Short Story: Shadows Across the Dnipro (Part 1)

Dr. Nishi Chawla narrates a poignant tale on refugees and shows us life, as they see it.

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This piece is available for free reading this week

The dawn was a shade of gray when Daryna stood at the edge of the Dnipro River, its surface so still that it seemed to mirror her frozen thoughts. She liked to play her bandura, a cross between a harp and guitar, and steeped in Ukrainian history, by the river side. The sky, heavy with the weight of another long night, stretched over the horizon like a veil over a grieving face. There was no comfort in it, no warmth to soften the unyielding cold that wrapped around her chest. Daryna had spent her young life in Kyiv, and now she had to leave it behind. It was a city of memories, of cobblestone streets and golden domes that once gleamed in the sun. The war had turned it into something unrecognizable—a city haunted by shadows.

The Dnipro had always been a constant in her life, a wide, gentle force that flowed past Kyiv, its currents carrying with it the stories of generations. Her mother used to tell her about the legends surrounding the river, about the myth that its waters carried the spirits of the fallen, that their souls became part of the Dnipro’s eternal flow, merging with the tides. Daryna remembered the sound of her mother’s voice, soft and melodic, as they walked by the river when she was still a child. Back then, the water had glistened under the golden sunlight, a testament to Ukraine’s beauty and resilience. Now, though, the river appeared dark, like a mirror to her own despair. The Dnipro had borne witness to centuries of conflict and peace, but now it seemed to carry only the weight of sorrow.

The war had come like a storm, sudden and violent. At first, there had been murmurs, the low hum of tension that buzzed through the air. Most people in Kyiv clung to the hope that the conflict would pass them by. They had witnessed political unrest before, had survived invasions and uprisings. There was a shared belief that this, too, would end before it tore the country apart. But it didn’t end. The shadows that had loomed on the horizon quickly consumed the city, bringing with them the sound of artillery and sirens, the smell of smoke and ruin. Each day, there were fewer places to hide, fewer streets left unscathed. Buildings crumbled under the weight of bombs, and families packed what little they could carry, fleeing toward the western borders.

Daryna’s family had resisted leaving for as long as she could. How could they abandon their home, the streets she knew so intimately? Every corner of Kyiv held a memory for Daryna – of her childhood, of her friends, of the life she had built for herself. There were the summers by the river with friends, the long evenings in cafeterias where they discussed literature, politics, and dreams. Andriy had been a part of those memories, too. His face, with its easy smile and kind eyes, haunted her now. He had been drafted into the army, and she hadn’t heard from him in weeks. Daryna had searched for him in the crowd of soldiers who passed through the city, hoping for a glimpse of his familiar figure, but each face she saw was a stranger’s, their eyes clouded with exhaustion, their uniforms stained with the dirt of war.

But now, standing on the banks of the Dnipro, Daryna knew she had no choice but to leave. Her parents were persuading her to leave even though they themselves refused to do so. The city had fallen into chaos. She had heard from a neighbor that the fighting had reached the outskirts of Kyiv, and soon, the heart of the city would be engulfed in flames. The streets she had once walked without fear were now lined with soldiers and barricades. The golden domes of the St. Sophia Cathedral, once a beacon of hope, were shrouded in a thick haze of smoke, their glow muted by the darkness that enveloped the city. The world she had known was disintegrating, and she could no longer deny the truth: Kyiv was no longer safe.

Daryna stood by the riverbank, her bandura heavy in her arms, its wooden curves warm and familiar beneath her fingertips. Her fingers grazed the strings gently, as if afraid to summon the sound, afraid to disturb the silence that clung to her like a shadow. The notes, when they came, were soft at first, hesitant. A single chord rippled across the quiet air, vibrating through the cold with a tremor of sorrow. The bandura’s voice was deep, melancholy, as though it carried the weight of all she had left unsaid, all she had left undone. The final chord lingered in the air, trembling for a moment before fading into the quiet. She let her hands fall from the strings, her fingers numb with cold and emotion. The river still flowed, as it always would, but Daryna felt lighter now, as though something had been set free. With a last glance at the water, she turned and walked away, leaving the music behind her, carried away by the river’s current.

As Daryna reflected by the river, her thoughts drifted to the countless stories of displacement she had heard in the past few weeks. Stories of families torn apart, of children separated from their parents, of women and men forced to leave behind everything they had known. Some spoke of finding refuge in neighboring countries – Poland, Hungary, Germany – places where the war would be nothing more than an echo, a distant memory. But Daryna didn’t want to think about those places. Her heart ached for her homeland, for the familiar streets and the people she loved. She couldn’t imagine a life elsewhere, couldn’t picture herself in a foreign land, speaking a language that wasn’t her own.

The Dnipro’s surface rippled gently as a breeze swept across the water, but the movement was almost imperceptible. It reminded her of the fragile hope that still flickered within her. Despite the destruction, despite the uncertainty, there was a part of her that believed she would one day return to Kyiv, that the city would rise from the ashes of war, just as it had in the past. Ukraine had endured so much, and yet it had always survived. The Dnipro, with its endless flow, was proof of that resilience. But for now, she had to leave. She had to survive.

The bus that would take her westward was waiting a few blocks away, hidden from the main roads. Daryna took one last look at the river, at the skyline of Kyiv silhouetted against the dim light of dawn. The shadows stretched long across the city, creeping like fingers over the ruins, but she didn’t let herself dwell on the darkness. She turned away from the Dnipro, her footsteps heavy as she walked toward the bus, her future uncertain.

The journey was long. The road wound through valleys and hills, the landscape shifting from the familiar urban sprawl of Kyiv to the rural outskirts of Ukraine. The further west they traveled, the more distant the sounds of war became, replaced by the quiet hum of the countryside. But even in the silence, the war lingered. Every town they passed through bore the scars of conflict – abandoned homes, charred fields, empty streets. Daryna sat by the window, her gaze fixed on the passing scenery, but her mind was elsewhere. She thought of her mother, her father, the way they had smiled at her during their last meal together, before the war had begun. They had refused to leave Kyiv, saying they were too old to start over somewhere new. “This is our home,” her father had said, his voice steady despite the fear in his eyes. “We will stay, no matter what.” But they themselves urged her to find a better life elsewhere.

Daryna hadn’t been able to convince them otherwise, and now, she didn’t know if she would ever see them again. The thought gnawed at her, an unrelenting ache that made it hard to breathe. She wanted to believe they were safe, that the war wouldn’t reach their apartment in the city center, but the truth was that nothing was certain anymore. War had a way of erasing the boundaries between safety and danger, between life and death.

As the bus crossed a narrow bridge, Daryna caught a glimpse of the river again, winding through the countryside like a ribbon of silver. It was narrower here, less grand than the mighty Dnipro that flowed through Kyiv, but its presence was a reminder of the past, of the connection that bound her to her homeland. Even as she moved further away from Kyiv, from the life she had known, the river seemed to follow her, a thread of continuity in a world that was rapidly unraveling. She wondered if Andriy had seen the Dnipro before he left for the frontlines, if he had stood by its banks and thought of her, of the life they had dreamed of building together. Or if, like so many others, he had been swallowed by the shadows of war.

The bus jolted as it hit a pothole, pulling Daryna out of her thoughts. She glanced around at the other passengers, their faces drawn and pale, their eyes hollow with exhaustion. They were all like her – refugees, fleeing the destruction that had consumed their cities and towns. Some clutched small bags, the only belongings they had managed to take with them. Others held children close, their arms wrapped protectively around them. There was a heaviness in the air, a shared understanding that they were all bound by the same fate. They were leaving behind everything they had ever known, and none of them knew what awaited them on the other side of the border.

The shadows were lengthening as the bus neared its destination, a small border town that served as a temporary haven for refugees. The town was quiet, the streets lined with makeshift shelters and aid tents. As Daryna stepped off the bus, she was greeted by the sound of murmured conversations, the soft cries of children, the distant hum of a generator. The air was thick with the smell of sweat and dust, a reminder of the long journey they had endured. She felt a strange numbness settle over her as she walked toward one of the tents, her feet dragging through the dirt.

She was safe, for now, but the shadows of Kyiv, of the Dnipro, would follow her wherever she went. The war had taken so much from her, but it couldn’t take her memories. Even in the darkest moments, the Dnipro would be there, flowing through her mind, a reminder of the home she had left behind. As she settled onto a thin mat inside the tent, Daryna closed her eyes and let the sounds of the camp wash over her. She didn’t know what the future held, didn’t know if she would ever return to Kyiv, but for now, she was alive. The shadows across the Dnipro would always be a part of her, but so too would the river’s resilience, its unbroken flow.

-To be continued

(To be published in USA in a collection of short stories on refugees by Dr Nishi Chawla.)

Author’s Bio

Dr Nishi Chawla is an academic and a writer. Nishi Chawla has published ten plays, three novels, and seven collections of poetry. She has also written and directed four award winning art house feature films. She has also co-edited two global anthologies of poetry published by Penguin Random House: ‘Greening the Earth’ and ‘Singing in the Dark.’

Dr Nishi Chawla holds a doctorate in English from the George Washington University, Washington D.C., and her post-doctorate from the Johns Hopkins University, Baltimore, Maryland. After teaching for nearly twenty years as a tenured Professor of English at Delhi University, India, Nishi Chawla had migrated with her family to a suburb of Washington D.C. She has taught English Literature for forty years at the University level. Nishi Chawla has recently completed her fourth feature film, “The Peace Activists” on Gandhi, MLK, and Thoreau. Three of her art house feature films are on Amazon Prime: ‘TechNous,’ ‘The Strange Case of Normalcy,’ and ‘Mixed Up.’ are streaming on Amazon Prime, and ‘The Peace Activists’ should also be on Prime by the end of 2024.

Dr Nishi Chawla’s play, ‘Kasturba versus Gandhi’ was staged in New York in an off Broadway production in June 2024. Her tenth play, ‘The Mahatma versus Gurudev’ was accepted to be staged in June 2025 again off Broadway, New York, making her one of the few Indian playwrights to ever have a play staged off Broadway.

She is the third Indian poet ever to be invited for a reading and a discussion of the US Library of Congress organized, ‘The Poet and the Poem’ program.