A Song of Many Rivers Read online

  She wondered what had happened to Grandfather and Grandmother. If they had reached the shore safely, Grandfather would have to engage a bullock cart, or a pony-drawn carriage, to get Grandmother to the district town, five or six miles away, where there was a market, a court, a jail, a cinema and a hospital.

  She wondered if she would ever see Grandmother again. She had done her best to look after the old lady, remembering the times when Grandmother had looked after her, had gently touched her fevered brow and had told her stories—stories about the gods: about the young Krishna, friend of birds and animals, so full of mischief, always causing confusion among the other gods; and Indra, who made the thunder and lightning; and Vishnu, the preserver of all good things, whose steed was a great white bird; and Ganesh, with the elephant’s head; and Hanuman, the monkey-god, who helped the young Prince Rama in his war with the King of Ceylon. Would Grandmother return to tell her more about them, or would she have to find out for herself?

  The island looked much smaller now. In parts, the mud banks had dissolved quickly, sinking into the river. But in the middle of the island there was rocky ground, and the rocks would never crumble, they could only be submerged. In a space in the middle of the rocks grew the tree.

  Sita climbed into the tree to get a better view. She had climbed the tree many times and it took her only a few seconds to reach the higher branches. She put her hand to her eyes to shield them from the rain, and gazed upstream.

  There was water everywhere. The world had become one vast river. Even the trees on the forested side of the river looked as though they had grown from the water, like mangroves. The sky was banked with massive, moisture-laden clouds. Thunder rolled down from the hills and the river seemed to take it up with a hollow booming sound.

  Something was floating down with the current, something big and bloated. It was closer now, and Sita could make out the bulky object—a drowned buffalo, being carried rapidly downstream.

  So the water had already inundated the villages further upstream. Or perhaps the buffalo had been grazing too close to the rising river.

  Sita’s worst fears were confirmed when, a little later, she saw planks of wood, small trees and bushes, and then a wooden bedstead, floating past the island.

  How long would it take for the river to reach her own small hut?

  As she climbed down from the tree, it began to rain more heavily. She ran indoors, shooing the hens before her. They flew into the hut and huddled under Grandmother’s cot. Sita thought it would be best to keep them together now. And having them with her took away some of the loneliness.

  There were three hens and a cock bird. The river did not bother them. They were interested only in food, and Sita kept them happy by throwing them a handful of onion skins.

  She would have liked to close the door and shut out the swish of the rain and the boom of the river, but then she would have no way of knowing how fast the water rose.

  She took Mumta in her arms, and began praying for the rain to stop and the river to fall. She prayed to the god Indra, and, just in case he was busy elsewhere, she prayed to other gods too. She prayed for the safety of her grandparents and for her own safety. She put herself last but only with great difficulty.

  She would have to make herself a meal. So she chopped up some onions, fried them, then added turmeric and red chilli powder and stirred until she had everything sizzling; then she added a tumbler of water, some salt, and a cup of one of the cheaper lentils. She covered the pot and allowed the mixture to simmer.

  Doing this took Sita about ten minutes. It would take at least half an hour for the dish to be ready.

  When she looked outside, she saw pools of water amongst the rocks and near the tree. She couldn’t tell if it was rain water or overflow from the river.

  She had an idea.

  A big tin trunk stood in a corner of the room. It had belonged to Sita’s mother. There was nothing in it except a cotton-filled quilt, for use during the cold weather. She would stuff the trunk with everything useful or valuable, and weigh it down so that it wouldn’t be carried away, just in case the river came over the island.

  Grandfather’s hookah went into the trunk. Grandmother’s walking stick went in too. So did a number of small tins containing the spices used in cooking—nutmeg, caraway seed, cinnamon, coriander and pepper—a bigger tin of flour and a tin of raw sugar. Even if Sita had to spend several hours in the tree, there would be something to eat when she came down again.

  A clean white cotton shirt of Grandfather’s, and Grandmother’s only spare sari also went into the trunk. Never mind if they got stained with yellow curry powder! Never mind if they got to smell of salted fish, some of that went in too.

  Sita was so busy packing the trunk that she paid no attention to the lick of cold water at her heels. She locked the trunk, placed the key high on the rock wall, and turned to give her attention to the lentils. It was only then that she discovered that she was walking about on a watery floor.

  She stood still, horrified by what she saw. The water was oozing over the threshold, pushing its way into the room.

  Sita was filled with panic. She forgot about her meal and everything else. Darting out of the hut, she ran splashing through ankle-deep water towards the safety of the peepul tree. If the tree hadn’t been there, such a well-known landmark, she might have floundered into deep water, into the river.

  She climbed swiftly into the strong arms of the tree, made herself secure on a familiar branch, and thrust the wet hair away from her eyes.

  ∼

  She was glad she had hurried. The hut was now surrounded by water. Only the higher parts of the island could still be seen—a few rocks, the big rock on which the hut was built, a hillock on which some thorny bilberry bushes grew.

  The hens hadn’t bothered to leave the hut. They were probably perched on the cot now.

  Would the river rise still higher? Sita had never seen it like this before. It swirled around her, stretching in all directions.

  More drowned cattle came floating down. The most unusual things went by on the water—an aluminium kettle, a cane chair, a tin of tooth powder, an empty cigarette packet, a wooden slipper, a plastic doll…

  A doll!

  With a sinking feeling, Sita remembered Mumta.

  Poor Mumta! She had been left behind in the hut. Sita, in her hurry, had forgotten her only companion.

  Well, thought Sita, if I can be careless with someone I’ve made, how can I expect the gods to notice me, alone in the middle of the river?

  The waters were higher now, the island fast disappearing.

  Something came floating out of the hut.

  It was an empty kerosene tin, with one of the hens perched on top. The tin came bobbing along on the water, not far from the tree, and was then caught by the current and swept into the river. The hen still managed to keep its perch.

  A little later, the water must have reached the cot because the remaining hens flew up to the rock ledge and sat huddled there in the small recess.

  The water was rising rapidly now, and all that remained of the island was the big rock that supported the hut, the top of the hut itself and the peepul tree.

  It was a tall tree with many branches and it seemed unlikely that the water could ever go right over it. But how long would Sita have to remain there? She climbed a little higher, and as she did so, a jet-black jungle crow settled in the upper branches, and Sita saw that there was a nest in them—a crow’s nest, an untidy platform of twigs wedged in the fork of a branch.

  In the nest were four blue-green, speckled eggs. The crow sat on them and cawed disconsolately. But though the crow was miserable, its presence brought some cheer to Sita. At least she was not alone. Better to have a crow for company than no one at all.

  Other things came floating out of the hut—a large pumpkin; a red turban belonging to Grandfather, unwinding in the water like a long snake; and then—Mumta!

  The doll, being filled with straw and wood-shaving
s, moved quite swiftly on the water and passed close to the peepul tree. Sita saw it and wanted to call out, to urge her friend to make for the tree, but she knew that Mumta could not swim—the doll could only float, travel with the river, and perhaps be washed ashore many miles downstream.

  The tree shook in the wind and the rain. The crow cawed and flew up, circled the tree a few times and returned to the nest. Sita clung to her branch.

  The tree trembled throughout its tall frame. To Sita it felt like an earthquake tremor; she felt the shudder of the tree in her own bones.

  The river swirled all around her now. It was almost up to the roof of the hut. Soon the mud walls would crumble and vanish. Except for the big rock and some trees far, far away, there was only water to be seen.

  For a moment or two Sita glimpsed a boat with several people in it moving sluggishly away from the ruins of a flooded village, and she thought she saw someone pointing towards her, but the river swept them on and the boat was lost to view.

  The river was very angry; it was like a wild beast, a dragon on the rampage, thundering down from the hills and sweeping across the plain, bringing with it dead animals, uprooted trees, household goods and huge fish choked to death by the swirling mud.

  The tall old peepul tree groaned. Its long, winding roots clung tenaciously to the earth from which the tree had sprung many, many years ago. But the earth was softening, the stones were being washed away. The roots of the tree were rapidly losing their hold.

  The crow must have known that something was wrong, because it kept flying up and circling the tree, reluctant to settle in it and reluctant to fly away. As long as the nest was there, the crow would remain, flapping about and cawing in alarm.

  Sita’s wet cotton dress clung to her thin body. The rain ran down from her long black hair. It poured from every leaf of the tree. The crow, too, was drenched and groggy.

  The tree groaned and moved again. It had seen many monsoons. Once before, it had stood firm while the river had swirled around its massive trunk. But it had been young then.

  Now, old in years and tired of standing still, the tree was ready to join the river.

  With a flurry of its beautiful leaves, and a surge of mud from below, the tree left its place in the earth, and, tilting, moved slowly forward, turning a little from side to side, dragging its roots along the ground. To Sita, it seemed as though the river was rising to meet the sky. Then the tree moved into the main current of the river, and went a little faster, swinging Sita from side to side. Her feet were in the water but she clung tenaciously to her branch.

  ∼

  The branches swayed, but Sita did not lose her grip. The water was very close now. Sita was frightened. She could not see the extent of the flood or the width of the river. She could only see the immediate danger—the water surrounding the tree.

  The crow kept flying around the tree. The bird was in a terrible rage. The nest was still in the branches, but not for long… The tree lurched and twisted slightly to one side, and the nest fell into the water. Sita saw the eggs go one by one.

  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 about fifty yards, as though hoping that something still remained in the tree. 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. ‘Any moment,’ thought Sita, ‘the tree will turn right over and I’ll be in the water!’

  She saw a turtle swimming past—a great 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 away.

  Because of its great size, the tree did not move very swiftly on the river. Sometimes, when it passed into 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.

  Sita felt very tired. Her arms were aching and she was no longer upright. With the tree almost on its side, she had to cling tightly to her branch to avoid falling off. The grey weeping sky was like a great shifting dome.

  She knew she could not remain much longer in that position. It might be better to try swimming to some distant rooftop or tree. Then she heard someone calling. Craning her neck to look upriver, she was able to make out a small boat coming directly towards her.

  The boat approached the tree. There was a boy in the boat who held on to one of the branches to steady himself, giving his free hand to Sita.

  She grasped it, and slipped into the boat beside him.

  The boy placed his bare foot against the tree trunk and pushed away.

  The little boat moved swiftly down the river. The big tree was left far behind. Sita would never see it again.

  ∼

  She lay stretched out in the boat, too frightened to talk. The boy looked at her, but he did not say anything, he did not even smile. He lay 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 no boundaries but which reached across the plains in all directions. The boat moved swiftly on the wild waters, and Sita’s home was left far behind.

  The boy wore only a loincloth. A sheathed knife was knotted into his waistband. He was a slim, wiry boy, with a hard flat belly; he had high cheekbones, strong white teeth. He was a little darker than Sita.

  ‘You live on the island,’ he said at last, resting on his oars and allowing the boat to drift a little, for he had reached a broader, more placid stretch of the river. ‘I have seen you sometimes. But where are the others?’

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

  ‘When did they leave?’

  ‘Early this morning.’

  Only that morning—and yet it seemed to Sita as though it had been many mornings ago.

  ‘Where have you come from?’ she asked. She had never seen the boy before.

  ‘I come from…’ he hesitated, ‘…near the foothills. I was in my boat, trying to get across the river with the news that one of the villages was badly flooded, but the current was too strong. I was swept down past your island. We cannot fight the river, we must go wherever it takes us.’

  ‘You must be tired. Give me the oars.’

  ‘No. There is not much to do now, except keep the boat steady.’

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

  They bit deep into the ripe fleshy mangoes, using their teeth to tear the skin away. The sweet juice trickled down their chins. The flavour of the fruit was heavenly—truly this was the nectar of the gods! Sita hadn’t tasted a mango for over a year. For a few moments she forgot about the flood—all that mattered was the mango!

  The boat drifted, but not so swiftly now, for as they went further away across the plains, the river lost much of its tremendous force.

  ‘My name is Krishan,’ said the boy. ‘My father has many cows and buffaloes, but several have been lost in the flood.’

  ‘I suppose you go to school,’ said Sita.

  ‘Yes, I am supposed to go to school. There is one not far from our village. Do you have to go to school?’

  ‘No—there is too much work at home.’

  It was no use wishing she was at home—home wouldn’t be there any more—but she wished, at that moment, that she had another mango.

  Towards evening, the river changed colour. The sun, low in the sky, emerged from behind the clouds, and the river changed slowly from grey to gol
d, 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 on the colour of the night.

  The moon was almost at the full and Sita could see across the river, to where the trees grew on its banks.

  ‘I will try to reach the trees,’ said the boy, Krishan. ‘We do not want to spend the night on the water, do we?’

  And so he pulled for the trees. After ten minutes of strenuous rowing, he reached a turn in the river and was able to escape the pull of the main current.

  Soon they were in a forest, rowing between tall evergreens.

  ∼

  They moved slowly now, paddling between the trees, and the moon lighted their way, making a crooked silver path over the water.

  ‘We will tie the boat to one of these trees,’ said Krishan. ‘Then we can rest. Tomorrow we will have to find our way out of the forest.’

  He produced a length of rope from the bottom of the boat, tied one end to the boat’s stern 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 Toon tree—the Indian mahogany—and it was quite safe, for there was no rush of water here; besides, the trees grew close together, making the earth firm and unyielding.

  But the denizens of the forest were on the move. The animals had been flooded out of their holes, caves and lairs, and were looking for shelter and dry ground.

  Sita and Krishan had barely finished tying the boat to the tree when they saw a huge python gliding over the water towards them. Sita was afraid that it might try to get into the boat; but it went past them, its head above water, its great awesome length trailing behind, until it was lost in the shadows.

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

  A big sambur stag came thrashing 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.