The Village by the Sea

by Anita Desai

  ‘They make more noise than the gulls,’ said Lila.

  ‘Shall we buy some? I have money,’ Hari said proudly.

  ‘Oh, you have come back rich from the city, have you?’ the girls teased, laughing and pleased.

  ‘Rich for a few days, at least,’ said Hari. ‘Come, choose, Lila. Buy a pomfret, or a surmai, or some crabs.’

  But Lila was not used to being rich, even for a day. She stood watching the others bargain and haggle and after all the baskets of prawns and pomfrets had been sold, she bought some jaola, the minute whiskery shrimps that crawled at the bottom of a bag in a pink, pulpy mass and were the cheapest fish one could buy. Bela and Kamal were disappointed but Hari said, ‘I have not eaten jaola for so long,’ and Lila tied up her purchase in a bundle to take home.

  Before they turned homewards, they walked as far as the creek that separated Thul from the Alibagh beach. The smaller, lighter craft were drawn up the creek, their sails lowered but their banners, made from long strips of fisherwomen’s saris, fluttering and flying in the wind. Beyond them the sere brown hills were turning to bronze and purple against the golden sky.

  Hari and his sisters walked down to the mouth of the creek where the sea had brought in banks of shells with every wave that swept over the sandbar. Most of them were crushed to a grainy, glittering powder but there were a few large chunks that gleamed with mother-of-pearl on the insides. Hari bent to pick them up and hurl them into the sea. Across the creek was the casuarina grove of Alibagh beach and beyond that the town and the fort, built long ago by the Angres, the great sea warriors of Moghul days.

  Looking across at Alibagh, Lila said, ‘Tomorrow is Diwali. Tomorrow we are to go and bring Mother home.’

  ‘Can she come home to stay now? Is she quite well?’

  ‘Much better. The doctor said he would let her go home at Diwali.’

  ‘Then I will go and fetch her.’

  ‘Yes, you can go in the morning while the girls and I get everything ready for Diwali.’

  ‘Let’s go home and eat,’ cried Bela, suddenly very hungry.

  ‘Run – I’ll race you,’ shouted Hari and they set off, shouting.

  The horizon was brightly lit by the sun that seemed to be melting into the sea like a globe of molten glass. The sky had paled to lemon-yellow and in the east it was already mauve. A star appeared, the brilliant evening star that was always the first to shine.

  At last Hari dropped back, panting, to walk at Lila’s side.

  ‘When we get home, you’ll have to tell us all about Bombay,’ Lila said.

  ‘But first you must tell me all the news of home,’ said Hari.

  So after they had eaten, they left the lantern burning in the hut and sat outside under the stars where the fireflies floated like luminous fishes through the damp darkness of the coconut grove and the marsh. Then they talked and talked of all that had happened in the months that they had been apart.

  After Hari had told them all about the Sri Krishna Eating House and the Ding Dong Watchworks and Mr Panwallah and Jagu and the park and Coconut Day, it was Lila’s turn to tell him what had happened in his absence.

  ‘All the time we waited for you, I thought you would come home for Diwali,’ she ended.

  ‘And you did,’ cried Kamal, hugging Hari’s arm and making the new bangles on her wrists jingle and flash as she did so.

  ‘Of course,’ said Hari, patting her hand. ‘And tomorrow is Diwali and I’m going to Alibagh to see Mother –’

  ‘And bring her home, please,’ begged Bela.

  ‘Of course,’ Hari promised. He smiled at her, at all of them. ‘You’re all wonderful,’ he said. ‘It’s wonderful how you’ve managed all these months – so well.’

  Lila couldn’t help smiling a little proud smile then. ‘We managed,’ she said, and then looked down at her feet in shyness. ‘No, we couldn’t have managed alone – the de Silvas helped Mother, and Sayyid Ali Sahib at the bungalow helped us after all the others left. We couldn’t have managed alone.’

  ‘Sayyid Ali Sahib?’ Hari frowned. The name sounded familiar but he couldn’t remember where he had heard it before: in Bombay, or had the girls mentioned it earlier? Feeling curious about the stranger in the bungalow, he said, ‘After I come back from Alibagh, I’ll go and thank him for looking after all of you.’

  ‘No,’ said Bela loudly. ‘We looked after ourselves – and him, too.’

  ‘Yes, you did,’ Hari agreed, smiling. ‘You are wonderful, all of you.’

  13

  On diwali morning, Hari left his sisters to their preparations and set off down the village road to catch a bus to Alibagh. He had asked Lila what he could buy for her and bring back but she only shook her head and said, ‘We already have all we need, Hari.’ But when he set off down the sandy path through the coconut grove, Bela came running after him, caught him by the elbow and whispered, ‘Hari, will you get us some of those sugar toys that they sell in Alibagh at Diwali? You know what I mean – those white sugar horses and elephants? I have some money that Sayyid Ali Sahib gave me when I pulled him out of the water –’

  ‘If you did that to earn some money, you must keep it,’ laughed Hari. ‘I will buy you the sugar toys with my money,’ he said proudly and went striding away.

  It was a golden morning of the kind you get when the monsoon is over, the dampness and the moist haze are drying and lifting, and the coming winter casts dew on the grass and brings freshness to the air. Hari skirted their field and stood at one corner for a while, staring at it and wondering how he would set out a poultry farm on it. He knew nothing about chickens but perhaps he could learn, it would not be too difficult. He would just buy a few chickens to start with and then increase the size of the farm as he learned more about them and became more confident. That would keep them going till the factory came up, and the housing colony, when he could start off as the village watchmender.

  The thought made him feel cheerful and optimistic and he turned off into the village road and marched on down the muddy track between the coconut and the betel palms, glad to see the old houses still exactly the same, the old men sitting on the swings on their verandas and the women painting rangoli designs on the tiles for Diwali and hanging paper lanterns in the doorways while chickens scratched and cats dozed in the shady yards. At the end of the road the pond was still beautiful with pink and white lotuses in bloom and women stood beating their washing on flat stones on the bank. Then the road became more rutted and dusty as it wound past the girls’ school and the boys’ school to the little brown hill at the crossing of the village road and the highway where he hoped to catch a bus.

  He was watching a pair of kites wheeling and tumbling in the cobalt blue sky above the temple on the hill when a cycle came along, tinkling its bell madly, and Ramu flew off the seat and stood before him, shouting, ‘Hari! Hari’s back! Where did you go, Hari? When did you come back?’

  Hari laughed at the amount of noise Ramu always managed to make all by himself. ‘I was in Bombay, Ramu.’

  ‘Are you going back already?’

  ‘No, I’m going to Alibagh to see my mother at the hospital.’

  ‘I’m going to Alibagh, too, to buy fireworks for Diwali. Come, sit, I’ll take you.’

  Hari jumped on at the back and Ramu pedalled off. The old rusty bicycle made such a noise as it bumped along that it hardly seemed possible to talk to each other, but they shouted what they had to say and managed to catch most of it above the clatter of the machine.

  ‘When did you come?’

  ‘Yesterday. For Diwali.’

  ‘Going back after Diwali?’

  ‘No, I think I’ll stay. I made some money – I’ve brought it back. I’ll try and work here now.’

  ‘Work here?’ jeered Ramu in his old manner. ‘What work can you find here?’

  ‘I’ll do something,’ Hari shouted cheerfully, keeping things to himself.

  ‘You can’t work on your own,’ shouted Ramu. ‘Wait for the fact
ory to come up, then there’ll be jobs.’

  ‘I thought the fishermen and farmers of Alibagh were going to stop it from coming up.’

  ‘Hah! That’s what you went to Bombay for, wasn’t it, to stop the government from building it? How can a few villagers stop the government from building it? How can a few villagers stop the government?’

  Hari was silent and listened to Ramu as he went on shouting in his usual fashion: ‘Everything has to change over here – everything is going to be different.’

  ‘But, Ramu,’ interrupted Hari at last, ‘we have to change too, we shall have to become different as well.’

  That silenced Ramu and Hari held on to the bicycle seat and looked about him at the muddy fields and the bullock carts that were dragging ploughs through them, getting them ready for the sowing of the winter crops. He could not imagine this scene changed or this life coming to an end.

  Then they were in Alibagh, the big town of the district, with its whitewashed bungalows, its wide roads, markets and shops where you could get mill-made bread, fireworks, anything you wanted. Hari got off the bicycle and went in search of sugar toys for his sisters after waving goodbye to Ramu who waved back silently, looking thoughtful as he took in all the changes that had come about in Hari. After buying a bagful from a barrow on the pavement, Hari walked straight up the road to the hospital gates.

  He was standing in the yard, looking about him, searching for someone in hospital uniform whom he could ask about his mother, when an old man shuffled across to him, put a trembling hand on his elbow and muttered, ‘Hari, is it you?’

  Hari gaped at the wrinkled face and the grey matted hair for a whole minute before he gasped, ‘Father!’

  ‘You have come to see her?’ the old man quavered. ‘You have come at last?’

  ‘I was in Bombay, Father –’

  ‘And you never came once to see her?’

  ‘I came back yesterday. Lila told me she was here. Can I take her home now?’

  ‘You must go and ask the doctor-sahib that,’ the old man said, pointing down the long veranda to a room at the end that was curtained with green cloth at the door. Hari went slowly towards it and, holding the curtain aside, looked in. There was a doctor sitting at the table and writing busily and some nurses at the other end of the room, washing up at the sink and cleaning things. They looked at Hari and called over the doctor’s head, ‘What is it? What do you want?’

  Hari murmured his mother’s name, wondering if they would know her. They did, instantly. After all, she had been with them for seven months.

  ‘Yes, yes, yes – go and see her – ward two, bed forty-five,’ shouted a large nurse with friendly eyes that gleamed behind her spectacles.

  Then the doctor stopped writing and looked at him. ‘Who are you? Are you from her village?’

  ‘I am her son, from – from Bombay,’ Hari had to say in order to explain why he had not been there before.

  ‘Oh, from Bombay? No one told me she had a son in Bombay,’ said the doctor. ‘I only saw the daughter, from Thul. Come to fetch her home for Diwali, have you?’

  Hari nodded, watching the doctor’s face to see if this were possible.

  ‘Yes,’ the doctor nodded. ‘She is strong enough to go home. But you must bring her back for a check-up every month. We can’t let her go back to the hands of your village quack. She has recovered and we have to make sure she stays well.’

  ‘I will bring her back,’ Hari promised eagerly. ‘I am not going back to Bombay. I will stay here now, in my village, and I will bring her back every month.’

  ‘See that you do,’ said the doctor, ‘for she still needs looking after,’ and then he turned and spoke to the nurse about the discharge papers. When all the papers were ready, signed and in order, Hari was taken to the ward at last.

  He could hardly recognize his mother. For a long time he had seen her only lying in bed, half asleep, not speaking, and he could not believe that this woman sitting on the edge of her bed and smiling at him could be her. It was as if the years of illness had rolled up and disappeared, leaving her as she was before her illness. Of course her hair was grey now and her face lined, but she had put on weight and her eyes were bright.

  ‘Hari! Hari! Have you come home for Diwali?’

  ‘Yes, I’ve come to take you home for Diwali.’

  ‘Can I?’ she turned to ask the nurse eagerly.

  ‘Of course – we are not going to keep you in hospital at Diwali. It’s time you went home to your children,’ said the nurse. ‘Come, let’s pack your things – your clothes, your comb, your medicines –’

  And in a little while Hari and his father were helping her into a tonga they had hired at the gate. She was weak in her legs, quite unused to walking, and trembled with nervousness at being out on the street in the bright light, but Hari and his father sat on either side of her on the broad back seat of the tonga and held her arms so she would not slip off. Then the tonga driver flicked his whip over the horse’s back and it set off at a trot, carrying them home to Thul for Diwali.

  Lila, Bela and Kamal had everything ready by the time they arrived home. A rangoli had been drawn on the veranda floor with coloured powders, yellow and magenta and white, and a big red paper lantern hung from the beams, its streamers rustling in the wind. In the house, all the brass cooking pots and tumblers had been polished till they shone like lamps on the kitchen shelf, and Lila had arranged all the festive sweets on a tray – fried dumplings stuffed with shredded coconut and semolina, round yellow balls made of gram flour and sugar, chunks of crystallized pumpkin and marrow, squares of thick cream cooked with nuts and raisins – and she was frying bright orange squiggly jalebis in a pan of hot oil and dropping them into a bowl of syrup when Hari arrived with their parents.

  Bela and Kamal had garlands ready for their mother, made of jasmine, roses and marigolds, and they cried and laughed as they put them over her head. To their dismay it was their father who started crying weakly at the scene while their mother laughed with joy. She went straight to the small altar in a corner of the kitchen where there were small clay idols of Ganesha and the goddess Lakshmi standing amidst sticks of incense and piles of rose petals, and offered them the garland with a prayer of thanksgiving.

  In the evening Hari helped his sisters to arrange the little clay lamps in rows along the veranda, on the low walls, the paths and around the trees and shrubs of the garden. Lila poured a little oil into each carefully, Bela and Kamal laid a cottonwool wick in the oil, dipping one end down into it and then squeezing it dry between their fingers so it would light when Hari came around with a candle. In the dark, the golden lights flowered to life and gleamed.

  Then Hari carried the basket of fireworks on to the grassy knoll in the coconut grove and, to the sound of Beja’s and Kamal’s excited shrieks, he set off a rocket into the sky where it exploded with a bang into a shower of coloured sparks. The girls came running forwards to light sparklers at a candle he held for them, then ran around the coconut grove, waving them in the air so that they left patterns of light in the velvety darkness. Then Lila lit a ‘pomegranate’, bending with a candle to set fire to a clay pot with its little mouth papered with silver foil, and it exploded into a fountain of gold and silver stars that shot up almost as high as the coconut trees and then fell to earth in a shower. Bela and Kamal lit Catherine wheels on the smooth surface of the veranda floor where they whirled around dizzily, sending off white-hot sparks, and Hari jumped over them and kicked them about to make them change course while Lila and his mother begged him to be careful. So he went out to the knoll and set off more rockets, waiting for each to shoot across the sky like a comet and explode with a bang into a cloud of stars before he set off the next.

  When they had finished the fireworks in the basket and Bela and Kamal said sadly, ‘Oh, they are all finished already,’ Hari said, ‘Now let’s go out on the beach and light a bonfire,’ so they laughed and clapped their hands and ran after him down the dark path to th
e beach, Hari showing them the way with a lighted torch made out of a dry coconut branch. Lila stayed on the veranda with her parents, saying, ‘We will watch from here – it’s too windy on the beach for Ma.’

  Hari and Bela and Kamal knelt on the cold sand and stacked dry coconut branches carefully, making a pyramid of them. Then Hari set fire to it and they stood back from the crackling flames and watched the dry fronds and branches burn swiftly till the whole pyramid collapsed into ashes and embers. Now the darkness of the night crept over them – sky, sand and sea were all black velvet, deep and soft, into which they sank. But once their eyes grew accustomed to it they could make out the white line of the surf as it came whispering out of the sea towards them, the phosphorescence that gave a ghostly glow to the waves and the pale gleam of the sand. Of course the sky was illuminated with millions and millions of stars that burnt brilliantly and silently above them.

  ‘Come, let’s go back and sit with Ma,’ said Hari when the last of the burning branches had collapsed with a sigh into ashes and embers.

  ‘And Ma will tell us the Diwali story,’ Bela said, suddenly remembering a custom they had observed for years and that she recalled from her infancy.

  So they went back to the veranda, still lit by the rosy paper lantern, and sat at their mother’s feet while she told them the story of Diwali, of how Rama, the prince of Ayodhya, had fought a great battle with Ravana, the demon-king of Lanka, to win back his wife Sita who had been kidnapped in a forest, and how, victorious, they had returned to Ayodhya to find the whole city lit up to receive them.

  ‘And that is why we light up our houses on Diwali, too,’ sighed Bela, remembering the line with which their mother had always ended the story.

  ‘Yes,’ she said, ‘and the lights will show the way to Lakshmi who is the goddess of wealth so that she will visit our house too and not miss it in the dark.’

  ‘It is Hari-bhai who has brought us wealth, Mother,’ said Kamal seriously, patting Hari’s arm and making him glow with pride.