The Village by the Sea

by Anita Desai

  The boats had been lost for nearly four days. When the storm began to withdraw, a search party organized by the navy and the coastguards at Alibagh set out. Biju had insisted on accompanying them and was soon at their helm. It was he who had spotted what remained of the fishing fleet: three boats had sunk, the rest were battered and broken. Three fishermen had drowned. They rescued the rest and brought them back, starved and feverish and ill.

  The men from the navy and the coastguards had praised Biju and thanked him but the fishermen had been too tired to say a word and had gone limping home.

  ‘I told them – I told them not to go: the weather was too treacherous for those little matchstick boats,’ Biju roared, standing by the creek and supervising the anchoring and tying up of their boats. This was a great day for him, the day when the prowess of his own superior boat had been proved for all to see. He was only sorry these thick-headed fishermen refused to admit it. ‘Admit it – you’ll have to admit it,’ he roared. ‘You have to have a boat with a diesel engine for this weather – your sails will only help to drown you.’

  A few of the fishermen’s wives were still standing on the sand, watching and listening. One of them muttered, ‘Yes, yes, Biju, but who can afford boats like yours?’

  ‘Ours may be weak and useless, yes,’ another agreed, ‘but still – we have to eat and our men must fish.’

  Biju glared, his boasting and bragging cut short. ‘One day everyone will have to build boats like mine,’ he growled at them. ‘Things have to change. Then they will improve. Yes,’ he shouted as they retreated. ‘Improve! Change!’ and stalking down the muddy bank of the creek he went to see to his own boat before leaving it to the wind and rain that had already started up again and was beginning to drum upon the wooden decks and cut rivulets through the wet sand.

  Suddenly he recognized a figure amongst the knot of people still standing on the bank, watching. ‘You,’ he shouted, pointing at him with a thick, ringed finger. ‘You there. Now do you see what a fine boat I have?’ and he roared with laughter because the man who was trying to hurry away without an answer was the watchman from the factory site who had made fun of his boat when it was being built. He had learnt better now – the villagers, their boats, their crafts were not quite so sorry as he had said they were. Of course he hated to admit it and was hurrying back to the shelter of his hut.

  ‘Yes,’ Hira-bai chuckled as she described it all to the girls. – ‘It was Biju’s proudest day all right.’

  ‘Yes,’ said Lila, ‘but how must the other men and their wives have felt?’

  Hira-bai lifted her hand to the sky. ‘Just as they have always felt, my dear.’ She sighed. ‘Leave it to the gods – that is all we can do, leave it to the gods,’ and she turned and went slowly up the beach to the line of coconut palms.

  Lila, Bela and Kamal, huddled around the damp, smoking fire in their hut that night, were grateful that they could eat because of the money paid them by the gentleman in the house who was not driven away by the monsoon but stayed on and walked about in it as if he didn’t notice it at all. They were grateful for his mere presence, too, in the absence of both their father and brother. Listening to the storms outside, they wondered about Hari. Why did Hari not come? He had sent them one postcard to say he was in Bombay, safe, but why did he not return? They sat in silence, listening to the frogs clamouring in the dark and the rain sliding off the palm leaves on to their roof and dripping.

  Finally, ‘When do you think Hari will come?’ sighed Bela, drawing lines on the mud floor with her finger.

  ‘He can’t come now – the ferry will have stopped for the monsoon,’ said Lila, trying to sound sensible and brisk. ‘Perhaps he will come when the monsoon is over. Perhaps he will come at Diwali.’

  11

  ‘You’ll go back one day, boy, don’t you worry,’ Mr Panwallah said kindly. ‘You’ve not come so far away – you can go back.’

  ‘When?’ said Hari wildly. ‘I want to go now.’

  ‘Wait till the rains are over, boy. The ferry doesn’t travel to Rewas in the rainy season. When the rains are over, you can take the ferry and go back. You’ll have more money saved up by then, won’t you? And I’m getting stronger, I’ll soon be back at the shop to teach you more about watchmending. Once you start mending watches on your own, you can collect the payment, it will be yours, not mine. Does that sound good? Eh? Then you can go back and set up as the village watchmender.’

  Hari laughed at the old man’s ignorance. What watches and clocks were there in his village where everyone told the time by the sun? Old Biju might have a clock but it would have rusted in the salt air, he knew, and be as useless as his television set. Still, he felt happy at the thought and was grateful to Mr Panwallah for giving it to him.

  It was Mr Panwallah he had come running to see when he could not bear his longing for home any more, Mr Panwallah he had searched out and told about the lost fishing fleet. The old man had not been to the shop since he fell ill. The shutter had been drawn down ever since. But one day a customer came looking for his watch and asked Jagu next door if he knew what had happened to the old watchmender and to the watches he was supposed to be mending. Hari overheard Jagu giving him Mr Panwallah’s address.

  ‘What?’ he cried, dropping a duster on to the floor. ‘Where does he live?’ It had not occurred to him that Jagu would know.

  Jagu repeated the address and Hari immediately begged to be given an hour off so that he could go and visit the old man. It was not far from the shop; it was right beside the Grant Road station at the end of the road and Hari found it quite easily. Quickly he climbed the rickety wooden staircase, past the sweet shop at street level, past the small clinic for birds and animals on the first floor, past doors with withered garlands of marigolds hanging over them and rice powder designs drawn on their thresholds to the top floor where Mr Panwallah had a tiny room and a balcony full of plants in old tins and boxes.

  Here he sat on a broken cane chair, looking very white and frail – but alive and improving. He had had ’flu to begin with but it had grown worse and turned into bronchitis. His neighbours were afraid he would have to be taken to hospital but he looked so weak that they decided to let him stay in his own bed and took turns at bringing him meals and hot drinks. The doctor who lived in the flat below his had treated him free – they had been neighbours for more than fifty years: Mr Panwallah was popular in that block, much loved and even, it now was clear, much cherished. They had all been relieved when he recovered but insisted he stay at home and rest till the rainy weather was over so that he would not get wet while going to work and fall ill again. He had been delighted when Hari had burst in upon him. He had been sitting quietly, gazing out over the sheets of corrugated iron that roofed the railway station at the pigeons that sat on it and flew up in flocks through the columns of gritty smoke every time a train came roaring in or went screeching out.

  Hari found himself sitting on a stool at his feet, drinking very sweet tea from a tumbler brought up from the tea stall by an urchin who had fed and helped to look after Mr Panwallah all through his illness: there was more than one boy who was grateful to Mr Panwallah for help given at one time or another. Hari sat sipping tea and telling him all about Thul. Mr Panwallah listened with his head cocked to one side like a wise old bird, and all the time he stroked and petted the grey cat that slept curled upon his lap.

  ‘Yes,’ he nodded, ‘soon it will be Coconut Day, the end of the monsoon when everyone offers coconuts to the sea and the boats can safely set out again. Then you can catch your ferry home. You should never have left, boy. You shouldn’t have left your mother and sisters to come here. Look how thin and sick you have grown here – tchh!’

  ‘There was nothing left for me to do there,’ Hari explained. ‘My father sold our fishing boat long ago. He sold our cow, too. I had no work – just a small plot of land to grow vegetables in, too small. And now a big factory is going to come up in Thul, and they will take up all our land and i
t is said there will be no fishing or farming left to do. I had to come to Bombay to find work.’

  ‘You can find work anywhere,’ piped Mr Panwallah, sitting up very straight and fixing his bird-like eyes on Hari. ‘As long as you can use your hands,’ he said, lifting up his ten spindly fingers and waggling them, ‘you can find work for them. And you have to be willing to learn – and to change – and to grow. If they take away your land you will have to learn to work in their factory instead. If you can’t stop it, you must learn to use it – don’t be afraid!’

  ‘Our elders say only engineers with degrees from colleges will get work there. They will not need fishermen or farmers. We will not get work.’

  ‘Hmm,’ said Mr Panwallah and chewed his lip for a while. ‘Yes, perhaps. But there will be other work, besides the factory. You can get work as a builder, or a roadmaker, when they are at a building stage. Later, the engineers and mechanics will come to live there in the new housing colonies and they will need people to work for them. They will need food, too – vegetables and milk and fruit and eggs. You will find you can sell the vegetables you grow, and the coconuts. Perhaps you will be able to buy a cow or chickens and make a living from them. Yes, yes, yes – think about it, Hari, there will be plenty of work. They will even bring watches and clocks with them for you to repair,’ he laughed, showing his pink, toothless gums. ‘So your watchmending skills won’t be useless after all! Perhaps one day you will own the first watch repair shop in Thul – what do you say to that?’

  Hari laughed back in surprise. Why had he never thought of that himself?

  ‘Oh, Mr Panwallah,’ he cried, ‘when will you come back to the shop and teach me more?’

  ‘Yes, yes, yes.’ Mr Panwallah laughed, petting his old grey cat with quick little pats. ‘I will come and I will teach you – wait for me, don’t run away so soon, boy.’

  ‘I won’t,’ Hari promised. ‘I want to learn more.’

  ‘Good!’ cried Mr Panwallah. ‘That’s what I wanted to hear you say. Learn, learn, learn – so that you can grow and change. Things change all the time, boy – nothing remains the same. When our earth was covered with water, all creatures lived in it and swam. When the water subsided and land appeared, the sea creatures crawled out and learned to breathe and walk on land. When plants grew into trees, they learned to climb them. When there were not enough plants left to eat, they learned to hunt and kill for food. Don’t think that is how things have remained. No, boy, they are still changing – they will go on changing – and if you want to survive, you will have to change too. The wheel turns and turns and turns: it never stops and stands still. Look, even Bombay is not always the same. Fifty years ago there were hills, gardens, beautiful palaces and villas where you now see slums, shops, traffic, crowds. Once I lived in a villa with a garden and roses and fountains – now I live in a pigeon roost over a railway station!’ He cackled with laughter as though it were all a great joke. ‘So Hari the fisherman, Hari the farmer will have to become Hari the poultry farmer or Hari the watchmender!’

  Hari beamed to see Mr Panwallah so excited and lively. If he was so much better, he would surely come back to the shop soon and start teaching Hari again. Hari knew he still had much to learn.

  ‘You are lucky,’ Mr Panwallah twinkled at him, sinking back into his chair. ‘You are young. You can change and learn and grow. Old people can’t, but you can. I know you will.’

  And so the wheel turned again, just as Mr Panwallah had said it would, and things got better just as earlier they had got worse. The rain slowed to a drizzle. Mr Panwallah came back to open his shop, looking very pale and fragile but full of eagerness to take up work again: he had so much work piled up that Hari had to spend more time helping him and less and less time in the eating house.

  Jagu did not seem to mind. He did not seem to want to see so much of Hari or talk to him after that visit to his house that had proved so unfortunate. Perhaps he was sorry Hari had met his wife and family and seen how they lived. It made him look away from Hari and simply nod or grunt when Hari asked for permission to spend a few hours at Mr Panwallah’s.

  Hari did not, after all, go up the hill to the tall block of flats where the de Silvas lived. He felt he could not bear the shame and humiliation of finding his way into it and asking for work. He was no longer the frightened, confused boy who crawled into any hole where he could find shelter and protection. He knew he could make choices and decisions now. He did not really wish to live in a rich man’s house as a servant. He felt he would only make a fool of himself, break the glass and china, leave dirty finger and footprints on shining surfaces, show his ignorance over such things as lifts, doorbells, telephones and cars. He was not a city boy and he did not want to become one. Ever since he had heard the news on the radio of the fishing boats lost at sea and felt as disturbed as if his own boats were lost, or his own father and brothers, he had known that he belonged to Thul and that he would go back. It was wonderful to be able to choose what you wanted to do in life, and choose he would.

  ‘I will go back after the rains are over,’ he told Jagu. ‘I had better tell you now in case you want to find someone to take my place.’

  Jagu only nodded and looked away. ‘When?’ he mumbled.

  ‘After Coconut Day,’ said Hari. ‘Some time after Coconut Day.’

  ‘Stay till Diwali,’ Jagu muttered, looking down at the dirty table-top and drumming on it nervously. ‘Then my brother will come from my village to help me. Till then, stay.’

  Hari wanted to refuse: he had not planned to stay so long, but he could not protest. Jagu had been so good to him, had given him food and shelter and saved his life, even tried to make him one of his family although that had not been so successful: he could not refuse. He quietly picked up the dirty plates from the table and took them away to wash.

  ‘Jagu won’t let me go till Diwali,’ he told Mr Panwallah unhappily.

  ‘No?’ cried Mr Panwallah. ‘Oh, don’t look so gloomy, boy. Diwali will be here before you know it. Look up at the sky – the clouds are rolling away, Coconut Day will be here soon! And then it will be Diwali next. So many festivals, one after the other. I think it is a good idea – to go home at Diwali, the best day in the whole year. Till then, you can stay here and learn – I have so much to teach you still. You did that watch I gave you yesterday perfectly: when the owner comes to fetch it, I will make him pay you for it. But there is more to learn. Look at this watch that has come from Japan. Electronic. See, in my old age I have to learn about a new kind of watch. You can learn, too. Sit down. Wipe your hands. I am going to open it now – look –’ and they both peered into the mysterious insides of the watch, studying its tiny parts that worked so perfectly.

  While they worked, Hari said, ‘Mr Panwallah, you celebrate Coconut Day and Diwali and yet you are not a Hindu, are you? I thought you are a Parsee and celebrate only the Parsee festivals.’

  ‘Oh no, no, no, boy,’ cried Mr Panwallah comically. ‘What would be the fun of that? And why should I miss the fun of all the Hindu and Muslim festivals? No, no, I believe in sharing everything, enjoying everything. That is why I have so much fun, eh? No gloom for me, eh?’

  They were still happily working at the Japanese watch when the owner of the Rolex that Hari had repaired came along for it and Mr Panwallah told him to pay Hari and not him. The man looked a bit puzzled but handed over a ten rupee note to Hari at Mr Panwallah’s request. Hari stood staring at the note: he suddenly felt he was not a child any longer, that he was a man. So when Mr Panwallah cried, ‘Well, aren’t you pleased? Won’t you smile?’ he could not. He nodded and put the money away in his pocket very carefully.

  ‘Before I go home, I will buy presents for my sisters,’ he said. ‘I will save all my watch money for that.’

  Coconut Day came at last, even before the rains were properly over. It no longer poured day and night as during the monsoon – only drizzled occasionally from a passing cloud. The clouds were no longer a mass of grey wool
blanketing the city but had separated into creamy puffs that floated along in the sunshine and the breeze. The sea was much calmer: the waves no longer towered over the boulevards and crashed across the streets but simply heaved, muddy and tired after all the storms. The buildings of the city were still damp and mouldy but no longer stood in several feet of water and were beginning to dry.

  On Coconut Day it drizzled in the morning but that was when people were still indoors, doing puja with sticks of incense and garlands of marigolds and dishes of sweets that were placed before Ganesha, the elephant-headed god who was the patron god of Bombay. When the crowds came pouring out on to the streets in the afternoon, carrying coconuts to throw into the sea, the sun had come out and gilded the battered, untidy city with a sheen of gold.

  Hari and Mr Panwallah were among the thousands and thousands of people who streamed down to Chowpatty, the beach Hari had taken for a fairground when he saw it on his first day in Bombay. Today it really was a fairground. The police were out, directing the traffic, making way for the processions to cross Marine Drive on to the beach – again reminding Hari of that first day in Bombay. Every inch of sand was covered: there were more hawkers and stall-keepers than ever, selling hot salted snacks, ice creams, coloured drinks, balloons, tin whistles and paper horns to excited children. And, of course, green coconuts. Everyone bought a green coconut to carry into the sea as an offering to it at the end of the season of storms, in thanksgiving for its safe end.

  Mr Panwallah, still rather white and bent from his long illness but very cheerful and almost energetic again, bought Hari a coconut. ‘You keep your money for presents for the family,’ he said when Hari tried to pay for it – and they pushed their way through the crowds to the edge of the sea. There were men pounding on drums that hung by straps from their necks, and others who danced behind and before them, sticking out their elbows and bending their knees and shouting as they frolicked along. Women were dressed in their brightest and newest saris – pink and yellow, violet and orange – and all had flowers in their hair. Some of them threw red powder into the air and it settled on their heads and shoulders and glinted in the afternoon sun.