The Year's Best Science Fiction, Thirty-Second Annual Collection

by Gardner Dozois

  Are you translating this into English? Does that mean I’ll be famous all over India?

  I want to help my village. I want people to know about it, even though it is only a Harijan basti sitting on stony ground. I want to make sure the world knows that we did something good.

  Let me tell you about my village. The river is many hours’ walk from us, but the floods are getting worse. Last year during the monsoons the water came into the huts and the fields and drowned everything except what we could carry. The ground where the village sits is very stony, and things don’t grow well. We don’t have fields of our own, not really. We are doms—most of us work in town, or for the big Rajput village—Songaon—two miles away. We do all the dirty work—sweeping and cleaning privies, that sort of thing. Me, I am lucky because the professor employs me and takes care of me and treats me as though I were not a dom. He doesn’t observe caste even though he is a Rajput himself—he says it is already dying out in the towns and cities. He says the government laws protect people like us, but I don’t know about those things because if the Rajputs are angry then they can do what they like to us and nobody can stop them. But the professor, he is a different kind of person—a devata. He even has me cook his food, and pats my head when I do my lessons well—and when there is a festival we share a plate of sweets together.

  See this thing I am wearing around my wrist, like a watch? The professor gave it to me. He has been teaching me the computer and this thing makes it come on and we can see and talk to people from around the world. Once I spoke to a man all the way in Chennai—it was very exciting. It was really like magic, because the man didn’t know Bhojpuri or Hindi and the computer translated his words and mine so we could both understand. The translator voices were funny. Mine didn’t sound like me at all.

  What I love most is music. In the early morning when the mist lies on the river, the first thing I hear is the birds in the bougainvillea bush. When I bring the tea out on the verandah and we have drunk the first cup, the professor gives me his tanpura to tune. Then he starts to sing Bhairav, which is a morning raga. Listening to him, I feel as though I am climbing up and down mountain ranges of mist and cloud. I feel I could fly. I sing with him, as though my voice is a shadow following his voice. He tells me I have a good ear. It isn’t the same kind of singing as in the movies—it is something deeper that calls to your soul. When I told the professor that, he looked pleased and said that good music makes poets of us. I never thought that just anybody could be a poet.

  From his house, I can see all the way to the river far beyond the village. In the last few years we have either had drought or flood. This year seems to be a dry year. Always there is some difficulty we have to deal with. But we have been changing too, ever since the professor came and began to live in his house. He has problems with his sons; they don’t get along, so he lives alone except for me. He and some other people have been working with our basti. The other people are also dalits like us, but they can read and write, and they know how to make the government give them their rights. They have traveled all over the country telling villages like ours that the climate is changing, and we must change too, or we won’t survive. So now we have a village panchayat, and there are three women and two men who speak for all of us. You see, new times are coming, difficult times, when Dharti Mai herself is against us because instead of treating her like a mother, human beings have treated her like a slave. Most of those people who did this are in America and places like that, but they are here too, in the big cities. It is strange because at first we used to think places like that were the best in the world, because of what we saw on TV, but the professor explained that living like that, with no regard for Dharti Mai, comes with costs. Why doesn’t Dharti Mai punish them, then? I asked him that once. Why is she punishing us poor people, who have done nothing to cause the problem? The professor sighed and said that Dharti Mai was punishing everyone. So people ask him all the time, what can we do? This makes the professor happy because he says that earlier most people in our basti just accepted their lot—after all, for thousands of years it has been our lot to suffer. He is pleased because now we want to do something to save ourselves and make the world better. If all those rich, upper-caste people and all the goras have been wrong all this time about how they should live, maybe they’re wrong about us too. Maybe our time has come.

  But Bojhu kaku—he’s the one who took me in when my parents died—he says what’s the good in pointing fingers? Even the goras are changing how they live. The question is what can we do to heal Dharti Mai? How can we help each other survive the terrible times that are upon us? So in the village people take turns being lookouts when there is a bad weather forecast, and they help each other more, and they’ve got a teacher to come twice a week to teach them how to read and write. They sent Barki kaki off to the town to be trained by a doctor—she’s the midwife—so that she can help us all be healthier. You should have seen her when she came back, she was so proud—she got to see how they work in the big hospital and she came back with pink soap for everyone. We now have our own hand pump and don’t have to drink river water. All this is because of the professor, and because of people like Bojhu kaku, and Barki kaki—and Dulari Mai, even though most people are scared of her temper. The professor and I are treated like royal guests whenever we go to visit. The professor studies people—anthropology—and even though he is retired, he hasn’t stopped. He goes around all the local villages, tap-tapping with his cane—he’s got a bad leg—and he tells people about the world.

  Which is how we know about how the world is getting hotter, and even the goras are burning up in their big cities with all those cars and TVs. But that is not all. You know there is a big coal-mining company that wants to buy all the land around us? The professor gets angry whenever the coal company is mentioned, so angry he can hardly get a word out. It is burning coal and oil that is making the world hotter and Dharti Mai so angry with us. He says the government, instead of finding ways to use other things, is mining more coal and making more coal plants so that the people in the big cities can have electricity and cars and TVs, which warm the world even more. It sounds to me like when Dhakkan kaka gets drunk, he wants to keep on drinking. So maybe the way the rich people of the world live is like a sickness where they can’t make themselves stop. Also most people in my village don’t want to give up their ancestral land for the coal company, small and poor and stony though it might be, even though the government has promised compensation. That tiny piece of earth is all we have. But some of the young men think that the money would be good, and they can go to the big city and make it big. The professor told them that there are already too many people trying to make it in the city, but behind his back they grumble and talk about the good life they could have. It’s mostly people like Jhingur kaka’s older son, who is a malcontent. The Rajput village—Songaon—doesn’t like the coal-mining idea either and the professor persuaded them to let us join a protest delegation in the town, although we had to keep our distance behind them. The professor sat with us and argued against the coal company from the back. You should have seen how furious the Rajputs were! They respect him for his education and his caste, even though he doesn’t keep caste, but his ways upset them. Later, when we were walking back, one of them told him, “If you weren’t an old man, and learned too, I would take my stick to you, for the example you are setting to our children.” I know, because I heard him. It was Ranbir Singh. He is the one with the biggest mustache and the biggest, stoutest sticks, and the biggest temper. His mood changes so quickly, everyone is afraid of him. He even has guns. The professor just said quietly that if Ranbir Singh did that with every Rajput in the country who had broken caste, he would run out of sticks pretty quickly.

  The day it all happened, in the morning we were listening to the classical program on the radio because the professor wanted to hear a new bandish that was playing. There were clouds in the sky but no sign of rain. Just then we heard a roaring sound. The radio
crackled and the announcer said something about an unusual cloud formation. The sound of the wind became so strong that we couldn’t hear the radio. The sky became dark, even though over the river it was still light. There was a tapping sound over our heads: hail! I was very excited. Hail has fallen only once in my village in my lifetime. I ran down the verandah steps to collect some, and then I saw the storm.

  I had never seen anything like it. I saw a whirling monster towering in the fields behind the house, like a top spun out of clouds and wind. The professor looked alarmed. He said he had heard of things like this in other lands, and that it was called a tur-nado. He said we would be all right in a pukka house like his, but then he stared out into the distance toward my village. People were coming out of their homes and getting ready to walk to Songaon or the town for the long day of work.

  “Bhola,” he said to me, “I am going to check on the computer what we should do. Get ready to run down to the village and warn people.”

  “Dadaji, will you be all right?” he’s an old man, and lame, too. But he pushed me impatiently off, saying of course he would be fine. That’s the last thing he said to me.

  I ran down toward the village. The wind was strong, and I saw a crow in the sky struggling to keep its wings under control. It swooped down in a big arc and came right at me, flapping its wings, and hit me in the stomach. I grabbed it and held it to my chest—a full-grown crow. I thought it was dead, but I couldn’t just throw it away. So I held it to my chest and I ran.

  The sky darkened and the wind howled in my ears. I looked behind me at the house. The tur-nado was over it. The verandah was so dark I couldn’t see the professor. I saw the lit screen of the computer disappearing as he went into the house. Above us the tur-nado looked like a monster. I have never been so scared. Then my wrist strap beeped. A woman’s voice said out of nowhere, “Find low ground, low ground,” and “Run! Run!” I wanted to see if the professor was all right, but he had told me to warn the village. So I ran.

  There is a narrow ravine not far from the village. Old people say that it is a crack that opened in the earth during an earthquake. In the monsoons it fills with water, but right now it is dry, full of thorny bushes and rocks. The goats like it there. That was the only low place I could think of. I began to shout as I got closer, yelling to people to stop gawking and trying to lead them to the ravine. I couldn’t hear my own voice because of the wind, but Dulari mai started to scream at people and gather them and point them to the ravine. Everyone worked quickly; they are afraid of her temper. There was even someone carrying Joti ma, old Gobind-kaka’s mother, on his back, the terrified children were all holding hands, some were carrying the babies. Behind me the tur-nado danced across the fields, ripping up everything in its path. It picked its way across the land. I saw people rushing toward the ravine, some carrying bundles with them. There was a lot of shouting but everyone was moving. I thought: I’m not needed here, I could have stayed with the professor. I thought I should see if I could go around the tur-nado and get to his house. I made my way back across the fields, keeping a careful eye on the storm.

  When I was halfway there, I saw the children. It was Ranbir Singh’s younger daughter and son, returning from school on the footpath through the fields. Usually someone takes them from Songaon to the town and back by bicycle, but they were walking home. She is older than me, maybe fourteen, and he is only about five years old. Her father once had Bojhu kaku’s son beaten because he said he—Kankariya bhai—dared to raise his eyes and look at his daughter. Before I was born, there was trouble that nobody talks about and the Rajputs came and burned down some of our huts, and three people died. That’s what I mean when I say they can do anything to us. I hesitated, because if I said anything to the children they didn’t like, their father could have me thrashed and the village burned down.

  The children looked scared. The girl was trying to use her mobile but she gave up and put it in her schoolbag, looking upset. They looked at me and looked away, and the older sister said to the boy, “Come,” urgently, and pulled on his arm. He was tired and about to cry.

  I thought: Why should I try to help them? But I pointed to the tur-nado raging behind us:

  “Sister, that is a bad toofan. The professor told me we have to hide. We are all at the ravine near my basti. I can take you there.”

  I took extra care to be polite. I didn’t want her to accuse us later on and get the whole village in trouble. She hesitated. The little boy said:

  “Why are you holding a dead crow?”

  The girl came to a decision. She said:

  “Show me where this place is.”

  They followed me. There were leaves and branches flying around, and I saw the thatched roof lift off a hut and vanish. A brick came hurtling through the air and missed us by two spans of my hand. I didn’t dare look back—we were racing over the fields. The little boy stumbled, and the girl picked him up. Panting, she followed me. It would have been faster if I’d carried the child, but she wasn’t going to let a dom boy touch her brother. Then she half stumbled. She said: “Wait!” I almost didn’t hear her but when I looked back she was crying. She thrust her brother at me. Her breath was coming in sobs. He was crying too.

  “You want me to carry him? Your father will break my neck!”

  She was wailing and shaking her head, and the tur-nado was very close, so I put the child on one hip and handed her the still-warm body of the crow.

  “I’m not going to hold that,” she said, scowling.

  “Then take your brother back,” I said, losing my temper. “This crow is a vahan of Shani Deva, and we must not disrespect it. Don’t you keep pigeons?”

  She wrinkled her nose but took the crow in her dupatta, and we ran the rest of the way until we were at the ravine.

  It was dark inside, because the low, thorny bushes growing on the top edges of the ravine blocked the sky. Wind screamed over our heads and we heard the most terrible sounds, as though the world was being torn apart.

  And then silence.

  We all looked at each other. Bojhu kaku and the others saw that I was holding Ranbir Singh’s son in my arms, and his daughter was standing next to me, holding the body of a crow in her dupatta, her eyes wide with fear.

  “Bhola, what have you done?” someone said. Maybe it was Barki kaki. People gasped.

  “I couldn’t leave them to die,” I said. The boy wriggled out of my grasp and went to his sister. She handed me the crow and held her brother close. Tears ran down her face.

  Bojhu kaku said to the girl, “We will see you home. Come, there is nothing to be scared of.”

  So the children were escorted to Songaon by the crowd. If Bojhu kaku went by himself, he might have to bear the brunt of Ranbir Singh’s mood. There was no telling whether he’d be grateful or angry. So Barki kaki said she would go, and then Dulari Mai (and we had to tell her no because she would insult even the gods if she lost her temper, and where would we all be then?). So about fifteen people went.

  We climbed out of the ravine. The village was smashed flat. There were pots and pans scattered about the fields, and bricks also. The bargad tree that has stood at the crossing on the way to Songaon for two hundred years was completely uprooted. The pathway was covered with big tree branches. Our homes were gone. You might say, What’s a mud-and-thatch house? It is nothing. But to a poor person it is home. Our hands shape it, our hands weave the bhusa. It is where our hopes live. When you have very little, everything you have becomes more precious. We wept and in the same breath we thanked the gods for sparing our lives.

  I didn’t go with them. My duty was to my dadaji now, and I had a terrible fear growing inside me. I went to the house on the hill. Midway the crow stirred in my arms, and I saw that it was only stunned, not dead. I stopped in the field and found a pocket of moisture where some hailstones had fallen, and let a few drops trail from my fingers into its throat. Suddenly it struggled and flapped its wings. I opened my hands and it flew. It was unsteady at first,
but it got stronger as it flew, making two big circles over my head before it went off. Then I went up to what was left of the house.

  The windows and doors were gone, and I could see the sky through the roof. Two walls were down. I thought: This is a pukka house, how could this have happened? How could brick and mortar come down like this? There was dust in the air. It made me cough. There were pages and pages torn from his books, fallen everywhere like leaves. I saw that his computer had fallen under his desk and was all right. Bricks fell as I walked around. I fell too, and broke my arm, and hurt my leg. That’s why I’m in hospital.

  I was the one who found him. He was near the drawing room window, under a pile of bricks.

  He was my grandfather, no matter what anyone says about caste and blood. He gave me everything I have—he was like a god to me. I would have given my life for him, but instead he is the one who is gone. He said I would grow up to be a learner and a singer—someone who could change the world. A dom boy like me—nobody has ever told me such things. I’m telling you, he was my dadaji; I don’t care what anyone says.

  His sons came for his body. I’m not allowed to be there for the last rites. But I know, and he knows, that I should be there. He used to tell me that if you look at things on the surface, you don’t k now their true nature. You also have to look with your inner eye. He looked at me with his inner eye. He was my dadaji and he’s gone.

  That’s his computer on the table. His sons didn’t ask about it.

  Nobody has come to see me and I am scared.

  What is that you say? Half of Songaon is destroyed? That is a terrible thing. Seven people dead!

  I am glad Ranbir Singh’s children gave a good account of us. It is strange for him to be in our debt.

  Earlier today there was a TV program about the tur-nado. They interviewed an expert. He said that although a tur-nado is strong, it is also delicate. I think I know what he means. Before it is born, the tur-nado is a confusion of cloud and wind. It takes only a little touch here and there to turn the cloud and wind into a monster that can destroy houses. Even once it is made, you can’t tell where it is going to go, because it is so delicate a thing that maybe one leaf on one tree might persuade it to go this way instead of that. Or one breath from one sleeping farmhand in the field.