There Are Rivers in the Sky

by Elif Shafak

Rivers have personalities. Some calm down with age, winding ponderously across fertile plains and meadows; others become bitter, surging with rage, tumbling through steep gorges; while yet others remain agitated and confused till the end. No two rivers are alike. The Tigris is, and has always been, “the mad one,” “the swift one.” Not like its twin, the Euphrates, which, having a gentler disposition, courses at a slower pace, taking its time, absorbing its surroundings as it passes by. These two mighty currents—though both spring from the womb of the Taurus Mountains in Turkey and run parallel for most of their lengthy peregrinations until they perish together in the Persian Gulf—are strikingly dissimilar—much as two siblings can be very different, despite sharing the same parents. “They speak to each other, you know, the Tigris and the Euphrates. When the wind blows this way, you can hear them.” Narin scoffs. “Really—can you hear them now?” “I can, actually,” says the old woman, craning her neck. “Listen, they’re gossiping again, those two. They are very chatty. Euphrates is complaining. She says: ‘Why are you so restless, my Tigris? You’re tiring everyone—and yourself. Why this endless rage of yours?’ ” Narin draws closer. “And what does Tigris say?” “Tigris says, ‘Why’re you asking, my Euphrates? Even if I were to explain, you’d never understand. You’re blessed with calmness of spirit. I’m not like you. It’s so hard to be me—it’s hard to have to fight all the time.’ ” “A...