by Ruskin Bond
Then, above the sound of the river, she heard someone calling. The voice was faint and seemed very far, but looking upriver through the curtain of rain, Sita was able to make out a small boat coming towards her.
There was a boy in the boat. He seemed quite at home in the turbulent river, and he was smiling at Sita as he guided his boat towards the tree. He held on to one of the branches to steady himself and gave his free hand to Sita.
She grasped the outstretched hand and slipped into the boat beside the boy.
He placed his bare foot against the trunk of the tree and pushed away.
The little boat moved swiftly down the river. Sita looked back and saw the big tree lying on its side on the sandbank, while the river swirled round it and pulled at its branches, carrying away its beautiful, slender leaves.
And then the tree grew smaller and was left far behind. A new journey had begun.
The Boy in the Boat
She lay stretched out in the boat, too tired to talk, too tired to move. The boy looked at her but did not say anything. He just kept smiling. He leant on his two small oars, stroking smoothly, rhythmically, trying to keep from going into the middle of the river. He wasn’t strong enough to get the boat right out of the swift current, but he kept trying.
A small boat on a big river—a river that had broken its bounds and reached across the plains in every direction—the boat moved swiftly on the wild brown water, and the girl’s home and the boy’s home were both left far behind.
The boy wore only a loincloth. He was a slim, wiry boy, with a hard, flat belly. He had high cheekbones and strong white teeth. He was a little darker than Sita.
He did not speak until they reached a broader, smoother stretch of river, and then, resting on his oars and allowing the boat to drift a little, he said, ‘You live on the island. I have seen you sometimes from my boat. But where are the others?’
‘My grandmother was sick,’ said Sita. ‘Grandfather took her to the hospital in Shahganj.’
‘When did they leave?’
‘Early this morning.’
Early that morning—and already Sita felt as though it had been many mornings ago!
‘Where are you from?’ she asked.
‘I am from a village near the foothills. About six miles from your home. I was in my boat, trying to get across the river with the news that our village was badly flooded. The current was too strong. I was swept down and past your island. We cannot fight the river when it is like this, we must go where it takes us.’
‘You must be tired,’ said Sita. ‘Give me the oars.’
‘No. There is not much to do now. The river has gone wherever it wanted to go—it will not drive us before it any more.’
He brought in one oar, and with his free hand felt under the seat where there was a small basket. He produced two mangoes and gave one to Sita.
‘I was supposed to sell these in Shahganj,’ he said. ‘My father is very strict. Even if I return home safely, he will ask me what I got for the mangoes!’
‘And what will you tell him?’
‘I will say they are at the bottom of the river!’
They bit deep into the ripe fleshy mangoes, using their teeth to tear the skin away. The sweet juice trickled down their skins. The good smell—like the smell of the leaves of the cosmos flower when crushed between the palms—helped to revive Sita. The flavour of the fruit was heavenly—truly the nectar of the gods!
Sita hadn’t tasted a mango for over a year. For a few moments she forgot about everything else. All that mattered was the sweet, dizzy flavour of the mango.
The boat drifted, but slowly now, for as they went further downstream, the river gradually lost its power and fury. It was late afternoon when the rain stopped, but the clouds did not break up.
‘My father has many buffaloes,’ said the boy, ‘but several have been lost in the flood.’
‘Do you go to school?’ asked Sita.
‘Yes, I am supposed to go to school. I don’t always go. At least not when the weather is fine! There is a school near our village. I don’t think you go to school?’
‘No. There is too much work at home.’
‘Can you read and write?’
‘Only a little …’
‘Then you should go to a school.’
‘It is too far away.’
‘True. But you should know how to read and write. Otherwise, you will be stuck on your island for the rest of your life—that is, if your island is still there!’
‘But I like the island,’ protested Sita.
‘Because you are with people you love,’ said the boy. ‘But your grandparents, they are old, they must die some day—and then you will be alone, and will you like the island then?’
Sita did not answer. She was trying to think of what life would be like without her grandparents. It would be an empty island, that was true. She would be imprisoned by the river.
‘I can help you,’ said the boy. ‘When we get back—if we get back—I will come to see you sometimes and I will teach you to read and write. All right?’
‘Yes,’ said Sita, nodding thoughtfully. When we get back … The boy smiled.
‘My name is Vijay,’ he said.
Towards evening the river changed colour. The sun, low in the sky, broke through a rift in the clouds, and the river changed slowly from grey to gold, from gold to a deep orange, and then, as the sun went down, all these colours were drowned in the river, and the river took the colour of night.
The moon was almost at the full, and they could see a belt of forest along the line of the river.
‘I will try to reach the trees,’ said Vijay.
He pulled for the trees, and after ten minutes of strenuous rowing reached a bend in the river and was able to escape the pull of the main current.
Soon they were in a forest, rowing between tall trees, sal and shisham.
The boat moved slowly as Vijay took it in and out of the trees, while the moonlight made a crooked silver path over the water.
‘We will tie the boat to a tree,’ he said. ‘Then we can rest. Tomorrow, we will have to find a way out of the forest.’
He produced a length of rope from the bottom of the boat, tied one end to the boat’s stem, and threw the other end over a stout branch which hung only a few feet above the water. The boat came to rest against the trunk of the tree.
It was a tall, sturdy tree, the Indian mahogany. It was a safe place, for there was no rush of water in the forest and the trees grew close together, making the earth firm and unyielding.
But those who lived in the forest were on the move. The animals had been flooded out of their homes, caves and lairs, and were looking for shelter and high ground.
Sita and Vijay had just finished tying the boat to the tree, when they saw a huge python gliding over the water towards them.
‘Do you think it will try to get into the boat?’ asked Sita.
‘I don’t think so,’ said Vijay, although he took the precaution of holding an oar ready to fend off the snake.
But the python went past them, its head above water, its great length trailing behind, until it was lost in the shadows.
Vijay had more mangoes in the basket, and he and Sita sucked hungrily on them while they sat in the boat.
A big sambhar stag came threshing through the water. He did not have to swim. He was so tall that his head and shoulders remained well above the water. His antlers were big and beautiful.
‘There will be other animals,’ said Sita. ‘Should we climb on to the tree?’
‘We are quite safe in the boat,’ said Vijay. ‘The animals will not be dangerous tonight. They will not even hunt each other. They are only interested in reaching dry land. For once, the deer are safe from the tiger and the leopard. You lie down and sleep. I will keep watch.’
Sita stretched herself out in the boat and closed her eyes. She was very tired and the sound of the water lapping against the side of the boat soon lulled her to sleep.
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br /> She woke once, when a strange bird called overhead. She raised herself on one elbow but Vijay was awake, sitting beside her, his legs drawn up and his chin resting on his knees. He was gazing out across the water. He looked blue in the moonlight, the colour of the young God Krishna, and for a few moments Sita was confused and wondered if the boy was actually Krishna. But when she thought about it, she decided that it wasn’t possible; he was just a village boy and she had seen hundreds like him—well, not exactly like him, he was a little different …
And when she slept again, she dreamt that the boy and Krishna were one, and that she was sitting beside him on a great white bird, which flew over the mountains, over the snow peaks of the Himalayas, into the cloud-land of the gods. And there was a great rumbling sound, as though the gods were angry about the whole thing, and she woke up to this terrible sound and looked about her, and there in the moonlit glade, up to his belly in water, stood a young elephant, his trunk raised as he trumpeted his predicament to the forest—for he was a young elephant, and he was lost, and was looking for his mother.
He trumpeted again, then lowered his head and listened. And presently, from far away, came the shrill trumpeting of another elephant. It must have been the young one’s mother, because he gave several excited trumpet calls, and then went stamping and churning through the water towards a gap in the trees. The boat rocked in the waves made by his passing.
‘It is all right,’ said Vijay. ‘You can go to sleep again.’
‘I don’t think I will sleep now,’ said Sita.
‘Then I will play my flute for you and the time will pass quickly.’
He produced a flute from under the seat and putting it to his lips began to play. And the sweetest music that Sita had ever heard came pouring from the little flute, and it seemed to fill the forest with its beautiful sound. And the music carried her away again, into the land of dreams, and they were riding on the bird once more, Sita and the blue god. And they were passing through cloud and mist, until suddenly the sun shot through the clouds. And at that moment Sita opened her eyes and saw the sky through the branches of the mahogany tree, the shiny green leaves making a bold pattern against the blinding blue of an open sky.
The forest was drenched with sunshine. Clouds were gathering again, but for an hour or so there would be hot sun on a steamy river.
Vijay was fast asleep in the bottom of the boat. His flute lay in the palm of his half-open hand. The sun came slanting across his bare brown legs. A leaf had fallen on his face, but it had not woken him. It lay on his cheek as though it had grown there.
Sita did not move about as she did not want to wake the boy. Instead she looked around her, and she thought the water level had fallen in the night, but she couldn’t be sure.
Vijay woke at last. He yawned, stretched his limbs and sat up beside Sita.
‘I am hungry,’ he said.
‘So am I,’ said Sita.
‘The last mangoes,’ he said, emptying the basket of its last two mangoes.
After they had finished the fruit, they sucked the big seeds until they were quite dry. The discarded seeds floated well on the water. Sita had always preferred them to paper boats.
‘We had better move on,’ said Vijay.
He rowed the boat through the trees, and then for about an hour they were passing through the flooded forest, under the dripping branches of rain-washed trees. Sometimes, they had to use the oars to push away vines and creepers. Sometimes, submerged bushes hampered them. But they were out of the forest before ten o’clock.
The water was no longer very deep and they were soon gliding over flooded fields. In the distance they saw a village standing on high ground. In the old days, people had built their villages on hill tops as a better defence against bandits and the soldiers of invading armies. This was an old village, and though its inhabitants had long ago exchanged their swords for pruning forks, the hill on which it stood gave it protection from the flood waters.
A Bullock Cart Ride
The people of the village were at first reluctant to help Sita and Vijay.
‘They are strangers,’ said an old woman. ‘They are not of our people.’
‘They are of low caste,’ said another. ‘They cannot remain with us.’
‘Nonsense!’ said a tall, turbaned farmer, twirling his long, white moustache. ‘They are children, not robbers. They will come into my house.’
The people of the village—long-limbed, sturdy men and women of the Jat race—were generous by nature, and once the elderly farmer had given them the lead they were friendly and helpful.
Sita was anxious to get to her grandparents, and the farmer, who had business to transact at a village fair some twenty miles distant, offered to take Sita and Vijay with him.
The fair was being held at a place called Karauli, and at Karauli there was a railway station from which a train went to Shahganj.
It was a journey that Sita would always remember. The bullock cart was so slow on the waterlogged roads that there was plenty of time in which to see things, to notice one another, to talk, to think, to dream.
Vijay couldn’t sit still in the cart. He was used to the swift, gliding movements of his boat (which he had had to leave behind in the village), and every now and then he would jump off the cart and walk beside it, often ankle-deep in water.
There were four of them in the cart. Sita and Vijay, Hukam Singh, the Jat farmer and his son, Phambiri, a mountain of a man who was going to take part in the wrestling matches at the fair.
Hukam Singh, who drove the bullocks, liked to talk. He had been a soldier in the British Indian army during the First World War, and had been with his regiment to Italy and Mesopotamia.
‘There is nothing to compare with soldiering,’ he said, ‘except, of course, farming. If you can’t be a farmer, be a soldier. Are you listening, boy? Which will you be—farmer or soldier?’
‘Neither,’ said Vijay. ‘I shall be an engineer!’
Hukam Singh’s long moustache seemed almost to bristle with indignation.
‘An engineer! What next! What does your father do, boy?’
‘He keeps buffaloes.’
‘Ah! And his son would be an engineer? … Well, well, the world isn’t what it used to be! No one knows his rightful place any more. Men send their children to schools and what is the result? Engineers! And who will look after the buffaloes while you are engineering?’
‘I will sell the buffaloes,’ said Vijay, adding rather cheekily, ‘Perhaps you will buy one of them, Subedar Sahib!’
He took the cheek out of his remark by adding ‘Subedar Sahib’, the rank of a non-commissioned officer in the old army. Hukam Singh, who had never reached this rank, was naturally flattered.
‘Fortunately, Phambiri hasn’t been to school. He’ll be a farmer and a fine one, too.’
Phambiri simply grunted, which could have meant anything. He hadn’t studied further than class 6, which was just as well, as he was a man of muscle, not brain.
Phambiri loved putting his strength to some practical and useful purpose. Whenever the cart wheels got stuck in the mud, he would get off, remove his shirt and put his shoulder to the side of the cart, while his muscles bulged and the sweat glistened on his broad back.
‘Phambiri is the strongest man in our district,’ said Hukam Singh proudly. ‘And clever, too! It takes quick thinking to win a wrestling match.’
‘I have never seen one,’ said Sita.
‘Then stay with us tomorrow morning, and you will see Phambiri wrestle. He has been challenged by the Karauli champion. It will be a great fight!’
‘We must see Phambiri win,’ said Vijay.
‘Will there be time?’ asked Sita.
‘Why not? The train for Shahganj won’t come in till evening. The fair goes on all day and the wrestling bouts will take place in the morning.’
‘Yes, you must see me win!’ exclaimed Phambiri, thumping himself on the chest as he climbed back on to the cart after freeing th
e wheels. ‘No one can defeat me!’
‘How can you be so certain?’ asked Vijay.
‘He has to be certain,’ said Hukam Singh. ‘I have taught him to be certain! You can’t win anything if you are uncertain … Isn’t that right, Phambiri? You know you are going to win!’
‘I know,’ said Phambiri with a grunt of confidence.
‘Well, someone has to lose,’ said Vijay.
‘Very true,’ said Hukam Singh smugly. ‘After all, what would we do without losers? But for Phambiri, it is win, win, all the time!’
‘And if he loses?’ persisted Vijay.
‘Then he will just forget that it happened and will go on to win his next fight!’
Vijay found Hukam Singh’s logic almost unanswerable, but Sita, who had been puzzled by the argument, now saw everything very clearly and said, ‘Perhaps he hasn’t won any fights as yet. Did he lose the last one?’
‘Hush!’ said Hukam Singh looking alarmed. ‘You must not let him remember. You do not remember losing a fight, do you, my son?’
‘I have never lost a fight,’ said Phambiri with great simplicity and confidence.
‘How strange,’ said Sita. ‘If you lose, how can you win?’
‘Only a soldier can explain that,’ said Hukam Singh. ‘For a man who fights, there is no such thing as defeat. You fought against the river, did you not?’
‘I went with the river,’ said Sita. ‘I went where it took me.’
‘Yes, and you would have gone to the bottom if the boy had not come along to help you. He fought the river, didn’t he?’
‘Yes, he fought the river,’ said Sita.
‘You helped me to fight it,’ said Vijay.
‘So you both fought,’ said the old man with a nod of satisfaction. ‘You did not go with the river. You did not leave everything to the gods.’
‘The gods were with us,’ said Sita.
And so they talked, while the bullock cart trundled along the muddy village roads. Both bullocks were white, and were decked out for the fair with coloured bead necklaces and bells hanging from their necks. They were patient, docile beasts. But the cartwheels which were badly in need of oiling, protested loudly, creaking and groaning as though all the demons in the world had been trapped within them.
