It was a quiet, seemingly ordinary afternoon. The Yamuna River glistened under the golden hues of the setting sun as it flowed gently past the peaceful village of Shantipur, in Uttar Pradesh. The breeze carried with it the scent of blooming jasmine and the hum of cicadas, signaling that summer had arrived.

In this close-knit village, where everyone knew each other by name, four inseparable children—Aarav, Raju, Kabir, and little Meena—ran along the riverbank, their joyous laughter echoing down the dusty trail. They were the best of friends, always together like shadows. But on the evening of May 15, 2024, no one knew their laughter would fall silent forever, leaving behind a sorrow that would haunt Shantipur for generations.

Aarav, 13 years old and in seventh grade, was quiet and thoughtful, with sharp eyes and a kind heart. He often helped his mother with chores after school. Raju, also 13, was the spark of the group—cheeky, cheerful, and always making everyone laugh. Kabir, the same age, was reserved and responsible, especially protective of his 10-year-old sister Meena—a sweet girl who chirped like a sparrow and clung to her brother wherever he went.

That day marked the start of summer vacation. No schoolwork, no ringing bells—just the wind, birdsong, and innocent plans made in childish excitement.
“Let’s go swim in the river this evening—it’s so cool!” Raju beamed.
“Yes!” Aarav’s eyes lit up. “A good swim will wipe away all the exam stress!”
Kabir turned to Meena. “Want to come with us?”
“Of course!” she said, eyes sparkling. “I know how to swim now!”

No one knew it would be their last time together.

The dusty trail to the Yamuna curved through lush green rice fields, the smell of sun-scorched earth heavy in the air. The four rode their bicycles side by side, the bells jingling in rhythm with the wind. They stopped at a bend in the river where the water curved like silk, calm and inviting. Villagers came here to wash clothes or fish, but to these children, it was a haven of freedom.

Aarav flung his sandals aside and ran into the water, splashing joyfully. Kabir held Meena’s hand, guiding her gently into the river. Raju dove in fearlessly, swimming toward the center. Their laughter filled the air, melting away every care.

But the river hid a deadly secret—a whirlpool beneath the surface, created by recent floods, had carved a deep pit into the riverbed. Calm on top, but dangerous below.

“Bhaiya! I’m drifting!” Meena shrieked—but her voice was swallowed by cicadas and splashing water.

Kabir turned to see his sister flailing, pulled away by the current. “Aarav! Raju! Help!” he shouted, his voice cracking. Without hesitation, he lunged toward her. Aarav swam closer, and Raju turned around. But the whirlpool had already revealed itself—dark, silent, and merciless.

“Hold my hand, Meena! Don’t let go!” Kabir cried, gripping her slippery fingers.
“Bhaiya!” she screamed—and then her hand slipped away.

Aarav reached for Kabir, but was pulled down. Raju tried to grab Aarav—but the current was too strong.

Within seconds, all four children vanished beneath the water, leaving only a pair of floating sandals behind.

The sun dipped below the horizon. The laughter was gone.

Back in the village, Sunita Devi—mother of Kabir and Meena—was picking greens for dinner, glancing up the road every so often. Aarav’s mother was rinsing rice, while Raju’s father returned from the fields, drenched in sweat.

By 6 p.m., unease began to set in.

“Why aren’t they home yet?” Sunita murmured. She stepped to the gate and peered toward the river. Everything was still.

Suddenly, she spotted Meena’s pink sandals lying abandoned in the grass. Her heart clenched.
“Kabir! Meena!” she shouted.

There was no reply.

Panic spread. Villagers rushed to the riverbank. Torches were lit, ropes and fishing nets were brought. The river glowed under flashlight beams, but all they saw was black, unmoving water.

Aarav’s mother screamed when she saw her son’s shirt left on the grass.
“My son! Aarav, where are you?”
Raju’s father knelt in shock, staring into the depths. “No… it can’t be. Don’t take my child, God…”

That night, no one slept.

At 3 a.m., Meena’s body was found first—curled as if sleeping, eyes gently closed, hair tangled with moss. Her school uniform was soaked in silt. Sunita Devi collapsed upon seeing her. “Just say something to me once, Meena. Please!”

At 5 a.m., Kabir was discovered 50 meters away, caught in a submerged tree. His father sat beside the body, speechless, hand trembling as he touched his son’s pale cheek.

Aarav’s body surfaced the next afternoon. He was found near the village’s edge, clinging to a weed as if still fighting. Raju was found by evening, a kilometer downstream, face pale, lips sealed in silence. His parents wept so hard that no one dared approach.

The village was engulfed in mourning. Four small coffins were laid out side by side, holding the laughter of yesterday, now silenced forever.

Rain fell during the cremation. Not heavy, but enough to soak the earth, the white funeral cloths, and the tears.

Photos of the children were framed for the altars:

Aarav in a white shirt, shyly smiling.
Raju with a tilted head, mischievous grin.
Kabir, serious and deep-eyed.
Meena, the youngest, radiant with her innocent gaze.

None of the parents could bear to look at the pictures without breaking down.

Villagers whispered prayers. Children held their parents’ hands, too young to understand—but old enough to feel the pain.

On May 15 each year, Shantipur holds a candlelight vigil by the river. Floating lanterns carry messages of love.
“We haven’t forgotten. We never will.”

Somewhere above, Aarav, Raju, Kabir, and Meena are surely laughing together—just like on that first day of summer break.

For those left behind, the pain never fades—but they learn to live with it, and carry forward the light of four childhoods that never had the chance to grow up.

Farewell to the four little angels of Shantipur.
Your laughter has become the wind, your parents’ sorrow has become stone,
and your memory… is forever.