by Ruskin Bond
She moved about in the pouring rain, chasing the hens into a shelter behind the hut. A harmless brown snake, flooded out of its hole, was moving across the open ground. Sita picked up a stick, scooped the snake up, and dropped it between a cluster of rocks. She had no quarrel with snakes. They kept down the rats and the frogs. She wondered how the rats had first come to the island—probably in someone’s boat, or in a sack of grain. Now it was a job to keep their numbers down.
When Sita finally went indoors, she was hungry. She ate some dried peas and warmed up some goat’s milk.
Grandmother woke once and asked for water, and Grandfather held the brass tumbler to her lips.
It rained all night.
The roof was leaking, and a small puddle formed on the floor. They kept the kerosene lamp alight. They did not need the light, but somehow it made them feel safer.
The sound of the river had always been with them, although they were seldom aware of it; but that night they noticed a change in its sound. There was something like a moan, like a wind in the tops of tall trees, and a swift hiss as the water swept round the rocks and carried away pebbles. And sometimes there was a rumble, as loose earth fell into the water.
Sita could not sleep.
She had a rag doll, made with Grandmother’s help out of bits of old clothing. She kept it by her side every night. The doll was someone to talk to, when the nights were long and sleep elusive. Her grandparents were often ready to talk—and Grandmother, when she was well, was a good storyteller—but sometimes Sita wanted to have secrets, and though there were no special secrets in her life, she made up a few, because it was fun to have them. And if you have secrets, you must have a friend to share them with, a companion of one’s own age. Since there were no other children on the island, Sita shared her secrets with the rag doll whose name was Mumta.
Grandfather and Grandmother were asleep, though the sound of Grandmother’s laboured breathing was almost as persistent as the sound of the river.
‘Mumta,’ whispered Sita in the dark, starting one of her private conversations. ‘Do you think Grandmother will get well again?’
Mumta always answered Sita’s questions, even though the answers could only be heard by Sita.
‘She is very old,’ said Mumta.
‘Do you think the river will reach the hut?’ asked Sita.
‘If it keeps raining like this, and the river keeps rising, it will reach the hut.’
‘I am a little afraid of the river, Mumta. Aren’t you afraid?’
‘Don’t be afraid. The river has always been good to us.’ ‘What will we do if it comes into the hut?’
‘We will climb on to the roof.’
‘And if it reaches the roof?’
‘We will climb the peepul tree. The river has never gone higher than the peepul tree.’
As soon as the first light showed through the little skylight, Sita got up and went outside. It wasn’t raining hard, it was drizzling, but it was the sort of drizzle that could continue for days, and it probably meant that heavy rain was falling in the hills where the river originated.
Sita went down to the water’s edge. She couldn’t find her favourite rock, the one on which she often sat dangling her feet in the water, watching the little chilwa fish swim by. It was still there, no doubt, but the river had gone over it.
She stood on the sand, and she could feel the water oozing and bubbling beneath her feet.
The river was no longer green and blue and flecked with white, but a muddy colour.
She went back to the hut. Grandfather was up now. He was getting his boat ready.
Sita milked the goat. Perhaps it was the last time she would milk it.
The sun was just coming up when Grandfather pushed off in the boat. Grandmother lay in the prow. She was staring hard at Sita, trying to speak, but the words would not come. She raised her hand in a blessing.
Sita bent and touched her grandmother’s feet, and then Grandfather pushed off. The little boat—with its two old people and three goats—riding swiftly on the river, moved slowly, very slowly, towards the opposite bank. The current was so swift now that Sita realized the boat would be carried about half a mile downstream before Grandfather could get it to dry land.
It bobbed about on the water, getting smaller and smaller, until it was just a speck on the broad river.
And suddenly Sita was alone.
There was a wind, whipping the raindrops against her face; and there was the water, rushing past the island; and there was the distant shore, blurred by rain; and there was the small hut; and there was the tree.
Sita got busy. The hens had to be fed. They weren’t bothered about anything except food. Sita threw them handfuls of coarse grain and potato peelings and peanut shells.
Then she took the broom and swept out the hut, lit the charcoal burner, warmed some milk and thought, ‘Tomorrow there will be no milk…’ She began peeling onions. Soon her eyes started smarting and, pausing for a few moments and glancing round the quiet room, she became aware again that she was alone. Grandfather’s hookah pipe stood by itself in one corner. It was a beautiful old hookah, which had belonged to Sita’s great-grandfather. The bowl was made out of a coconut encased in silver. The long winding stem was at least four feet in length. It was their most valuable possession. Grandmother’s sturdy sheesham-wood walking stick stood in another comer.
Sita looked around for Mumta, found the doll beneath the cot, and placed her within sight and hearing.
Thunder rolled down from the hills. BOOM—BOOM—BOOM…
‘The gods of the mountains are angry,’ said Sita. ‘Do you think they are angry with me?’
‘Why should they be angry with you?’ asked Mumta.
‘They don’t have to have a reason for being angry. They are angry with everything, and we are in the middle of everything. We are so small—do you think they know we are here?’
‘Who knows what the gods think?’
‘But I made you,’ said Sita, ‘and I know you are here.’
‘And will you save me if the river rises?’
‘Yes, of course. I won’t go anywhere without you, Mumta.’
Sita couldn’t stay indoors for long. She went out, taking Mumta with her, and stared out across the river, to the safe land on the other side. But was it safe there? The river looked much wider now. Yes, it had crept over its banks and spread far across the flat plain. Far away, people were driving their cattle through waterlogged, flooded fields, carrying their belongings in bundles on their heads or shoulders, leaving their homes, making for the high land. It wasn’t safe anywhere.
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 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 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 up 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-shavings, 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 bei
ng 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, 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.