The Sleeping Dictionary (4 page)

2

The sea, one massed foam,

clamors with its million up-thrust arms,

“Give! Give! Give!”

Wrathful at the delay, foaming and hissing

The aura Death grows white with mighty anger.

—Rabindranath Tagore, “Sea Waves,” (“Shindhutaranga”), 1887

A
fter Bhai had turned six days old and had his nails clipped by the Napit woman, people stopped talking about him and thought only of the monsoon. Mitra-babu, the shop owner, said that the rains had fallen on Travancore, the province at India’s southernmost tip, and were traveling upcountry. A second monsoon wind was sweeping the Indian Ocean to break at Bengal. This was the real storm, and from the shore, one could see it coming like the most magical blackness in the world.

The day those rains came, a slow parade of tongas, cycles, rickshaws, and cars snaked along the coastal road. This spectacle of
sightseers was almost as exciting as the pending monsoon. The year before, a white man sitting in the back of a big Rover had come past. The village children said he was called the Collector. When I asked Baba whether this was English for devil, as my friends had said, he laughed with a harsh sound. Baba said the Collector was the jamidar’s good friend. He worked for the government and gave the district’s harvested rice to the people in England and other countries the Ingrej owned.
Does the Collector pay you, or the jamidar?
I had asked.
Neither,
answered my father in a short, hard voice.
There is no pay. Just whatever bit of rice they let us keep.

I did not see the Collector’s car today, but that did not concern me. I was more interested in the holiday makers: the well-dressed ladies who shrieked and clutched their saris that the winds tried to take from them, and the valiant husbands who struggled in vain to keep umbrellas from taking flight. I loved to see the rich people in fine clothing; to me, they were as amusing as monkeys playing games in trees.

Stillness precedes the rains: a kind of energy that holds you and everything else motionless. It was holding us then. My sisters and I went inside as the sun had slipped away behind the clouds. The hut became so dark that I had to squint to properly see the dal I was picking through. Silently, Rumi fanned the sleeping Ma and Bhai, who had a black spot drawn on his face to ward off the evil eye. Nearby, Jhumi was snuggled against Thakurma’s thick, comfortable belly.

Into this peaceful silence, a neighbor boy outside called: “Look! It comes!”

Rumi left off fanning and ran outside, while Thakurma slowly arose and took Jhumi with her to check the weather. I stayed at my job so Thakurma wouldn’t have reason to scold me. When they all returned, both sisters jumping and tugging at Thakurma’s sari, my grandmother said, “Rain is here.”

“Let’s go!” Jhumi hugged Thakurma. “You promised we could!”

The twins were desperate to see the monsoon arrive because they’d
missed going the previous year. It was because they had misbehaved, snatching a rose apple that Thakurma had carefully placed at her altar to Lord Krishna. My sisters had wept while I was allowed to join the rest of the village in celebrating the rain last year. They had been five. Now they were six, but still too wild, everyone said.

“No, wait,” Thakurma said to the twins. “When Baba’s back, then you go.”

“Yes,” Ma said, sleepily awakening. “Baba will surely be finishing his job and coming home soon.”

“What if he’s late?” Jhumi asked. “What if he is so late that we miss the cloud?”

It was only midafternoon; Baba usually worked until the sun faded. He’d been very busy lately, working every day to irrigate the jamidar’s dry fields.

“You cannot go alone!” Thakurma scolded. “Your mother is staying here with Bhai, and Dadu and I are too old for the comings and goings. Yesterday somebody else shouted the rain was about to fall. And it did not!”

“I could ask what Baba thinks,” I suggested, seeing in Jhumi’s eyes a glare that could easily earn her a cuff from Thakurma. “Perhaps the overseer will let them all off before the road floods. And if Baba can’t come”—here, I turned to nod respectfully to Thakurma—“I can explain to Rumi and Jhumi and we will all wait together.”

Thakurma gave me a shooing gesture. “Yes, you go, but quickly. Before it becomes darker.”

“Wait, Pom!” Ma said suddenly. “Remember, don’t take the jungle path.”

My pleasure at being allowed out to find my father was dulled by my mother’s command to take the longer route. She had loaded me with many frightening tales about the jungle hideaways of the revolutionaries who robbed innocent country people in their efforts to raise funds for antigovernment activities. When my mother wanted me to understand something, she told a dramatic story. Thakurma did
as well. Perhaps it was because they knew I paid more attention to stories than anything.

There would be no dacoits hiding in the jungle today, I was sure. When I was out of my family’s eyesight, I slipped off the main road and through a cassia grove into the jungle, where a shortcut led to the rice fields. It was not like me to break the rules, but I had a feeling the rain was very near, and I wanted to be with my father when it struck.

The narrow path through the jungle was easy to miss, but I recognized landmarks like the supari tree on which always hung a jug of rainwater for wandering holy men. I supposed that dacoits might drink from it, too; I was careful not to go near it. As I passed a small grove of papayas, I picked up a couple of freshly fallen ones and tied them in my sari’s pallu to share later with my family.

The sun was almost gone when I reached the edge of the fields where a few men raked the dull, dry earth. That group didn’t know of my father, so I walked on. I already had a few cuts on my feet that smarted as I continued on the pebbled path. The fields themselves would have been softer, but I didn’t dare trample on the precious seedlings.

The sky was darker now and slightly green. I felt an absolute quiet in the air—not a single leaf moved. Then a cool wind rushed over everything, rippling the trees, grasses, and my hair. In minutes, I imagined, the storm cloud would arrive.

As the raindrops began falling slow and thick, I hurried on, wishing I’d found my father. The next field had workers, some of whom were already dancing in the rain, but far more were still bent over, hoeing channels for the heavenly rain. This was my father’s group, but the men said he’d gone home on the longer route with several others an hour ago on the company cart.

So my father was in another place; I’d missed him. I felt my heart pound with the frustration of it. If I’d taken the main road as Ma had ordered, my father would have seen me and probably swung me up to
ride along on the cart. We would have returned together. Now everyone would be waiting for me and becoming angry.

“Another cart comes through in a while.” One of the workers stretched his lips into a grin that made me feel sick. “You can ride on it with us.”

It would have been fine to ride home alongside Baba. But if Ma or Thakurma heard from anyone that I’d ridden on a cart with strange men, some of whom were Muslim, I would surely be beaten. I didn’t hesitate in my quick reply. “No, Uncle. It is not far. I will walk.”

The trip home was downhill, so it did seem faster. My feet moved so quickly I hardly felt the thorns. I opened my mouth wide, tasting the cool, fresh rain. I was not on the beach; but I was still enjoying the rain. Then I passed the papaya orchard, and from a slight rise, I was able to glimpse the thatched roofs of Johlpur and the great sea beyond. Several cars had parked on the beach, and many tiny figures ran along the sandy beachfront, arms outstretched to the massive dark cloud. As I lingered, I thought I heard some people shouting.

A great wave was rolling in: a wave so tall, so long and thick that it resembled a wall. The highest walls I knew were the stucco ones that surrounded the jamidar’s estate; this wall of water was much higher, and it bore down on the beach as I had never seen.

Everyone on the sand was running, but the wave was closing in fast. Then it rushed right over them, sweeping away the land beneath. Where was the shore? I stared hard, but all I could see now was endless water with small black specks floating.

The rain continued to fall in great cold sheets that stung. Without having seen the people reappear, I turned away and continued into the jungle. In the darkening evening, everything seemed foreign. The ground’s stones and nettles were covered with water high enough to touch my ankles, and I could not see through the trees to where I was going.

I did not let myself worry, for the path home was quick. Everyone would be waiting at the hut. I would tell them about the strange
sight at the beach while Ma cleaned my cuts with mustard oil. But as I descended into the jungle’s end, everything seemed to dissolve into a giant puddle. My walking slowed, and the puddle rose to my knees. There were floods in Johlpur every year, for at least some of the rainy season—but always in the low areas and along the village road. I couldn’t remember anyone talking about floods entering the jungle.

Just a bit farther was a tall, sturdy date palm, with enough branches to get a foothold. I pushed my way through the water that had risen to my waist and pulled myself up the tree. I was attempting something I had heard my grandfather talk about doing once when he was a young man, to survive a very bad storm. I climbed as high as felt sturdy and unfurled half of my sari to tie myself into the embrace of the tree. I felt warm for a moment, remembering the way Ma tied Bhai against her body. My little brother would be frightened by this change of weather; thinking about Bhai’s fears took away my own. I remembered the papayas I’d tied in my sari and ate the first one.

I had no idea about the passing of time, for it had become dark and the rain never stopped. Despite this, I slept fitfully. When I awoke for good, the sky was a soft purple color, and the crows were crying. I couldn’t make out a break between sky and water, just an endless purple-blue. Eventually, the rain slowed to a drizzle, and the sun appeared.

I struggled to identify the clearing where our settlement of huts should have been, but it wasn’t there. All that stretched ahead was brackish water that grew steadily clearer and bluer as it met with the sea. My memory returned to the wave I’d seen, so strange and high that it might have sprung from one of Thakurma’s religious stories. The water moved slowly, carrying things past the tree where I had climbed up. Trees, branches, and roofs. Goats and donkeys and water buffalos. Even the jamidar’s silver Vauxhall, which lay sideways as it floated past.

Dead people were also part of the tide. At first I did not want to look at them, but then I knew I had to, for with every one I didn’t recognize, it meant that my family might be safe. By then I was crying,
silent heaving sobs, because if the sound were audible, it would mean my mourning was real. I knew the wave had taken away the people on the beach. I knew, too, the water must have swept over the place where our hut was. But maybe not; I held fast to my belief that if I were patient, Baba would find me.

The rains came and went all day, bending the branch that had become my savior. Then the night came. I fell into a strange sort of waking dream, where every sound I heard was Baba’s firm, reassuring footstep; although I understood, in my heart, there could be no sound of walking when all the earth was covered with water.

The next morning followed the same pattern as the one before: a purple sky growing paler, then sunlight, with monkeys and crows chattering. I ate the second papaya and watched more bodies float in the water. The outside of my sari had dried into a stiff, dirty shell, but drops of water remained inside some folds. I unwound the cloth and sucked it, trying to ignore the tastes of earth and salt. Then the torture began: tree ants climbed my legs and arms and bit me in places that I couldn’t reach. I tried talking to them, explaining that I did not want to be in their home and begging them to leave me in peace. How tired my arms and legs were, but if I lost hold, I would drop to the water. I was a good swimmer, but there was no land to reach; I would be lost.

Hours later, I thought a miracle had arrived: a fishing dinghy loaded with living people. I called down to them as they approached, but the men paddled on without a glance. I hadn’t wept since the night before, but now I did. Twice more boats passed slowly, all of them overloaded with people and animals. I called to them each time with the small, rough voice I had left.
Look! I’m here! Save me, please.
How thirsty I was. I feared I might wither up where I was, like a dry leaf on a tree.

Then, late in the day, I spied a small fishing boat occupied by what looked like a single family: two grandparents, a man and a woman of middle age, and two young boys. The boys were pointing
at some animal swimming in the water and laughing as if it were an ordinary day.

I shouted louder than I had before, and the brothers stopped laughing and looked. I could tell the children had not yet seen me. Quickly I pulled off my sari and, holding one end, flung it out like a flag. Now the children pointed at the dirty, cream-colored cloth, and to my joy, the father changed course and rowed toward me.