25

For some days now, a heavy rain has been falling. In the evenings, a gathering would form at Annada Ray’s chandi-mandap. That day, the conversation, which had begun with spurious tales of the indigo factories, had moved on to a five-man lodestone said to be set atop a temple in Puri—a magnet whose pull so often led seafaring ships astray that they would wreck upon submerged coastal rocks. One after another, fantastical tales worthy of the Arabian Nights were spun. The listeners were rapt; no one had the heart to leave such outlandish stories and head for home. From geography, the stream of stories soon flowed to astrology. Din Chowdhury was saying, “There’s no book like the Bhrigu Samhita! You go, you just give them your birth sign, and it will tell you everything—your father’s name, the clan of your birth, your past and your future. You can check it for yourself. Every possible permutation of the planets and the zodiac—it’s all in there, you see? Even your past lives—”

Everyone was listening with keen interest, but Ramratan, suddenly glancing outside, said, “No, we should be off. We won’t be able to leave later. Don’t you see—don’t you see the state of things? I’ll be relieved if we can avoid a big squall. The signs are very bad. Come on, everyone.”

There was no break in the rain. It would pause for a moment, then come down hard again. The spray made everything hazy as smoke.

Harihar had sent a total of five rupees; after that, neither letter nor money had come. And that had been a long time ago. Every morning, Sarbajaya would wake up thinking that today, surely, the money for their expenses would arrive. She would tell her son, “You’re always off playing, so you never see him. Go and sit by the postbox—the moment the peon comes, you ask him.”

Apu would say, “What? As if I don’t sit there? Just yesterday he brought a letter for Punti’s family, and he gave us our newspaper—go and ask Punti if you don’t believe me! How else would we have gotten our paper yesterday? It’s not true I’m not there!”

The monsoon had well and truly set in. At his mother’s bidding, Apu would wait steadfastly for the peon at the Rays’ chandi-mandap. He would watch the flock of pigeons as they flew, wet and fluttering, from the roof of Sadhu Karmakar’s workshop to the western cornice of the Rays’ house. He was terrified of the sky’s roar. When lightning flashed, he would think to himself, Look how the gods are stretching their pipes, now it’s sure to thunder—and then he would shut his eyes tight and stick his fingers in his ears.

Returning home, he saw that his mother and sister, drenched from being out in the rain all afternoon, had gathered a huge pile of kochu stalks and heaped them on the veranda of the kitchen hut.

“Where did you get all this from, Ma?” Apu asked. “Oof, so much!”

Durga laughed. “So much! Ooh! It’s easy for you, just sitting around! … From the tamarind tree by their pond—the water was this deep, up to my knees! You go and try it!…”

At the ghat the next morning, she met the barber’s wife. Sarbajaya pulled a bell-metal plate from inside the folds of her sari and said, “Look at this, a fine piece. It’s not a cheap alloy, not at all, it’s pure bell-metal. You mentioned you were looking, so I thought I’d bring it. This isn’t just any old thing, this was a wedding gift. They don’t make them like this anymore.”

After much haggling, the barber’s wife undid a knot in her sari, took out a silver half-rupee coin, and hid the plate in her own cloth. Sarbajaya repeatedly begged her not to tell a soul.

A day or two later, the monsoon descended in all its concentrated fury. The east wind howled, the ditches and ponds were brimming over, the paths and ghats were knee-deep in water. Day and night there was a continuous roaring sound as storms raged through the bamboo groves, bending the tops of the stalks until they scraped the ground. There was no break in the sky. Every so often, it would grow darker than before, as great masses of black cloud came scudding from east to west. Somewhere in the distant sky, a great war between gods and demons had broken out. Under the command of some master strategist, vast demon armies, battalion after battalion, akshauhini after akshauhini, were advancing at the speed of a gale, led by invisible charioteers and warriors, blanketing land, water, and sky in their unified assault. Then the blazing, furious thunderbolt of the gods would fly, spewing fire, tearing in an instant through the vast dark legions, ripping them asunder—and then, from somewhere, the spawn of Raktabija would rise again, swarming in, their dreadful black shadows swallowing the earth and the heavens.

A great storm!

Day and night, the roaring sound. The river rose. So many houses in so many places had collapsed! Rivers and streams were flooded. Cattle stood under trees, in bamboo groves, by the eaves of houses, getting drenched in the downpour. Not a bird could be heard anywhere. For four or five days it was the same: only the sound of the storm and the ceaseless, driving rain. Apu clambered onto the veranda and, quickly wiping his wet head, said, “The water’s come up to our bamboo grove, Didi, want to see?” Durga, who was lying down wrapped in a kantha, answered without getting up. “How high has the water come, eh?” … Apu said, “You can see for yourself tomorrow when your fever’s gone.” … On the path by the tamarind tree, the water was knee-deep! Then he asked, “Where’s Ma, eh?”

There wasn’t a grain of rice in the house—only a handful of stale puffed rice. Apu began to cry. “That won’t do, Ma! Don’t you think I get hungry? I want to eat some proper rice, I do!”

His mother said, “My darling, my precious, how can you act like this! I’ll mix the puffed rice up nicely for you later. How can I cook, don’t you see what a mess it is? The stove is full of water.” Then she pulled something from the folds of her sari and, showing it with a smile, said, “Look! I saw this climbing koi fish slithering on its fins in the bamboo grove. The floodwaters have brought them all up from the river. The Baroj-pota pond has overflowed and joined the river, you see? That’s why they’re all coming up.”

Durga threw off the kantha and got up, astonished. “Let me see the fish, Ma!” she said. “Ma, do koi fish really walk on their fins? Are there more?”

Apu was ready to dash out into the rain that very instant; his mother had a hard time stopping him.

Durga said, “As soon as my fever’s a little better, let’s go tomorrow morning, Apu, you and me, and we’ll get fish from the bamboo grove.” Then she wondered in amazement, Fish in the bamboo grove! How did they get there? Wow! Had Ma really looked properly? If she had, there must be more. She hadn’t seen what a koi fish walking on its fins looked like. She would see tomorrow morning. Her fever would be gone by morning.

Evening fell, enveloping the surrounding woods and gardens. The thirteenth-day moon was lost in cloud, and the darkness made everything merge into one. Sarbajaya sat beside the bed where Durga lay, with Apu huddled next to her. What if, she thought, a letter from young Niren were to arrive right now? Who knew, could such a thing not happen? Niren had seemed to approve of Durga, after all. Who knew what fate had in store? No, such things are not in my destiny. What am I thinking? If they were, would I have any worries left?

Meanwhile, a fierce argument had broken out between brother and sister. Apu snuggled closer to his mother; the cold wind was making him shiver. He laughed and said, “Ma, what was it? The chili-grinder grinds the green, her long hair trails the ground?”

Durga said, “By then my mother, I have seen, has left her native town.”

Apu said, “Get away! Is that the line, Ma? By then my mother, I have seen, has left her native town?” And he laughed at his sister’s ignorance.

Her son’s unknowing, joyful laughter pierced Sarbajaya’s heart like a spear. She thought to herself, Not seven, not five—just this one son. What fate did I bring with me into this world, that I can’t even grant his simple wishes? No ghee, no luchis, no sandesh—what does he ask for but two mouthfuls of plain rice? Nothing! Then she thought, This broken house, this hand-to-mouth existence—if only Apu can be raised into a man, this sorrow won’t last. May God let him grow into a good man.

Then she sat and told them a story, of how when she first came to keep house in Nischindipur, there was a year of rain so relentless that the river rose high enough for large, heavily-laden boats to come right up to the Mukherjees’ orchard by the ghat path.

“How big were the boats, Ma?” asked Apu.

“Huge—like those lime-boats from upcountry, the fuller’s-earth boats you see sometimes. That big.”

Durga suddenly asked, “Ma, do you know how to do a four-strand braid?”

Late that night, Sarbajaya was woken by Apu’s call. “Ma, oh Ma, get up! Water is dripping on me.”

Sarbajaya got up and lit the lamp. Outside, the sound of the rain was terrifying. Water was dripping everywhere in the room from the leaky roof. She moved the bedding to a drier spot. Durga was lying in a high fever. Her mother touched her and found that the quilt covering her was soaking wet. She called out, “Durga! Oh Durga, can you hear me? Get up for a moment, will you? Let me move the bed. Oh Durga, quickly, everything is getting completely soaked!”

Even after the children fell asleep, sleep would not come to Sarbajaya. The dark night, this heavy rain… her heart fluttered with dread. She was afraid something was about to happen… something was about to happen. There was a strange feeling in her chest. She thought, And what has become of that man? No letter comes. To hell with the money. It’s never been like this before. Is he all right? O Mother Siddheshwari, I will give you an offering of five-and-a-quarter annas, just bring me good news, Mother.

The next day, towards morning, the rain eased slightly. Sarbajaya went outside and saw that the small pond in the middle of the bamboo grove had filled to the brim. On the path to the ghat, Nibaran’s mother was walking somewhere, getting drenched. Sarbajaya called out, “Oh, Nibaran’s ma, listen!” Then, shyly, she said, “You mentioned once, about that Binda-buni shawl for your son… would you still take it?”

Nibaran’s mother said, “You have it? Let the rain hold up a bit, I’ll come right back with my son. Is it new, Ma-thakrun, or old?”

Sarbajaya said, “Why don’t you come now and see? It’s a little old, but no one has worn it. It’s been washed and put away.” She paused for a moment, then added, “You aren’t husking rice these days, are you?”

Nibaran’s mother replied, “How can the paddy dry in this downpour, Ma-thakrun? I’ve just set aside a little for us to eat, that’s all.”

Sarbajaya said, “Could you do something for me? Could you bring me half a katha of it today?” She moved a little closer and said in a pleading tone, “Because of the rain, I can’t find anyone to fetch rice from the market. I’m walking around with the money in my hand, but no one will agree to go. I’m in a terrible fix, ma.”

Nibaran’s mother agreed. “I’ll bring it over,” she said. “But will you be able to eat rice from our coarse paddy, Ma-thakrun? It’s very thick.”

Durga could no longer stomach the boiled neem bark. Her illness remained unchanged. There was no medicine, no doctor, no vaidya. She would say, “Get me a paisa’s worth of biscuits, Ma, the salty kind. They taste nice in my mouth.”

They couldn’t even get sago for her, let alone biscuits!

From the afternoon onwards, a terrible rain began to fall again. The storm, too, seemed to intensify with the rain. A desolate, waterlogged Bhadro evening, a howling east wind, everything a blur of cloud and darkness! Again, those same black, cotton-like clouds were scudding by. The sound of the rain was deafening. Gusts of cold wind carrying sprays of rain came roaring through the doors and windows. What good were the torn sacks and rags stuffed behind the broken shutters against the storm’s fierce assault?

Late at night, after everyone was asleep, the rain grew heavier. Sarbajaya could not sleep. She sat up in bed. Outside, there was only the continuous hush-hush of water, and the incessant, deep growl of the wind, like a furious monster, as gusts battered the house. With each gust, the dilapidated cottage seemed to tremble, to shudder. Her heart flew into her mouth with fear. Here, at the edge of the village, in the middle of a bamboo forest, alone with her young children! She said to herself, O Thakur, if I die, it doesn’t matter. But what will I do with them? Where could I even go in the middle of the night? She sat and thought: All right, if the cottage collapses, the main hall’s wall will probably fall first. As soon as I hear the sound, I’ll drag them out through the back door.

She felt she could not sit still any longer. For days she had been living on boiled wild greens and kochu stalks, fasting herself to give what little food there was to her children. Her body was weak from worry and lack of food; her head felt strange.

The roaring of the storm. Late in the night, it grew stronger. What was that gust outside? What could she do? Startled by one particularly strong gust, she cautiously opened the door to the hall and peered out from the veranda to gauge the storm’s temper. The spray soaked her hair and clothes. The incessant howling of the wind drowned out the sound of the falling rain. Nothing could be seen outside—darkness, clouds, sky, wind, trees, all one indistinguishable mass! The sound of the storm and rain drowned out everything else.

The soul of this savage darkness and this cruel, storm-wracked night seemed to be a messenger of the god of destruction, rushing forth at a terrible, furious pace to devour creation. In the darkness, in the night, its velocity was caught in the trees, the sky, the earth, creating a sound: su-iiish su-u-u-u-iish… su-u-u-u-iish… The first part of the sound was the world-devouring messenger drawing back to gather strength—su-u-u—and the final part was it unleashing all its demonic power, churning and agitating every layer of the earth’s atmosphere, stirring up a massive tempest, and crashing against the frail cottage—iiish! The cottage swayed and shook… it would not hold. Yet in this there seemed to be no impatience, no chaos, no error—only the firm, practiced, systematic execution of a duty! This was a mighty destroyer-emissary that had taken upon itself the task of pulverizing the universe within a set time; it had, through the ages, destroyed countless such smiling creations, scattering them like fireworks into the darkness of infinite space. This was its practiced task; for such a being, impatience and frenzy were unseemly.

In terror, Sarbajaya shut the door. What if something were to enter the house now? A person, or some other animal? All around was dense bamboo forest, jungle, no people living nearby—oh, mother! The spray was flooding the room. She felt with her hand that the sleeping Apu’s body was getting soaked. What could she do? How much longer till morning? She fumbled for the matchbox and lit the small kerosene lamp. She called, “O Apu, wake up! Water’s dripping.” Apu, half-asleep, mumbled something incomprehensible. She called again, “Apu? Can you hear me, O Apu? Get up, will you?” To Durga, she said, “Turn on your side, Dugga. It’s leaking so badly. Move over a little, turn on your side.”

Apu sat up and looked around with sleepy eyes, then lay down again. There was a tremendous crashing sound. Sarbajaya quickly opened the door again and peeked outside. The bamboo grove looked strangely sparse—the wall of the kitchen hut had collapsed. Her heart pounded. Next would be the old cottage? Who was there? Whom could she call now? She prayed silently, He Thakur, let us get through this one night. He Thakur, look upon their faces.

It was not quite dawn. The storm had stopped, but a light rain was still falling. Nilmani Mukherjee’s wife was coming to check on the cows in her shed when she heard repeated knocking on the back gate. She opened it and said in surprise, “New-bou!” Sarbajaya said urgently, “N’di, could you call Boro-thakur? Tell him to come to our house at once. It’s Dugga!”

Nilmani Mukherjee’s wife was astonished. “Dugga? Why, what’s happened to Dugga?”

“She’s been running a fever for a few days, it comes and goes—a malarial fever,” said Sarbajaya. “But since last evening it’s been very high, and on top of that, you know what last night was like. Please, tell Boro-thakur to come quickly.”

Seeing her disheveled hair and the dazed look in her red, sleepless eyes, Nilmani Mukherjee’s wife said, “Don’t you worry, Bou. Wait, I’ll call him right now. I’m coming with you. Last night the roof of our cowshed collapsed. Baba, I’ve never seen anything like last night’s storm. We were all up in the middle of the night moving the cows and everything. Did we even go back to sleep?… Wait, I’ll call him.”

A little later, Nilmani Mukherjee, his eldest son Foni, his wife, and their two daughters all arrived at Apu’s house. In the darkness of the night, it was as if that monster had trampled, crushed, and mangled the entire village before vanishing into the sky. Broken branches, leaves, thatch from roofs, green bamboo leaves, and twigs covered the path. Bamboo stalks, bent by the storm, blocked the way. Foni said, “Have you ever seen anything like it, Baba? It’s blown leaves all the way from the silk-cotton tree on the metalled road in Nabiganj.” Nilmani Mukherjee’s younger son pulled a dead sparrow out from under a pile of bamboo leaves.

Durga’s bed was beside Apu. Nilmani Mukherjee entered the room and asked, “What is it, Baba Apu?”

Apu’s face was etched with worry. “Didi was talking nonsense, Jethamoshay.”

Nilmani sat down beside the bed. “Let me see her hand. The fever is a bit high, but there’s nothing to fear. Foni, could you run over to Nabiganj to Dr. Sarat? Bring him back with you.” Then he called, “Durga, oh Durga?” Durga was in a deep stupor, unresponsive. Nilmani said, “Eh, the state of this house is terrible. It must have been flooded last night. Why should Bou-ma be embarrassed? She could have just moved into our place. And that Hari… he’ll never grow any sense in his life. To be doing whatever it is he’s doing, without making arrangements to repair a house in this condition… I don’t know. He’s been the same his whole life.”

His wife said, “How is he to repair the house when there’s no food in it? Otherwise, would anyone leave their family in such a state and go abroad? Ah, the poor sick girl was drenched all night. Let me heat some water. Foni, open that window, will you?”

A little later in the morning, Dr. Sarat arrived from Nabiganj. He examined Durga and prescribed medicine, saying there was no special cause for alarm. The fever was high, he said, and arranged for cold compresses to be applied regularly to her head. Though Harihar’s whereabouts were unknown, a letter was sent to his last known address.

The next day, the storm and rain subsided. The clouds in the sky began to break. Nilmani Mukherjee came to check on them twice a day, unfailingly. But the day after the storm and rain stopped, Durga’s fever rose again, alarmingly. Dr. Sarat was not optimistic. Another letter was sent to Harihar.

Apu was sitting at his sister’s head, applying the cold compresses. He called her a few times. “O Didi, can you hear me? How are you? O Didi?” Durga was in a kind of daze. Her lips were moving, as if she was murmuring something to herself, deliriously. Apu put his ear close to her mouth and tried a few times, but he could not make out a single word.

By afternoon, the fever had left her. Durga could open her eyes again after so long. She had grown terribly weak, speaking in a thin, reedy voice; one had to listen closely to understand what she was saying.

When their mother rose to see to her chores, Apu remained sitting by his sister’s side. Durga lifted her eyes to his and asked, “What time is it?”

Apu said, “There’s still plenty of daylight left. Have you seen the sunshine today, Didi? It’s still on the tops of our coconut trees—”

For a while, neither of them spoke. Apu was thrilled that the sun was out after so many days. He gazed out the window at the sunlit crown of the tree. After a moment, Durga said, “Listen, Apu… listen…”

“What is it, Didi?” He moved his face closer to hers. “Will you take me to see the railway train one day?”

“Of course I will. When you’re better, we’ll ask Father, and we’ll all go by train to bathe in the Ganga—”

A whole day and a night passed. It was as if the storm and rain had never been. All around was the brilliant autumn sunshine.

At ten in the morning, Nilmoni Mukhopadhyay, preparing to go for a bath in the river after many days, had just sat down to rub himself with oil when his wife’s agitated voice reached his ears. “Listen, come here, quickly! It sounds as if there’s crying coming from Apu’s house—”

Everyone ran to see what the matter was.

Sarbajaya was bent over her daughter’s face, pleading, “Oh, Dugga, open your eyes—oh my child, please, look properly, oh Dugga—”

Entering the room, Nilmoni Mukhopadhyay said, “What has happened? Move aside, all of you. Good heavens, why are you all standing there blocking the air?”

Sarbajaya, forgetting the presence of the venerable neighbor, a man who held the respected position of her husband’s elder brother, shrieked, “Oh, what has happened? Why is my girl like this?”

Durga did not look again.

Sometimes, piercing the blue canopy of the sky, comes the beckoning of the infinite—and the children of this earth, grown restless, run from its breast to plunge into that endless azure and lose themselves—far beyond all familiar, trodden tracks, on some pathless way. For Durga’s restless, turbulent spirit, that greatest call of life’s great unknown had now arrived.

Then Dr. Sarat was called again. He said, “The final stage of malaria, you see. Just as the high fever broke, the heart failed. I had a case exactly like this just the other day, over in Dashghara—”

Within half an hour, the courtyard was flooded with people from the neighborhood.