DUST ON MOUNTAIN: COLLECTED STORIES (34 page)

And then, she found the tree moving, moving with the river, rocking her about, dragging its roots along the ground as it set out on the first and last journey of its life.

And as the tree moved out on the river and the little island was lost in the swirling waters, Sita forgot her fear and her loneliness. The tree was taking her with it. She was not alone. It was as though one of the gods had remembered her after all.

Taken with the Flood

The branches swung Sita about, but she did not lose her grip. The tree was her friend. It had known her all these years and now it held her in its old and dying arms as though it was determined to keep her from the river.

The crow kept flying around the moving tree. The bird was in a great rage. Its nest was still up there—but not for long! The tree lurched and twisted and the nest fell into the water. Sita saw the eggs sink.

The crow swooped low over the water, but there was nothing it could do. In a few moments the nest had disappeared.

The bird followed the tree for sometime. Then, flapping its wings, it rose high into the air and flew across the river until it was out of sight.

Sita was alone once more. But there was no time for feeling lonely. Everything was in motion—up and down and sideways and forwards.

She saw a turtle swimming past—a great big river turtle, the kind that feeds on decaying flesh. Sita turned her face away. In the distance she saw a flooded village and people in flat-bottomed boats; but they were very far.

Because of its great size, the tree did not move very swiftly on the river. Sometimes, when it reached shallow water, it stopped, its roots catching in the rocks. But not for long, the river’s momentum soon swept it on.

At one place, where there was a bend in the river, the tree struck a sandbank and was still. It would not move again.

Sita felt very tired. Her arms were aching and she had to cling tightly to her branch to avoid slipping into the water. The rain blurred her vision. She wondered if she should brave the current and try swimming to safety. But she did not want to leave the tree. It was all that was left to her now, and she felt safe in its branches.

Then, above the sound of the river, she heard someone calling. The voice was faint and seemed very far, but looking upriver through the curtain of rain, Sita was able to make out a small boat coming towards her.

There was a boy in the boat. He seemed quite at home in the turbulent river, and he was smiling at Sita as he guided his boat towards the tree. He held on to one of the branches to steady himself and gave his free hand to Sita.

She grasped the outstretched hand and slipped into the boat beside the boy.

He placed his bare foot against the trunk of the tree and pushed away.

The little boat moved swiftly down the river. Sita looked back and saw the big tree lying on its side on the sandbank, while the river swirled round it and pulled at its branches, carrying away its beautiful, slender leaves.

And then the tree grew smaller and was left far behind. A new journey had begun.

The Boy in the Boat

She lay stretched out in the boat, too tired to talk, too tired to move. The boy looked at her but did not say anything. He just kept smiling. He leant on his two small oars, stroking smoothly, rhythmically, trying to keep from going into the middle of the river. He wasn’t strong enough to get the boat right out of the swift current, but he kept trying.

A small boat on a big river—a river that had broken its bounds and reached across the plains in every direction—the boat moved swiftly on the wild brown water, and the girl’s home and the boy’s home were both left far behind.

The boy wore only a loincloth. He was a slim, wiry boy, with a hard, flat belly. He had high cheekbones and strong white teeth. He was a little darker than Sita.

He did not speak until they reached a broader, smoother stretch of river, and then, resting on his oars and allowing the boat to drift a little, he said, ‘You live on the island. I have seen you sometimes from my boat. But where are the others?’

‘My grandmother was sick,’ said Sita. ‘Grandfather took her to the hospital in Shahganj.’

‘When did they leave?’

‘Early this morning.’

Early that morning—and already Sita felt as though it had been many mornings ago!

‘Where are you from?’ she asked.

‘I am from a village near the foothills. About six miles from your home. I was in my boat, trying to get across the river with the news that our village was badly flooded. The current was too strong. I was swept down and past your island. We cannot fight the river when it is like this, we must go where it takes us.’

‘You must be tired,’ said Sita. ‘Give me the oars.’

‘No. There is not much to do now. The river has gone wherever it wanted to go—it will not drive us before it any more.’

He brought in one oar, and with his free hand felt under the seat where there was a small basket. He produced two mangoes and gave one to Sita.

‘I was supposed to sell these in Shahganj,’ he said. ‘My father is very strict. Even if I return home safely, he will ask me what I got for the mangoes!’

‘And what will you tell him?’

‘I will say they are at the bottom of the river!’

They bit deep into the ripe fleshy mangoes, using their teeth to tear the skin away. The sweet juice trickled down their skins. The good smell—like the smell of the leaves of the cosmos flower when crushed between the palms—helped to revive Sita. The flavour of the fruit was heavenly—truly the nectar of the gods!

Sita hadn’t tasted a mango for over a year. For a few moments she forgot about everything else. All that mattered was the sweet, dizzy flavour of the mango.

The boat drifted, but slowly now, for as they went further downstream, the river gradually lost its power and fury. It was late afternoon when the rain stopped, but the clouds did not break up.

‘My father has many buffaloes,’ said the boy, ‘but several have been lost in the flood.’

‘Do you go to school?’ asked Sita.

‘Yes, I am supposed to go to school. I don’t always go. At least not when the weather is fine! There is a school near our village. I don’t think you go to school?’

‘No. There is too much work at home.’

‘Can you read and write?’

‘Only a little …’

‘Then you should go to a school.’

‘It is too far away.’

‘True. But you should know how to read and write. Otherwise, you will be stuck on your island for the rest of your life—that is, if your island is still there!’

‘But I like the island,’ protested Sita.

‘Because you are with people you love,’ said the boy. ‘But your grandparents, they are old, they must die some day—and then you will be alone, and will you like the island then?’

Sita did not answer. She was trying to think of what life would be like without her grandparents. It would be an empty island, that was true. She would be imprisoned by the river.

‘I can help you,’ said the boy. ‘When we get back—if we get back—I will come to see you sometimes and I will teach you to read and write. All right?’

‘Yes,’ said Sita, nodding thoughtfully. When we get back … The boy smiled.

‘My name is Vijay,’ he said.

Towards evening the river changed colour. The sun, low in the sky, broke through a rift in the clouds, and the river changed slowly from grey to gold, from gold to a deep orange, and then, as the sun went down, all these colours were drowned in the river, and the river took the colour of night.

The moon was almost at the full, and they could see a belt of forest along the line of the river.

‘I will try to reach the trees,’ said Vijay.

He pulled for the trees, and after ten minutes of strenuous rowing reached a bend in the river and was able to escape the pull of the main current.

Soon they were in a forest, rowing between tall trees, sal and shisham.

The boat moved slowly as Vijay took it in and out of the trees, while the moonlight made a crooked silver path over the water.

‘We will tie the boat to a tree,’ he said. ‘Then we can rest. Tomorrow, we will have to find a way out of the forest.’

He produced a length of rope from the bottom of the boat, tied one end to the boat’s stem, and threw the other end over a stout branch which hung only a few feet above the water. The boat came to rest against the trunk of the tree.

It was a tall, sturdy tree, the Indian mahogany. It was a safe place, for there was no rush of water in the forest and the trees grew close together, making the earth firm and unyielding.

But those who lived in the forest were on the move. The animals had been flooded out of their homes, caves and lairs, and were looking for shelter and high ground.

Sita and Vijay had just finished tying the boat to the tree, when they saw a huge python gliding over the water towards them.

‘Do you think it will try to get into the boat?’ asked Sita.

‘I don’t think so,’ said Vijay, although he took the precaution of holding an oar ready to fend off the snake.

But the python went past them, its head above water, its great length trailing behind, until it was lost in the shadows.

Vijay had more mangoes in the basket, and he and Sita sucked hungrily on them while they sat in the boat.

A big sambhar stag came threshing through the water. He did not have to swim. He was so tall that his head and shoulders remained well above the water. His antlers were big and beautiful.

‘There will be other animals,’ said Sita. ‘Should we climb on to the tree?’

‘We are quite safe in the boat,’ said Vijay. ‘The animals will not be dangerous tonight. They will not even hunt each other. They are only interested in reaching dry land. For once, the deer are safe from the tiger and the leopard. You lie down and sleep. I will keep watch.’

Sita stretched herself out in the boat and closed her eyes. She was very tired and the sound of the water lapping against the side of the boat soon lulled her to sleep.

She woke once, when a strange bird called overhead. She raised herself on one elbow but Vijay was awake, sitting beside her, his legs drawn up and his chin resting on his knees. He was gazing out across the water. He looked blue in the moonlight, the colour of the young God Krishna, and for a few moments Sita was confused and wondered if the boy was actually Krishna. But when she thought about it, she decided that it wasn’t possible; he was just a village boy and she had seen hundreds like him—well, not exactly like him, he was a little different …

And when she slept again, she dreamt that the boy and Krishna were one, and that she was sitting beside him on a great white bird, which flew over the mountains, over the snow peaks of the Himalayas, into the cloud-land of the gods. And there was a great rumbling sound, as though the gods were angry about the whole thing, and she woke up to this terrible sound and looked about her, and there in the moonlit glade, up to his belly in water, stood a young elephant, his trunk raised as he trumpeted his predicament to the forest—for he was a young elephant, and he was lost, and was looking for his mother.

He trumpeted again, then lowered his head and listened. And presently, from far away, came the shrill trumpeting of another elephant. It must have been the young one’s mother, because he gave several excited trumpet calls, and then went stamping and churning through the water towards a gap in the trees. The boat rocked in the waves made by his passing.

‘It is all right,’ said Vijay. ‘You can go to sleep again.’

‘I don’t think I will sleep now,’ said Sita.

‘Then I will play my flute for you and the time will pass quickly.’

He produced a flute from under the seat and putting it to his lips began to play. And the sweetest music that Sita had ever heard came pouring from the little flute, and it seemed to fill the forest with its beautiful sound. And the music carried her away again, into the land of dreams, and they were riding on the bird once more, Sita and the blue god. And they were passing through cloud and mist, until suddenly the sun shot through the clouds. And at that moment Sita opened her eyes and saw the sky through the branches of the mahogany tree, the shiny green leaves making a bold pattern against the blinding blue of an open sky.

The forest was drenched with sunshine. Clouds were gathering again, but for an hour or so there would be hot sun on a steamy river.

Vijay was fast asleep in the bottom of the boat. His flute lay in the palm of his half-open hand. The sun came slanting across his bare brown legs. A leaf had fallen on his face, but it had not woken him. It lay on his cheek as though it had grown there.

Sita did not move about as she did not want to wake the boy. Instead she looked around her, and she thought the water level had fallen in the night, but she couldn’t be sure.

Vijay woke at last. He yawned, stretched his limbs and sat up beside Sita.

‘I am hungry,’ he said.

‘So am I,’ said Sita.

‘The last mangoes,’ he said, emptying the basket of its last two mangoes.

After they had finished the fruit, they sucked the big seeds until they were quite dry. The discarded seeds floated well on the water. Sita had always preferred them to paper boats.

‘We had better move on,’ said Vijay.

He rowed the boat through the trees, and then for about an hour they were passing through the flooded forest, under the dripping branches of rain-washed trees. Sometimes, they had to use the oars to push away vines and creepers. Sometimes, submerged bushes hampered them. But they were out of the forest before ten o’clock.

The water was no longer very deep and they were soon gliding over flooded fields. In the distance they saw a village standing on high ground. In the old days, people had built their villages on hill tops as a better defence against bandits and the soldiers of invading armies. This was an old village, and though its inhabitants had long ago exchanged their swords for pruning forks, the hill on which it stood gave it protection from the flood waters.

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