rituals, we decided to take a short holiday in Nepal, visiting relatives across the border. The ease of travel without a visa made the trip even more appealing. Those twenty days were filled with joy and family before we returned home for the Jivitputrika festival—a celebration that would become the most devastating day of my life.
The water seemed calm, showing no signs of danger
My children overflowed with excitement for the festival, knowing we would all head to the river for prayers. To them, the day symbolized fun and adventure, along with the ritual. Early that morning, Bijoy tugged at my saree, his voice full of urgency, “Amma, let’s go! It is late, everyone is gone.” It was only 7 a.m., and everyone was still at home, waiting for the auspicious time in the afternoon. I tried distracting him and the other children while I worked through my chores. As the youngest daughter-in-law in a large extended family, I carried many responsibilities. With my husband’s two brothers, their wives, children, and in-laws all living under the same roof, managing the household fell largely on me. Despite the chaos, Bijoy’s excitement stood out—a bright, infectious spark I still cherish when I think of him.
By 11 a.m., we set out for the river, joined by neighbors. My eldest daughter stayed home, while the rest of us gathered at the riverbank to perform the traditional puja and float diyas—a gesture of gratitude and hope. Bijoy, bursting with energy, darted through the crowd before running up to me, insisting he get into the water. Following tradition, the women and children waded into the river together. The water seemed calm, showing no signs of danger, and Jivitputrika was not a time when the river typically surged.
By 2 p.m., as the rituals neared completion, the children, eager and playful, began splashing in the shallow edges of the river. I called out to Bijoy, “Stay close to the shore! Do not go too far!” He turned and nodded, his voice full of confidence, “I will be fine.” Those were the last words my son ever spoke to me.
The river’s terrifying power: the children are no longer in sight
I should have followed him, held his hand tighter, kept him close—so many regrets haunt me even now. At that moment, though, I was caught up with the other women, absorbed in finishing the prayers. When I called out to Bijoy again, a wave of unease swept over me. My instincts shouted something was wrong, but I dismissed the feeling, focused instead on the ritual’s final steps. The memory of that moment—knowing something was amiss and not acting—cuts deeply, the guilt I carry every day.
When I turned back toward the river, my heart seized. Bijoy was no longer where he had been moments earlier. The spot, once filled with his energy, lay empty. Neither he nor the other children were anywhere in sight. The river, tranquil just minutes ago, now surged with terrifying power, its waters rising and churning violently. Panic consumed me as I called his name again and again, frantically alerting the other women that the children were missing.
At first, I clung to hope. Perhaps he was playing, hiding behind one of the larger rocks in a mischievous game of hide-and-seek. But the growing crowd near the water’s edge and their alarmed voices shattered my imagination. My legs moved instinctively, carrying me toward the chaos, my mind refusing to accept what might have happened. Someone grabbed my arm before I could step into the river, warning me of the danger. Moments later, my husband appeared, his face alarmed, his hands trembling as he tried to steady me. In his eyes, I saw the fear I could not yet speak aloud—the fear that our son was gone.
For two agonizing hours, I prayed for any sign of Bijoy
“He will come back?” I asked my husband over and over, desperation choking my voice. As the minutes dragged into hours, hope slipped through my fingers like water. I clung to my husband’s arm, my nails digging into his skin, while the search team combed the river with boats and poles. For two agonizing hours, I prayed for any sign of Bijoy.
When they finally found him, he was miles downstream, caught in the roots of a tree that jutted into the water. His small body lay limp, his red shirt torn, his face pale. I screamed—a raw, guttural sound that felt as if it tore through my soul. “Bring him back!” I sobbed, clutching onto the impossible hope. “He is not gone!” But he was. My husband held me back as I struggled to reach him, to somehow breathe life back into his still, fragile body. My world crumbled; nothing would ever be the same.
Many children drowned that day, including my Bijoy. Not all bodies were recovered, but I found my son. Chaos engulfed the riverbank—screams for help, mothers shouting for their children, and the haunting cries of those who could not swim to safety. Out of 20 women and 37 children, only three women and a handful of children survived.
Hours later, after endless tears, my body gave out, and I fainted. They rushed me to the hospital while Bijoy’s body was sent for postmortem. When I regained consciousness two hours later, the first words I uttered were, “Where is Bijoy?” My husband’s silence, broken only by his tears, confirmed what I already knew. My daughters cried too, but I still clung to the delusion that Bijoy might return.
I bore the unbearable guilt of losing my son
My mother-in-law’s words struck harder than the loss itself. “You killed your son,” she screamed. “You could not even care for a little child.” What mother would ever wish harm upon her child? Yet, the blame fell squarely on me. I bore the unbearable guilt of losing Bijoy, but to everyone else, it seemed my failure alone. The accusations only deepened my heartbreak, isolating me in my grief.
Our home now echoed with silence. I spent hours in the children’s room, gathering his toys and clothes, hiding them away because each item felt like a blade twisting in my heart. The absence of my son’s energy and even his little fights with his sisters left an indescribable void.
The river, once a source of joy and life, now stood as a grim reminder of what it had taken. I could not bring myself to look at it, yet it pulled me to its banks time and again as if some part of me still hoped for a miracle. People urged me to move on, assuring me that time would heal. My mother-in-law’s accusations persisted, her harsh words a daily reminder of the blame placed on me. My husband’s silence only deepened my pain, as it felt like an unspoken agreement with her.
Through it all, my daughters, though only 12 and 10, became my pillars. They consoled me with words wiser than their years, shielding me from the harshness around me. They stepped in to help with chores, ensuring I was never left alone. Their love and quiet strength gave me fleeting moments of solace amid the grief.
Though I have not truly moved on, I have found small ways to honor Bijoy
The guilt weighs heavier than anything else, whispering constant reminders of how I failed Bijoy—how I should have held his hand tighter, stayed closer, or warned him more about the dangers of the river.
Life around me has moved on. Festivals come and go, and others gather by the river for rituals as if nothing ever happened. Two months have passed, and I still have not learned to live with the pain. Not a day goes by without tears. Though I have not truly moved on, I have found small ways to honor Bijoy. Each evening, I light a diya in the small temple of my home and whisper a prayer for my little boy.
Other mothers also lost their children that day. I know they endure the same pain and grief. Hoping for distraction, I returned to the city where I work. It helps, but only when I am fully immersed in my duties. To keep myself busy, I have taken on work in three additional homes, now managing eleven households.
Despite this, Bijoy never leaves my mind. I remember how I sometimes brought him to work with me. Upon my return, every homeowner would ask about my children, especially about my son. Now, when I tell them I’ve lost him, they empathize deeply. Their kindness has changed how they treat me. Many of the women spend hours talking to me, counseling me. They all tell me to accept the loss. I have accepted that Bijoy is gone, but I have not forgiven myself.
Losing my son to the river that festive day reshaped me in ways I never thought possible
I share Bijoy’s story with other mothers now, hoping to warn them of the dangers that took my child. If my pain can save even one life, perhaps it will not have been in vain. His laughter and cries still echo in my heart. I can still feel his small hand in mine, see his mischievous grin, and hear his endless questions. Though the river took him from me, it will never take away the love we shared or the memories we created.
Some wounds never heal; they embed themselves deeply, altering who you are and how you see the world. Losing my son to the river that festive day reshaped me in ways I never thought possible. Yet, amid the grief and the guilt, I have found a quiet strength—a strength to remember him, to honor him, and to love him endlessly.
I share my story in the hope that it reminds others to hold their loved ones a little closer, to cherish the fleeting moments we so often take for granted. Life is fragile, and the currents of fate can change in an instant. Let my loss be a reminder of the value of time and the bonds we share, and let my pain inspire others to treasure what truly matters.
