by Ruskin Bond
‘But why does it have to stretch here?’ asked Rakesh.
‘It can stretch anywhere, and does. Tokyo, San Francisco, Iran, the South Pacific, Italy, Turkey—there’s hardly a corner of the earth that hasn’t felt an earthquake at some time or the other. Of course in some places it’s worse . . . This is one of the places where the earth likes to do its stretching.’
When lunch was over, Rakesh rode off to the cricket ground, Grandfather and Mukesh walked off in the direction of the bazaar, and Dolly followed Grandmother into the courtyard to help with the washing.
It was about ten minutes later that the real earthquake was felt, and half the town came tumbling down.
Earthquake Chaos
Rakesh had almost reached the cricket ground when, all of a sudden, the road tilted and rose up towards him. A second later he found himself sprawling on the ground.
A deep rumbling sound seemed to come from the bowels of the earth, and the road kept having convulsions. It was like a huge snake thrashing around in its death throes. Rakesh found that lying on the ground was even more difficult than riding his bicycle.
The cricket match, which had started a little while earlier, came to an abrupt end, as a huge rent appeared across the pitch. Into it fell a fast bowler, an umpire, and a fielder standing at silly mid-on. They were rescued later, but it was the first time anywhere that a match had to be abandoned due to an earthquake.
Those who were playing, or watching from the lakeside pavilion, heard a thunderous roar. It was due to half the hillside falling into the lake. The earth, along with trees, bushes and rocks, simply bulged out, and then came crashing down. Dust and water rose skywards, and at the same time the bed of the lake erupted, rose like a tidal wave, and spewed its contents over the surrounding plain. Fortunately for both cricketers and spectators, this massive surge of water was flowing in the opposite direction. But it swept away a number of parked cars, several grazing cattle and goats, telegraph poles and the walls of the old jail.
Here was a chance for hundreds of inmates of the jail to escape. But they were too shocked by the suddenness of the disaster to be able to do anything except make a dash for the high ground behind the jail. A few could not make it and were washed away by the rushing waters of the upturned lake. Those who reached safety huddled together in groups, waiting to be rescued.
Rakesh saw the wave coming towards him as he lay on the ground. It was about fifty metres away when he scrambled to his feet and ran for the nearest tree. Fortunately it was a large banyan tree, well anchored with its many aerial roots—branches that had come down to the ground and taken root again. It was also an easy tree to climb. Rakesh climbed as high as he could go, glancing down as the advancing water swirled around beneath him. He watched as his bicycle swept past. And he was never to see it again.
* * *
Grandfather and Mukesh were in the bazaar, eating sweets. They both shared a passion for gulab-jamuns—rose-scented milk and sugar dumplings fried a deep brown. The old man and the small boy stood outside the sweet shop popping syrupy gulab-jamuns down their throats.
The bazaar itself was a hive of activity. It was the busiest hour of the day. The street was crowded with women shopping for vegetables, and pavement-vendors selling everything from shiny brassware to old clothes and second-hand comics, in competition with the bigger shops just off the road. Weaving in and out of the crowd were cyclists, scooterists, pony carts, stray cows, stray dogs and even stray policemen.
Mukesh had eaten four gulab-jamuns and Grandfather six when the sweet shop began to wobble about in front of them. Then the cloth awning collapsed, burying the shopkeeper among his sweetmeats. His muffled shouts for help were lost in the noise from the street, where people were shouting and rushing about in panic.
Grandfather and Mukesh found themselves on top of the struggling shopkeeper. As he freed himself, Mukesh got stuck in the awning and had to be helped out, and all the time the ground was heaving about and shops were tottering and collapsing like packs of cards.
In the space of a few seconds, a straight bazaar had become a crooked bazaar. The road had been twisted out of shape to such an extent that some shops that had been on the left now turned up on the right, and vice versa. A beggar in a cart who had never been known to walk now leapt to his feet and ran for his life. The cows had vanished and so had the policemen. A motorcycle had disappeared into a hole in the ground, while a car had mounted the steps of the Town Hall. A tonga-pony galloped down the middle of the road; of the tonga and its driver there was no sign.
The Town Hall itself had collapsed, burying a number of clerks and officials. By the time the powerful tremor had passed, several other large buildings had also come down.
Grandfather did not panic. He picked Mukesh off a heap of sweets and helped the dazed shopkeeper to his feet. Then he realized that the earthquake must have affected every part of the town.
‘Let’s get back to the house,’ he said. ‘Anything could have happened!’
Grabbing Mukesh by the hand, he started running down the road. Mukesh had trouble keeping up with him. He’d never seen Grandfather running before.
* * *
Dolly was helping Grandmother hang out the washing when the shock came. Had they been inside the house, they would not have come out alive.
As in the case of the first tremor, the dog began to howl and all the birds rose from the trees and began circling overhead, making a great noise. Then suddenly there was a wind rushing through the trees, and the ground began to heave and quake.
Dolly looked up to see the tall chimney toppling off the roof of the house.
‘Look, Granny!’ she cried. ‘The house is falling down! What will happen to my doll’s house?’
‘Never mind the doll’s house,’ said Grandmother. ‘Let’s get clear of the building.’
They ran into the garden just as the walls of the house bulged outwards and the roof fell inwards. There was a great crash, followed by clouds of dust and plaster.
Grandmother looked across the road and saw other houses collapsing, almost as though some unseen giant was blowing them all down. The lines from an English fairy tale ran through her head: ‘I’ll huff and puff and I’ll blow your house down!’
There was a peculiar whistling wind, but it wasn’t the wind that had done the damage; it was the quivering of the earth that had loosened bricks and plaster, beams and rafters. The air was filled with choking dust. They couldn’t speak.
How flimsy all the houses seem, thought Grandmother. Just dolls’ houses. And yet, many of them had stood for over a hundred years. A hundred years—and in a moment, gone!
The shaking had stopped, but already their home was a mound of rubble. A bedstead poked out of a broken window. A bathroom tap gushed water over a squashed sofa set. Here a bit of broken desk or chair, there a bit of torn carpet, a familiar hat, battered books, a twisted umbrella; these were the only reminders that this had once been a home.
The goat was missing, the hens had vanished. The only things that hadn’t been touched were the clothes that Dolly and Grandmother had been hanging up. They remained firmly on the washing line, flapping about in the wind.
Cries from afar came to them on the wind—cries for help, people calling out for each other, some just shouting because there was nothing else to do.
Dolly and Grandmother stood like statues in the middle of the garden. They were too shocked to move—until they saw Grandfather and Mukesh running down the road towards them. Then they too began to run.
Pickle found himself trapped in the storeroom. He had been ferreting between two large boxes, trying to get at a terrified rat, when the ceiling came down on top of the boxes. There was dust and darkness everywhere. Pickle didn’t like it one bit. He wanted to be out of that suffocating hole, and he wasn’t going to sit there waiting to be rescued. The instincts of the dachshund, and his own experience in digging for rats, now came to his aid. He began burrowing in the rubble, trying to tunnel a way out
.
The Lucky Ones
Mumtaz’s hut was one of the few homes left standing. Light and flimsy and made of wooden planks and a thatched roof, it could have been blown away by a strong wind. But it withstood the earthquake. Whereas bricks and plaster had come crashing down, the light wooden structure had shaken and shivered and swayed with the movements of the earth, but it had remained upright.
Dolly was soon at home in the hut, playing on the smooth earthen floor with the cook’s children. Mukesh still hung on to Grandfather, while Grandmother, hands on hips, surveyed the wreckage of the house.
‘I hope Rakesh is all right,’ said Grandfather.
‘If you can keep an eye on Mukesh, I’ll go and look for him.’
‘Yes, do. I’m worried about him,’ said Grandmother. ‘And we may get another earthquake.’
‘Will you be all right here?’
‘Well, there’s nothing left to fall down. Mumtaz says we must sleep in his house tonight. It seems to be the safest place.’
‘You and the children can sleep there. I’ll sleep out in the open. It’s warm enough—and I don’t think it will rain.’
While Grandfather was gone looking for Rakesh, Grandmother and Mumtaz searched the ruins of the house, looking for things that could still be used. Unfortunately most of their belongings were buried deep beneath the rubble, and there was hardly anything worth retrieving—just a battered pram, a boxful of clothes, several tins of sardines, some cans of fruit juice that had rolled across the grass, and Grandfather’s typewriter, which hadn’t been working anyway. They had no idea that Pickle was in the ruined building, buried at the bottom of everything; they thought he was somewhere in the neighbourhood, dashing about as usual, looking for the cause of all the trouble.
‘Find my dolls!’ demanded Dolly. ‘And the doll’s house.’
But the doll’s house no longer existed.
‘No more toys,’ said Mukesh with satisfaction, feeling very grown-up about everything. ‘We’re poor now.’
‘Has the bank fallen down too?’ asked Dolly.
‘Must have,’ said Mukesh sagely.
In spite of Grandfather’s prediction of clear weather, it began to rain and they had to take shelter in Mumtaz’s little hut. It was very crowded in the small room, but Mumtaz, for one, did not notice—he had a big heart.
* * *
The waters of the upturned lake drained away almost as rapidly as they had flooded the surrounding area. Rakesh peered through the branches of the tree in the general direction of his school. He wanted to know the time. Usually the clock tower above the school building was visible for miles around, but now there was no sign of it. It had, in fact, disappeared when the rest of the building collapsed. Even now, frantic efforts were being made to extricate the headmaster from the rubble around his desk, where he had been trapped by a falling beam. The classrooms were a shambles and a fire had broken out in the kitchen and was spreading to other parts of the building. It would be many months before the school would start functioning again. Many would never return to it.
After some time Rakesh climbed down from the tree. He looked around for his bicycle, but couldn’t see it anywhere. A lot of other things had been washed up at the base of the tree, including a dead cat, several drowned chickens, fish that had been left flopping around when the water receded, and a cinema hoarding. The face of a famous Bombay film star stared up from the mud.
In the distance he saw a great cloud of dust. He did not know it then, but the dust came from hundreds of fallen or damaged buildings. Rakesh knew, of course, that there had been an earthquake, and a tremendous one, and that it must have been felt over a large area. What could have happened to his grandparents and his brother and sister? He began running for home, taking the road through the town.
He wasn’t sure it was the same town he was running through, because many of the familiar landmarks had gone. The town’s biggest and most expensive hotel, the Grand Eastern, had tumbled down. Many of its guests had been killed. An ambulance stood in the grounds, and across the road a fire engine was trying to put out several fires which had broken out. Almost automatically Rakesh began to help the rescue workers who were clearing the rubble. There wasn’t much he could do apart from shifting bricks and broken furniture. Then he realized that his own home might be in a similar condition, and he paused, staring horrified at the wreckage of the once posh hotel. He felt a touch on his shoulder. Grandfather was standing beside him.
‘Are you all right, my boy?’
Rakesh nodded, although he looked rather bewildered.
‘And everyone at home?’ he asked.
‘They’re all right.’ Grandfather did not mention the house. ‘Come along, there’s nothing you can do here. What happened to the bicycle?’
‘It was swept away. All the water came out of the lake. I had to climb a tree!’
They walked home in silence. But all around them there was noise and confusion.
Rakesh hadn’t expected to find their house in total ruin. He looked around in shock and dismay.
‘Everything’s gone,’ he said at last. ‘What luck—what terrible luck . . .’
‘No,’ said Grandfather. ‘We’re the lucky ones! We’re alive, aren’t we?’
Beginning Again
Late that night, Grandfather wondered if he had spoken too soon. There was another strong tremor, and Mumtaz’s frail hut swayed and swung as though it was a hot-air balloon. In the town, more buildings came down.
Grandfather had been wrong about the weather too, because it did not stop raining and he had to give up his plan to sleep outside. Everyone else had bedded down on the floor of the hut, using bits of torn carpet and bedding rescued from the house. It was a tight squeeze, with Mumtaz and his wife and four small children taking up half the space, and Grandmother and the family taking up the other half. Nobody slept much, except for Mukesh and the smaller children.
In the middle of the night, Pickle finally succeeded in digging his way out of the ruins. He was white with plaster, and one of his long ears had almost come off. He sat down outside the hut and howled for most of the night. Other dogs in other parts of the town took up the howling, so it was a weird, frightening sort of night, what with the wind, the rain, the howling—and always the fear of another earth tremor.
Grandfather had noticed that although the hut swayed about when there was a tremor, it showed no signs of falling down—unlike the big brick and stone buildings that had come down so quickly. Indeed, although they did not know it then, almost everything made of brick and masonry had been levelled to the ground. Wooden structures, no matter how rickety, had withstood the earthquake.
The full extent of the damage would not be known for a few days, because the earthquake had been felt all over Assam and parts of Bengal. A train had overturned at one place, while another left the rails. Over a thousand people lost their lives in the Cherrapunji Hills. The mighty Brahmaputra river burst its banks and many farmers were drowned in the flood. In one small town, two elephants sat down in the bazaar and refused to get up until the following morning. One man was lucky; when the walls of his house came down, a pot of coins showered down on him. But no one else found any treasure.
It rained all night, and although the main shock of the earthquake had passed, minor shocks took place at regular intervals of five minutes or so. Rakesh stayed awake with the grown-ups. He was sure the school buildings had fallen, and there wouldn’t be school for months. There wouldn’t be much else, either.
Early in the morning, Mumtaz got up to make tea on his small primus stove. Grandfather got up and went outside. It had stopped raining, but even the sky looked wounded as the sun came up red and angry. For many, it would be a long, sad day.
Soon the children were up and playing around the house. Grandmother opened a tin of sardines—sardine tins were earthquake-proof, it seemed—while Mumtaz’s wife made chapattis. They went quite well with the sardines. Pickle enjoyed them too. Grandfather had wa
shed and bandaged his head, and he was beginning to feel normal again.
‘Will we be going away?’ asked Rakesh, munching a sardine rolled up in chapatti.
‘I suppose we’ll have to,’ said Grandmother. ‘We can go to Calcutta, or stay with your father on the tea estates.’
‘I don’t want to go,’ said Mukesh.
‘Mukesh always wants to do the opposite of everyone else,’ said Rakesh. ‘What about you, Dolly? What do you want to do?’
‘Dig up my doll’s house,’ said Dolly.
‘We’ll get you another,’ said Rakesh. ‘I’ll make one for you.’
‘It will have to be Calcutta,’ said Grandfather. ‘There are schools there. Lots of them.’
‘No,’ said Rakesh. ‘We like it here. The school will start again.’
‘But we don’t have a house now!’
‘We can build it again, can’t we?’
‘Yes,’ agreed Mukesh. ‘We can build it again!’
‘Build it again,’ repeated Dolly, ‘build it again!’
‘All easier said than done,’ said Grandmother. ‘But where’s the money to come from?’
‘What’s our Daddy for?’ Rakesh wanted to know. ‘He has a job. He can send us money to build a new house, can’t he? That’s what fathers are for!’
‘Yes, I suppose he could,’ said Grandmother, opening another tin of sardines. ‘That’s what sons are for!’
Grandfather was standing at the gate when he saw his friend Azad, the carpenter, passing along the road, looking drawn and pale. Azad raised his hand in greeting and made as if to pass on; usually he stopped to talk.
‘What’s the hurry, Azad?’ asked Grandfather. ‘There’s going to be enough work in town to keep you busy for more than a year.’
‘But for what—for whom?’ said Azad, without stopping. ‘My wife and daughter are lying in the military hospital—it’s the only one left—and I don’t know if they will live . . . I’m sleeping there too, as my own house has gone.’