by Ruskin Bond
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 out of 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 the river, something big and bloated. It was closer now and Sita could make out its bulk—a drowned bullock being carried downstream.
So the water had already flooded the villages further upstream. Or perhaps, the bullock had strayed 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.
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.
There were three hens and a cockbird. The river did not bother them. They were interested only in food, and Sita kept them content 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 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 after an effort!
Finally Sita decided to make herself a meal. So she chopped up some onions, fried them, then added turmeric and red chilli powder, salt and water, and stirred until she had everything sizzling; and then she added a cup of lentils and covered the pot.
Doing this took her about ten minutes. It would take about half an hour for the dish to cook.
When she looked outside, she saw pools of water among the rocks. She couldn’t tell if it was rainwater or the overflow from the river.
She had an idea.
A big tin trunk stood in a corner of the room. In it Grandmother kept an old single-thread sewing machine. It had belonged once to an English lady, had found its way to a Shahganj junkyard, and had been rescued by Grandfather who had paid fifteen rupees for it. It was just over a hundred years old but it could still be used.
The trunk also contained an old sword. This had originally belonged to Sita’s great-grandfather, who had used it to help defend his village against marauding Rohilla soldiers more than a century ago. Sita could tell that it had been used to fight with, because there were several small dents in the steel blade.
But there was no time for Sita to start admiring family heirlooms. She decided to stuff the trunk with everything useful or valuable. There was a chance that it wouldn’t be carried away by the water.
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, pepper—also a big tin of flour and another of molasses. Even if she had to spend several hours in the tree, there would be something to eat when she came down again.
A clean white cotton dhoti of Grandfather’s, and Grandmother’s only spare sari also went into the trunk. Never mind if they got stained with curry powder! Never mind if they got the 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, dropped the key into a crack in the rock wall and turned to give her attention to the food. 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.
In her fright, Sita 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 comfortable on a familiar branch and thrust her wet hair away from her eyes.
The Tree
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 into which the hut was built, a hillock on which some brambles and thorn apples grew.
The hens hadn’t bothered to leave the hut. Instead, they were perched on the wooden bedstead.
‘Will the river rise still higher?’ wondered Sita. She had never seen it like this before. With a deep, muffled roar it swirled around her, stretching away in all directions.
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.
She climbed down from the tree and ran splashing through the water towards the hut. Already the current was pulling at her legs. When she reached the hut, she found it full of water. The hens had gone and so had Mumta.
Sita struggled back to the tree. She was only just in time, for the waters were higher now, the island fast disappearing.
She crouched miserably in the fork of the tree, watching her world disappear.
She had always loved the river. Why was it threatening her now? She remembered the doll and thought, ‘If I can be so careless with someone I have made, how can I expect the gods to notice me?’
Something went floating past the tree. Sita caught a glimpse of a stiff, upraised arm and long hair streaming behind on the water. The body of a drowned woman. It was soon gone but it made Sita feel very small and lonely, at the mercy of great and cruel forces. She began to shiver and then to cry.
She stopped crying when she saw an empty kerosene tin, with one of the hens perched on top. The tin came bobbing along on the water and sailed slowly past the tree. The hen looked a bit ruffled but seemed secure on its perch.
A little later, Sita saw the remaining hens fly up to the rock ledge to huddle there in a small recess.
The water was still rising. All that remained of the island was the big rock behind the hut and the top of the hut and the peepul tree.
She climbed a little higher into the crook of a branch. A jungle crow settled in the branches above her. Sita saw the nest, the crow’s nest, an untidy platform of twigs wedged in the fork of a branch.
In the nest were four speckled eggs. The crow sat on them and cawed disconsolately. But though the bird sounded 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, too swiftly for Sita to do anything about rescuing it. Sita 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 trees shook in the wind and rain. The crow cawed and flew up, circled the tree a few times, then returned to the nest. Sita clung to the 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 very far away, there was only water to be seen. Water and g
rey, weeping sky.
In the distance, a boat with several people in it moved sluggishly away from the ruins of a flooded village. Someone looked out across the flooded river and said, ‘See, there is a tree right in the middle of the river! How could it have got there? Isn’t someone moving in the tree?’
But the others thought he was imagining things. It was only a tree carried down by the flood, they said. In worrying about their own distress, they had forgotten about the island in the middle of the river.
The river was very angry now, rampaging down from the hills and thundering across the plain, bringing with it dead animals, uprooted trees, household goods and huge fish choked to death by the swirling mud.
The peepul tree groaned. Its long, winding roots still clung tenaciously to the earth from which it 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, yet unwilling to fly away. As long as the nest was there, the crow would remain too.
Sita’s wet cotton dress clung to her thin body. The rain streamed 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.
There was a flurry of leaves, then a surge of mud from below. To Sita it seemed as though the river was rising to meet the sky. The tree tilted, swinging Sita from side to side. Her feet were in the water but she clung tenaciously to her branch.
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 y
ou 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.