13

Towards afternoon, a kalbaishakhi storm suddenly rose, plunging the world into darkness, and seemed to descend upon them with startling speed. The bamboo stalks from the grove in front of their house, bent back by the force of the wind, bowed away from the boundary wall, making the house seem strangely exposed. Dust, bamboo leaves, jackfruit leaves, and straw flew in from all sides, filling their courtyard. Durga shot out of the house and ran to gather fallen mangoes, with Opu scrambling close behind his sister. As she ran, Durga called out, ‘Quick, hurry! You stay under the sindurkouta tree, I’m going to the sonamukhi—run, run!’ Dust had filled the air. The branches of the big trees were bent back by the storm, leaving the trees looking stripped and bare. A howling, whining sound arose as the wind tore through them. In the orchard, dry branches, twigs, and strips of bamboo husk were sent flying. Dry bamboo leaves spun into the sky, their sharp tips pointing upwards. From somewhere, on the face of the storm, countless bristly white blossoms of the kukshima tree came flying. The sound of the wind was deafening.

As soon as he reached the foot of the sonamukhi tree, Opu, in a fever of excitement, began to leap and dart about, shouting, ‘Over here, Didi! Here’s one that fell! Didi, another one over here!’ For all his shouting, he couldn’t manage to pick up nearly as many mangoes. The storm was growing in fury. The roar of the wind drowned out the thud of the falling mangoes, and even if a thud was heard, it was impossible to tell exactly where it had come from. Durga had already gathered eight or nine mangoes; Opu, for all his running about, had managed to find only two. He held them up joyfully, saying, ‘Look, Didi! See how big they are! There, one just fell! Over that way!’

Just then, a clamour of voices announced the arrival of Bhuvan Mukherjee’s children, who had also come to gather mangoes. Satu shouted, ‘Hey, look! It’s Dugga-di and Opu, gathering mangoes!’

The group reached the base of the sonamukhi tree. Satu said, ‘Why have you come to our orchard to get mangoes? Didn’t Ma tell you not to the other day? Let’s see how many you’ve picked.’

Then, turning to his companions, he said, ‘Look, Tunu, see how many sonamukhi mangoes she’s taken! Go on, Dugga-di, get out of our orchard. Or else I’ll go and tell Ma.’

Ranu said, ‘Why are you chasing them off, Satu? Let them pick some. We’ll pick some too.’

‘Let them pick some? Of course! If she’s here, she’ll take all the mangoes. Why should she come into our orchard? No, you go, Dugga-di. We won’t let you stay under our tree.’

On any other day, Durga might not have admitted defeat so easily. But just recently, she had received a beating from her mother because of their complaints, and she no longer had the courage to start another quarrel. And so, accepting defeat with surprising meekness, she said, her spirits visibly dampened, ‘Come on, Opu, let’s go.’ Then, suddenly forcing a look of artificial glee onto her face, she said, ‘Let’s go to that other place, Opu. Who cares if they won’t let us stay here, you know? The mangoes there are even bigger than these! You and I will have a grand time gathering them. Come on!’ And with a great show of enthusiasm for everyone to see—as if by staying here she had been missing out on a much greater prize, and that being forced to leave was actually a blessing in disguise—she led Opu through a gap in the hedge of rangchita bushes and out of the orchard. Ranu said, ‘Why did you chase them away? You’re so mean, Satu-da!’ The look of lost hope in Durga’s eyes had struck Ranu to the heart.

Opu hadn’t understood the half of it. Once they were on the path outside the hedge, he asked, ‘Where are the big mangoes, Didi? Under Puntu’s saltekhagi tree?’ Durga hadn’t decided which tree she meant. After a moment’s thought, she said, ‘Come on, let’s go to the orchard by the Fort Pond. There are lots of big trees over there. Come on.’ The Fort Pond was a good fifteen-minute walk away, along a narrow path that wound continuously through woods and orchards. There stood ancient mango and jackfruit trees, and beneath them, an impenetrable jungle of wild mangosteen, mayna-thorn, and shera-berry bushes. Because it was so remote, and in the heart of a deep, deserted forest, hardly anyone ever came here to gather mangoes. Thick, ancient creepers like coir ropes dangled from tree to tree. It was difficult enough to find fallen mangoes by searching through the dense, thorny thickets under the old trees, but on top of that, the massing, jet-black storm clouds and the jungle within the orchard, under the canopy of the trees, had created such a darkness that it was impossible to see anything clearly. Still, after a good search, the relentless Durga managed to find eight or ten mangoes.

Suddenly she cried out, ‘Opu, look! The rain’s coming!’

At the same instant, the storm seemed to soften for a moment. The loamy, pungent smell of damp earth filled the air. A few moments later, fat drops of rain began to fall with a patter on the tree leaves.

‘Come, let’s stand under this tree. The rain won’t get us here.’

In a flash, the world vanished into a grey, misty curtain as the rain came down in a torrent. The force of the falling drops tore leaves from the trees and sent them fluttering down. The air was filled with the rich, fresh scent of wet earth. The storm, which had seemed to abate slightly, now roared back to life. The spot where Durga stood might have offered shelter, but a great gust of easterly wind sent a sheet of rain sweeping through the space beneath the tree, drenching it completely. They had come a long way from home. In a frightened voice, Opu said, ‘Oh, Didi, the rain is so heavy!’

‘Come closer to me.’ Durga pulled him near, shielding him with the end of her sari. ‘How long can this rain last? It’ll be over in a minute. It’s good that it rained. We can go back to the sonamukhi tree now, right?’

Together they began to chant in loud voices:

Lemon leaf and karamcha, O rain, go on your way—

Karr-karr-karaaat! A blinding crack of lightning seemed to split the dark crown of the vast forest from one end to the other. For the flicker of an eyelid, everything was lit up. On the topmost branch of a tree in front of them, clusters of wild sponge-gourd swung in the storm. Opu clung to Durga in terror, crying, ‘Oh, Didi!’

‘What’s there to be afraid of? Say Ram-Ram-Ram… Ram-Ram-Ram… Lemon leaf and karamcha, O rain, go on your way—Lemon leaf and karamcha, O rain, go on your way—Lemon leaf and karamcha—’

The driving rain soaked their clothes and hair until water was streaming from them. Gumm-gumm-gummm-m-m… a deep, muffled rumble, as if someone were dragging a colossal iron roller across the metal floor of the sky, from one side to the other. In a shaky voice, Opu said, ‘There it is again, Didi!’

‘Don’t be scared, what’s there to be afraid of? Come a little closer. Oh, your head is absolutely soaked!’

All around them was the ceaseless hisss-s-s-s of the downpour, punctuated by the whoosh-sh-sh, whoa-oa-oa of gusting winds, the thrashing of branches, and the deafening roar of the clouds. For a moment, Durga felt as if the whole orchard would come crashing down with a great groan and crush them both.

Opu said, ‘Didi, what if the rain never stops?’

Suddenly, from one end of the storm-ravaged dark sky to the other, a tongue of forked light shot out, loosing a peal of grotesque, mocking laughter.

Karr-karr-karaaat!

At the same instant, tearing through the shroud of rain over the orchard, a sharp, blue bolt of lightning flashed, dazzling the eyes of the two helpless children caught in the midst of nature’s fury.

Opu squeezed his eyes shut in fear.

With a dry throat, Durga looked up. Was the lightning about to strike? On the treetop, the wild sponge-gourds were still swinging.

From the other side of the sky, someone seemed to be dragging that great iron roller back again.

Opu’s teeth were chattering with cold. Durga pulled him even closer and, with the courage of a last resort, began to chant over and over, faster and faster, ‘Lemon leaf and karamcha, O rain, go on your way—Lemon leaf and karamcha…’ Her voice trembled with fear.

It was not long before evening. The storm and rain had subsided some time ago. Sarbajaya stood waiting at the front door. Ashalata, the daughter of Rajkrishna Palit, was splashing her way through the rainwater that had collected on the path, heading for the pond ghat. Sarbajaya asked, ‘Tell me, dear, have you seen Durga and Opu around here?’

Ashalata said, ‘No, Khurima, I haven’t. Where have they gone?’ Then she laughed and added, ‘What a toad-summoning rain that was, Khurima!’

‘They went out before the storm, saying they were going to gather mangoes, and they haven’t come back. The storm and rain passed, evening fell—oh, my, where could they have gone?’

Sarbajaya went back inside the house, her heart filled with worry. She was wondering what to do when the back door was pushed open and in walked Durga, soaked from head to toe, a mature coconut in her hand, followed by Opu, dragging a coconut-frond stalk. Sarbajaya rushed to her children. ‘Oh, what am I to do with you! You’re both soaked like last night’s rice! Where were you during the rain?’ She drew her son close, felt his head, and cried, ‘Oh my, your head is absolutely drenched!’ Then, her tone shifting to delight, she asked, ‘Where did you get the coconut, Durga?’

In hushed voices, both Opu and Durga said, ‘Quiet, Ma! Sej-jethima is going into the orchard—she just went! It was lying under the coconut tree near the fence of their orchard. We were just coming out as Sej-jethima was going in.’

Durga said, ‘She definitely saw Opu—and she probably saw me, too.’ Then, excitedly, but still in a hushed tone, she continued, ‘It was lying right at the base of the tree, Ma. I didn’t see it at first. I was going to see if any mangoes had fallen under the sonamukhi tree when I saw this frond stalk lying there. I told Opu, “Opu, take the stalk. Ma has trouble with her broom, this will make a good one.” And right after that I saw—’ she looked at the coconut in her hand, her face glowing, ‘—it’s a good big one, isn’t it, Ma?’

Opu waved his hands with glee. ‘I just grabbed the stalk and ran!’

Sarbajaya said, ‘It’s a fine, large, half-ripe one. Put it by the washing place, I’ll rinse it off.’

Opu said in a complaining tone, ‘You’re always saying, Ma, “there are no coconuts, there are no coconuts”—well, here’s a coconut! You have to make fritters now. I won’t take no for an answer, ever!’

The rainwater made the children’s faces look as lovely as rain-washed jasmine flowers. Their lips had turned blue with cold, and their wet hair was plastered to their ears. Sarbajaya said, ‘Come now, both of you. Let me get you into dry clothes. Rinse your feet and get up on the verandah.’

A little later, Sarbajaya went to the Mukherjee house to draw water from the well. As she reached their back door, she could hear Sejthakrun inside, screaming at the top of her lungs, raising the roof.

‘We spent a handful of money to lease that orchard—it wasn’t free! But is there any chance of bringing a single twig home, thanks to those wretches? That little hussy sits in the orchard all day long, ready to carry off every last stick! And she’s had lessons from her mother, that one—think she’s any better? Oh, I thought, the rain has stopped, let me go and check on the orchard. And what do I see? She grabs this huge coconut and just bolts! May God not tolerate such wickedness! May they be ruined, may they be ruined! I say this at dusk: may she never eat another coconut! May she find herself under the shade of the chhatim tree, and soon!’

Sarbajaya stood outside the back door, frozen as if turned to stone. Remembering her children’s rain-drenched, innocent faces, she thought: What if the curses stick? That woman! There’s poison in her teeth! What do I do? The very thought sent a shiver through her, and her whole body felt numb. She did not enter the Mukherjee house. In the ash-sheora grove, under the bamboo clusters, fireflies were beginning to glow in the rain-stilled evening. Her feet felt as though they would not move. Fearfully, clutching the small water bucket and the pitcher on her hip, she turned back towards home.

On her way, she thought: If I return the coconut, will the curse still stick? Why would it? I’d be returning what belongs to them. A curse can’t stick then, can it?

The moment she set foot in the house, she said to her daughter, ‘Dugga, go and give the coconut back to Satu’s family.’

Opu and Durga stared at their mother’s face, astonished.

Durga said, ‘Right now?’

‘Yes, right now. Their back door is open. Go quickly. Tell them, “We found this, we’ve come to give it back.”’

‘Won’t you wait for me for a bit, Ma? It’s gotten so dark. Come with me, Opu.’

After the children had left, Sarbajaya lit the lamp at the base of the tulsi plant, then touched her forehead to the ground, the end of her sari drawn over her head in prayer. ‘Thakur,’ she pleaded, ‘you know they didn’t go to take the coconut out of malice. Let this curse not touch them. I beg you, Thakur, keep them safe and sound. Be good to them, Thakur. Look upon their innocent faces. I beg you, Thakur.’