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Why does God single some people out for trials and tribulations? |
| The countryside bounced up and down and juddered with every foot covered by the ancient truck as it wheezed its way down the cluttered road. The back of the truck was jammed with labourers going to the nearby town for work; the village fields had long given up any pretence to fertility since the last two drought seasons. What with the great flood the year before those two, added to a strange pest that ruined three crops out of four, farming was just a way to dig oneself deeper into debt. A little patch of greens and some beans or tomatoes for one's own use, planted in the backyard, was about all a family could afford to risk. Women huddled to one side, squatting on their haunches, with the ends of their saris draped over their heads - not for decorum, for cold. The men stood wide-legged to brace against the jerky motion or scrunched against the other side and nodding off as best they could. Never turn up the opportunity to grab forty winks. Mona was the only person to be a little excited about the trip; it was her first. It was usually her mother who made the journey - she worked at the farmhouse of the district's only money-lender. She had to clean the house, tend the animals and little kitchen farm against their surprise visits. Hard work, but they trusted her and paid better than most. Today Amma was ill, so Mona was going to do the best she could - at sixteen she found there was novelty enough to excite, work was inescapable, at home or otherwise. Not that she minded looking after her younger siblings or doing house chores, just that it was so predictable. She had her head up, peering over the side for a glimpse of the town. Goru was amused to see the eagerness even though he wished she'd look at him and give him a glimpse of the girl he used to know so well. The truck protested and groaned to a stop. Mona manouvered herself to the footboard and nimbly hopped over the tail-gate even before it was lowered. Goru had stretched out one hand to help his playmate of yore but she had ignored him as she always had, for the past six months anyway. He was not to know that she found it disconcerting to see him all 'grown up', budding moustache, deep voice, broad chest and all. She covered her confusion by pretending not to see him. His swarthy skin masked the rise of hot red shame that stained his neck, he fiddled with the cloth thrown over his shoulder as though it was the reason for his discomfort. Mona scurried down the path to the farm; it was tucked down the road to the riverside. All the rest trudged off to the town, its flour mills and godowns beckoned them for heavy labour. As her feet found the ruts worn into the road by the tread of countless feet, she mused on herself and Goru. They had been the nucleus of a merry band in childhood - swimming in the pond, stealing raw mangoes from Sethu's orchard, making faces at the teacher as he turned to write another silly sum on the blackboard. How we used to laugh, how did it matter how many hours it took two men to fill a Tank A from Tank B? We fill our pots at the river in seconds. Then they dropped out of school at various levels, she had left after fifth, to look after two younger siblings who had thoughtlessly arrived only ten months apart. After five children, her mother was thin and anaemic, she puffed if she had to even call in the elder ones cavorting in the dusty patch of land outside their hut. Mona could settle one infant on her hip, one in the cloth cradle that hung near her bed and do the sweeping one-handed whilst keeping an eye on the treacherous wood-burning stove. Goru had dropped out just two months before her, a good spell of rains had meant an extra hand required in the paddy fields. He never came back, neither did the rains for that matter. There was so much for each to do, one was just aware of the other at visits to the temple, or at the annual fair, there were no opportunities to continue as friends. Mona regretted the loss of that innocent playmate and yet felt this thrill of excitement when she saw the tall stranger that gave her a grave half-smile whenever they met. It confused her enough to make her duck her head and walk fast. Mona ducked her head in imitation of thought and brought it up to see her destination before her. She found four large vehicles pulled up at the gate, dust covering their sleek gleaming sides, their bonnets up and engines steaming just a bit, like stallions blown after a tiring ride. Young master and his friends no doubt. This means lots of work cooking and fetching - but Amma says they give good bakshish . "Ramiliiiiiiiiiiii!" Young master is calling for Amma. Mona pelted up the stairs to reach his room with a heaving chest. "Saab, ma bimar hain. Main aayi hoon ..." The explanation had begun on a breathless note but faltered to a flustered silence, she squirmed a little at the look that raked her up and down. She drew the sari closer around herself, not realising that her comely figure was further accentuated by that gesture. Something about his eyes makes me feel as the way I did when I got lost in the thicket behind our house. Cold. Alone. Afraid. "My God, that's a tender mouthful." A loud laugh from behind him showed three forms sprawled on the large bed, intertwined arms, legs and bodies. "These native fruit flower fast and mature even faster. Smaller but full of flavour. Best to eat before it rots." Mona understood none of the words - it was the raucous laughter and the contemptuous leers that made her uncomfortable. A thick fruity smell filled the room. She was all too familiar with it - it was used as balm and solace for poverty and misery by the village men. The women waited for the inevitable abuse or blows for their deliverance. Such was life. Local hooch and that bottled 'special' that Abba goes crazy over. She saw empty bottles rolling on the floor below the massive beds and realised that the young men were 'ripe', to say the least. Mona took two hesitant steps backwards, some instinct told her what was being discussed. She muttered something about bringing hot pakodas and fled, pursued by hoots and cheers. She went through the kitchen, out the backdoor. all thought of work gone. She just wanted to get away. She raced through the trees that bordered the farm, the vines and bushes conspired to halt her - scratching and tearing at her arms and legs. She pelted headlong, heedless of the pain, panic made her imagine the ground slipping and bucking as she ran. It is slipping, the whole world is tilting - what is happening? She fell down the slope to the river and into the slushy fields on its banks. The world was roaring in her ears and the treeline swirled and eddied as she slipped into a comforting darkness. "Bacchi, utho. Ankhein kholo." The kind voice persuaded her to comply, terror as well as injury had hitherto kept them closed. She had mused that it would be better not to see her end coming. A soft arm was under her head, supporting it. One hand held something warm and familar to her lips - ginger tea? She took a noisy slurp and another, giving in to the thirst and hunger. Her finger groped for the cup and she half sat, wanting to see what was around her. Her flickering eyes saw devastation all around, fallen trees and displaced boulders, mud, mud everywhere. Even her rescuer's face was muddy, but the eyes were warm juicy gulab jamuns in gleaming sugar-white discs. Mona had eaten this delicacy but once, at puja held in the headman's house. It was etched in her mind as the pinnacle of sweet desire. "Nilam, take her to the camp when she is less groggy, she's incredibly lucky - other than the bump on her head and some bad scratches, no injuries at all. We'll observe her overnight and while we trace which village she's from." "Memsaab ... kya hua?" . Even in the dark, even under a coat of mud, the stranger was someone of authority, speaking town language. "Bhookamp, meri bacchi," the voice was clipped but used an endearment to soften the blow of the news. "Kahan? Kaun? Amma!" In distress, the call for her mother was instinctive. "Tum kis gaon ki ho?" "Mundhra." There were three of them, one man and two women, each of them looked at the other, their bags, the ground, as though some profound truth was inscribed therein. Not one of them said a word, the lady with the kind eyes had this empty look in them, the jamuns look dry and tasteless now. The silence stabbed deep, like the long lantana thorn that had once driven deep into her foot, one swift piercing jolt of pain and then a dull throbbing. She knew what disaster an earthquake posed for their village, nestled as it was between two rocky outcrops. The last one, twenty years ago, had reduced the village to a layer of rubble. Her parents had settled there just afterward, when land was offered almost for nothing. The landowners around had reduced them to bonded labour by dint of cunning loans on revolving credit, adopting that canny practice long before credit sharks existed. Her wails rent the air. Soon, so did many others; the chorus swelled as the night passed. The ululations were like some wild animal horde baying at the full moon. She later found out the fate of those in the farmhouse, God had been relatively kind to them, they all still lived, albeit with multiple broken limbs. Young Master had both legs broken. Perhaps he will find it more difficult to pursue reluctant women now. It was an inscrutable God, who took at whim, and gave without explanation. Years of acceptance of her lot in life made it easier for Mona to adjust to the near-nothingness that loomed ahead. If not for Goru she might have completed the journey to the river, lost herself in the welcoming arms of those depths. He had somehow scoured camp after camp to find her. He did not speak when he found her, just sat near her, back against an uprooted trunk. He would get up at mealtimes and bring back the rationed food, holding the leaf cup and the cooked grains near her until she took it from him. She knew he would eat only if she did, so she forced the finger scoops past a gagging throat. People had been kind and there was promise of rehabilitation from many. They had given out mats and blankets, water pots and vessels. She and Goru had made a little corner of their own, under a surviving, but skewed, neem tree. The others avoided that particular shade tree, it was said to harbour spirits and ghosts. Mona had not minded. Maybe Amma, Abba and the others are watching over us, I hope they are at peace. It was four days before the narrow roads were cleared of debris and declared safe for even those bolt-and-nut, bald-tired, coughing contraptions that passed for trucks in the area. Mona's heart had contracted and frozen to a stony lump by then. Mona and Goru walked into the village debris side by side, sticks and stones were all that remained. Bodies had been hauled off to a mass cremation, all were presumed dead. Not a single survivor. Other villages found people trapped alive, but they were only buried under their houses. These were buried by the entire hillside. Mona stumbled across the rubble, insignificant details impinging upon her mind, even as it determinedly pushed away the weightier issues. The river seems sunken, but it is the ground that is higher. She sank down upon a mound of earth, tree branches and rocks dotted around it. She drew a hand that trembled across a brow that now had three worry lines on it. Just a week ago it had shone with unblemished purity. Nay, it had been a lifetime ago. She was just one toe's breadth away from descending into an abyss of despair. Goru looked at her, she was wearing a pink patterned shirt over her sari. A volunteer had offered it to help her keep warm. A rag torn from the sari was wound around once-defiant curls that now were plastered to her scalp by dust and neglect. One hesitant hand was extended to her. This time she made no pretence of not seeing it. Tears glistened in her eyes, but the worry lines smoothed out. Goru, he's always been there. We are still together. We will face tomorrow with hope and remember yesterday with tenderness and love. We will let our present begin - now. She reached out and clasped the hand, pulling herself to a stance that had some semblance of vigour. A smile dawned on two weary faces and they retraced their steps to the truck waiting to take them back to relief camp and a new life. Written for
Short Story Entry - Team India Word Count:2242 Picture Prompt #2: |
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