Angry River

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From the Publisher

Conversation with Ruskin Bond

In the middle of the big river, the river that began in the mountains and ended in the sea, was a small island. The river swept round the island, sometimes clawing at its banks, but never going right over it. It was over twenty years since the river had flooded the island, and at that time no one had lived there. But for the last ten years a small hut had stood there, a mud-walled hut with a sloping thatched roof. The hut had been built into a huge rock, so only three of the walls were mud, and the fourth was rock.

Goats grazed on the short grass which grew on the island, and on the prickly leaves of thorn bushes. A few hens followed them about. There was a melon patch and a vegetable patch.

In the middle of the island stood a peepul tree. It was the only tree there.

Even during the Great Flood, when the island had been under water, the tree had stood firm.

It was an old tree. A seed had been carried to the island by a strong wind some fifty years back, had found shelter between two rocks, had taken root there, and had sprung up to give shade and shelter to a small family; and Indians love peepul trees, especially during the hot summer months when the heart-shaped leaves catch the least breath of air and flutter eagerly, fanning those who sit beneath.

A sacred tree, the peepul: the abode of spirits, good and bad.

‘Don’t yawn when you are sitting beneath the tree,’ Grandmother used to warn Sita.

‘And if you must yawn, always snap your fingers in front of your mouth. If you forget to do that, a spirit might jump down your throat!’

‘And then what will happen?’ asked Sita.

‘It will probably ruin your digestion,’ said Grandfather, who wasn’t much of a believer in spirits.

The peepul had a beautiful leaf, and Grandmother likened it to the body of the mighty god Krishna—broad at the shoulders, then tapering down to a very slim waist.

It was an old tree, and an old man sat beneath it. He was mending a fishing net. He had fished in the river for ten years, and he was a good fisherman. He knew where to find the slim silver Chilwa fish and the big beautiful Mahseer and the long-moustached Singhara; he knew where the river was deep and where it was shallow; he knew which baits to use—which fish liked worms and which liked gram. He had taught his son to fish, but his son had gone to work in a factory in a city, nearly a hundred miles away. He had no grandson; but he had a granddaughter, Sita, and she could do all the things a boy could do, and sometimes she could do them better. She had lost her mother when she was very small.

Grandmother had taught her all the things a girl should know, and she could do these as well as most girls. But neither of her grandparents could read or write, and as a result Sita couldn’t read or write either. There was a school in one of the villages across the river, but Sita had never seen it. There was too much to do on the island. While Grandfather mended his net, Sita was inside the hut, pressing her Grandmother’s forehead, which was hot with fever. Grandmother had been ill for three days and could not eat. She had been ill before, but she had never been so bad. Grandfather had brought her some sweet oranges from the market in the nearest town, and she could suck the juice from the oranges, but she couldn’t eat anything else. She was younger than Grandfather, but because she was sick, she looked much older. She had never been very strong. When Sita noticed that Grandmother had fallen asleep, she tiptoed out of the room on her bare feet and stood outside.

The sky was dark with monsoon clouds. It had rained all night, and in a few hours it would rain again. The monsoon rains had come early, at the end of June. Now it was the middle of July, and already the river was swollen. Its rushing sound seemed nearer and more menacing than usual. Sita went to her Grandfather and sat down beside him beneath the peepul tree. ‘When you are hungry, tell me,’ she said, ‘and I will make the bread.’ ‘Is your Grandmother asleep?’ ‘She sleeps. But she will wake soon, for she has a deep pain.’ The old man stared out across the river, at the dark green of the forest, at the grey sky, and said, ‘Tomorrow, if she is not better, I will take her to the hospital at Shahganj. There they will know how to make her well. You may be on your own for a few days—but you have been on your own before…’

Sita nodded gravely; she had been alone before, even during the rainy season. Now she wanted Grandmother to get well, and she knew that only Grandfather had the skill to take the small dugout boat across the river when the current was so strong. Someone would have to stay behind to look after their few possessions. Sita was not afraid of being alone, but she did not like the look of the river. That morning, when she had gone down to fetch water, she had noticed that the level had risen. Those rocks which were normally spattered with the droppings of snipe and curlew and other waterbirds had suddenly disappeared. They disappeared every year—but not so soon, surely? ‘Grandfather, if the river rises, what will I do?’ ‘You will keep to the high ground.’ ‘And if the water reaches the high ground?’

‘Then take the hens into the hut, and stay there.’‘And if the water comes into the hut?’‘Then climb into the peepul tree. It is a strong tree. It will not fall. And the water cannot rise higher than the tree!’

‘And the goats, Grandfather?’ ‘I will be taking them with me, Sita. I may have to sell them to pay for good food and medicines for your Grandmother. As for the hens, if it becomes necessary, put them on the roof. But do not worry too much’—and he patted Sita’s head—‘the water will not rise as high. I will be back soon, remember that.’ ‘And won’t Grandmother come back?’ ‘Yes, of course, but they may keep her in the hospital for some time.’

•

Towards evening, it began to rain again—big pellets of rain, scarring the surface of the river. But it was warm rain, and Sita could move about in it. She was not afraid of getting wet, she rather liked it. In the previous month, when the first monsoon shower had arrived, washing the dusty leaves of the tree and bringing up the good smell of the earth, she had exulted in it, had run about shouting for joy. She was used to it now, and indeed a little tired of the rain, but she did not mind getting wet. It was steamy indoors, and her thin dress would soon dry in the heat from the kitchen fire.

She walked about barefooted, barelegged. She was very sure on her feet; her toes had grown accustomed to gripping all kinds of rocks, slippery or sharp. And though thin, she was surprisingly strong.

Black hair, streaming across her face. Black eyes. Slim brown arms. A scar on her thigh—when she was small, visiting her mother’s village, a hyaena had entered the house where she was sleeping, fastened on to her leg and tried to drag her away, but her screams had roused the villagers and the hyaena had run off.

She moved about in the pouring rain, chasing the hens into a shelter behind the hut. A harmless brown snake, flooded out of its hole, was moving across the open ground. Sita picked up a stick, scooped the snake up, and dropped it between a cluster of rocks. She had no quarrel with snakes. They kept down the rats and the frogs. She wondered how the rats had first come to the island—probably in someone’s boat, or in a sack of grain. Now it was a job to keep their numbers down.

When Sita finally went indoors, she was hungry. She ate some dried peas and warmed up some goat’s 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. They kept the kerosene lamp 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 were seldom aware of 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 every night. The doll was someone to talk to, when the nights were long and sleep elusive. Her grandparents were often ready to talk—and Grandmother, when she was well, was a good storyteller—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, a companion of one’s own age. 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 could only be heard by Sita. ‘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 a little 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 onto 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 probably meant that heavy rain was falling in the hills where the river originated.

Sita went down to the water’s edge. She couldn’t find her favourite 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, but a muddy colour.

She went back to the hut. Grandfather was up now. He was getting his boat ready.

Sita milked the goat. Perhaps it was the last time she would milk it. 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.

ASIN ‏ : ‎ 8129119846
Publisher ‏ : ‎ Rupa & Co (1 January 2012)
Language ‏ : ‎ English
Paperback ‏ : ‎ 60 pages
ISBN-10 ‏ : ‎ 9788129119841
ISBN-13 ‏ : ‎ 978-8129119841
Item Weight ‏ : ‎ 140 g
Dimensions ‏ : ‎ 20.3 x 25.4 x 4.7 cm