by Ruskin Bond
When, finally, she went indoors, she was hungry. She ate some parched gram and warmed up some goats’ 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. Grandfather kept the kerosene-lamps 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 seldom noticed 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 everynight. The doll was some- one to talk to, when the nights were long and sleep elusive. Her grandparents were often ready to talk; 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. 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 were really Sita’s answers.
‘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 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 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 proba- bly meant that heavy rain was falling in the hills where the river began.
Sita went down to the water’s edge. She couldn’t find her favour- ite 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; it was a muddy colour.
She went back to the hut. Grandfather was up now. He was get- ting his boat ready.
Sita milked the goat, thinking that perhaps it was the last time she would be milking it; but she did not care for the goat in the same way that she cared for Mumta.
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 Grand- father pushed off. The little boat — with its two old people and three goats — rode swiftly on the river, edging its way towards the opposite bank. The current was very swift, and the boat would be carried about half-a-mile downstream before Grandfather would be able to 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 concerned about anything except food. Sita threw them handfuls of coarse grain, potato-peels 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. Grandfath- er’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 long. It was their most treasured possession. Grandmother’s sturdy shisham-wood walking stick stood in another corner.
Sita looked around for Mumta, found the doll beneath the light wooden charpoy, 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 need 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.’
The Water Rises
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 really safe there? The river looked much wider now. 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 high land. It wasn’t safe anywhere.
Sita wondered what had happened to Grandfather and Grand- mother. If they had reached the shore safely, Grandfather would have to engage a bullock-cart or a pony-drawn ekka to get Grandmother to the district hospital, five or six miles away. Shahganj had 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. He made the God Indra angry by shifting a mountain without permis- sion. Indra was the God of the clouds, who made the thunder and lightning, and when he was angry he sent down a deluge such as this one.
The island looked much smaller now. Some of its 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.
Sita climbed into the tree to get a better view of the flood. 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 as a shield 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 the river, something big and blo- ated. 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 bed- stead, 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 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 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 rain water or 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 junk-yard, 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, corrainder, 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 door-sill, 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 toward 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 the 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 she 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 rescu- ing 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 the 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 grey 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 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 were 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.