The jackals howled through the dense blackness of the night. A fierce wind from the not-too-distant Himalayas blew through the long line of puny hutments of the workers on the Rihand dam. The roof of Govinda’s tin shack, where a nail had come off, rattled with eerie persistence. And from the distance came the muffled roar of the river trapped between the gorges, and the metallic gurgle of cranes that worked round the clock to lift the buckets of cement and concrete and pour it down the ever-hungry jaw of the dam site.
Govinda heard all this and heard it not. In the flickering light of a wick floating in the little earthen oil lamp, he sat in a corner, gazing steadily with unseeing eyes at a framed picture of Hanuman, the monkey god, hanging by a nail on the wall. He was brooding over the eternal problems of pain and sorrow and love’s first disappointment, and he knew not that, through the ages, greater minds and stouter hearts had wrestled with those problems and admitted defeat.
To the lonely boy of seventeen, it seemed fate had been particularly unkind. When, after passing through the village primary school, he was hoping to go on to the high school in the town, his father died, leaving the twelve-year-old boy to look after his mother and the little bit of land which they had got after the abolition of zamindari. But there was rent to be paid to the government, not to mention instalments of interest due to the moneylender for the cash that had been borrowed to give the old man a decent funeral, and to feed the Brahmins and elders of the community according to custom.
The mother and son were somehow managing when, one after the other, both their bullocks died of the foot-and-mouth disease that struck their district that year immediately before the monsoon, when the animals were needed most for spring ploughing.
Little by little, everything they possessed had been sold, and his mother was obliged to wash dishes in the house of the moneylender. This was a cause of mortification and shame for Govinda’s peasant self-respect, and whenever he went out in the village street, he walked with his eyes downcast, avoiding any acquaintance who, he was afraid, might mention the indignity he was supposed to have inflicted on his mother.
All this time he continued to wage a lonely and frustrating battle with his little bit of land, working with borrowed bullocks when someone would lend them, at other times dragging the plough himself in a gesture of futile desperation, for the furrows he thus made were just scratches on the hard, black soil. When he sowed the few seeds he had, in no time the grains were picked by the big black crows that seemed to have developed an evil fascination for his poor field. And all this time the only friend in whom he confided was Hanuman, whose image he worshipped every morning. From his childhood, Govinda had loved the story of the monkey god, his loyalty to Rama, the righteous god-king, and his prodigious strength. There was one particular legend about Hanuman which fascinated Govinda. It appeared that once, during the battle with Ravana’s army, when an arrow fired by Meghnad had pierced Lakshman’s body, a particular herb that grew on a hill in the Himalayas was needed. Hanuman, who could fly through the air, reached the spot in no time but was confused by the different varieties of herb that grew there in wild profusion. So he picked up the whole hillock and flew back with it for Rama to pick the herb he needed. If only I had the strength of Hanuman with his powerful arms that could move whole mountains – that is what he often wished and prayed for, but never more urgently than now, when he felt so weak and powerless against the immovable mountains of his fate.
He had come to work on the dam with great hopes of doing well, of being able to earn enough to send money home to his mother and to save enough in a year or two to pay off the mortgage on the land, and even buy a pair of bullocks. But he soon found that the really good jobs were for the educated folk and for those who could handle the big machines. Unskilled workers – and there were thousands of them like him – could do only the simplest and lowest-paid manual labour. For a whole year now, and for a daily wage of a rupee and a half, he had been doing such jobs as breaking stones with a hammer and carrying them in baskets to the mechanical crushers. As for the machines, he was scared of going near them. The cranes lifting incredible weights with their monstrously huge arms, the excavators with their gigantic devil’s paws, the bulldozers that were like mad elephants made of steel, and the stone crushers that ground like the devil’s own teeth – all of them fascinated him, frightened him and intimidated him. He kept away from them as far as possible, for these machine-monsters had been known to go wild and hurt the men who dared to master them.
It was dull, heavy, back-breaking work that Govinda had to do. His hands were calloused and bruised from handling the sledgehammer on the heavy stones. His neck ached from carrying the loaded baskets. When he returned home in the evening, he felt too exhausted to cook anything, and would buy something from the grocer’s shop – maybe fried grams and a pinch of molasses – and gulp it down with water. Then he would spread his mat and lie down to sleep.
In this dull, soulless routine, the sight of Radha provided the only pleasant interlude. Every morning when he went to work, he saw her on the way to school. She was fourteen or maybe fifteen, small and slim, with thick, shiny black hair braided into a long pigtail that seemed to trail behind her. At first, to look at her was, for Govinda, only a passing diversion, like the sight of a wild flower growing by the roadside. There is no harm, he told himself, if I just look at her. Early in the morning to see her dressed in her yellow or green or red sari helped him pass the whole day in a happy mood. And then, one day, he did not see her even though, thinking he was too early, he spent nearly ten minutes at the crossroads near her house. Thus he was late in reporting for work and received a reprimand from the overseer. He was sullen and sulky the whole day and his fellow workers teased him saying he must have fallen in love with one of the dark-complexioned gypsy women who also worked along with them. That night he could not sleep.
The next morning, he saw her again. She was not walking on the road with her satchel of books, but sitting on the parapet by the side of the road overlooking the deep gorges and, tightly pressed between them, the ever-rising dam.
Back in his village, he could never have dared to speak to an unknown girl, but here on the dam site, with thousands of people of many castes and from different provinces working and living together, seeing romantic films in the tin-shed cinema, and hearing love songs from films all day long on the radio in the canteen, rather free and easy ways of life were developing. And Govinda, when he returned from work in the twilight of the evening, had seen shadowy forms in pairs huddled behind rocks or standing silhouetted under trees, and had even heard brief and furtive whispers of love. After all, he told himself, it is no crime if I speak a few words to her. And so he went up to where she was sitting and idly throwing pebbles in the valley, and said simply, ‘Why didn’t you go to school yesterday?’
She turned round and, for the first time, Govinda saw that she had big black eyes shaded by long eyelashes. She said, feigning displeasure, ‘Who are you to ask me that?’ For a moment he felt he had been properly rebuffed and thought of going on his way. But then a flicker of a smile illuminated her smooth dusky face and she said, ‘My mother says I am too old now to go to school. I must learn to run the house.’
Govinda understood the situation. It was quite normal. ‘So now they are preparing you for your marriage?’
‘I don’t know,’ she lied, modestly turning her face away.
Govinda felt a stab of anxiety in his heart. But he asked, seemingly casually, ‘Girl, what is your name?’
‘Radha,’ she answered, turning to look at him.
‘Then tell me one thing, Radha,’ he said with a boldness that surprised even himself, ‘has your father already selected a bridegroom?’
‘No!’ She shook her head and, getting up from her perch, ran up the winding lane that led to her house, and the receding jingle of her anklet bells was the sweetest music Govinda had ever heard.
That day, Govinda worked with a light heart, swinging the stone-breaking hammer with effortless ease, and even singing some lines from an old folk song he had suddenly remembered:
The voice of Radha echoed through the jungle,
My Krishna dwells in the chamber of my heart.
Also, he made discreet enquires about the girl’s father. He learnt that old Chhotu Ram was an electrician who had already worked on other dam sites and was one of the experienced and skilled workers who had been specially brought to Rihand on very good salaries. Bhola, the notorious know-all of the dam site, a fat and jolly soul who supplied the information, said he would not be surprised if Radha’s father got as high a salary as two hundred rupees a month.
For the consideration of five seers of sweets, which Govinda promised to present him if he succeeded in arranging the match, Bhola agreed to take the proposal of marriage to Radha’s father. According to ancient custom, the proposal always came from the girl’s side, and the boy’s parents bargained to secure the maximum dowry. Many of the old customs were left behind in the villages when peasants came to seek work at the dam, but Govinda knew that even here, eligible young men and their parents always expected and demanded dowry. So he asked Bhola to make it clear to Radha’s father that if he agreed to Govinda’s proposal, he would not have to worry on account of dowry.
In keeping with the solemnity and importance of the occasion, Bhola put on a new dhoti, a clean shirt and wound a bright yellow turban on his head. He put on creaking new shoes, which he kept duly oiled in his trunk only for such occasions. Then, borrowing half a rupee from Govinda for cigarettes and paan, he set off to arrange a marriage for his friend.
The hours of waiting, which he spent in Bhola’s hut, were torture for Govinda. But the longer it took for his emissary to return, the more hopeful the situation must be, he consoled himself. He imagined that they must be entertaining Bhola to a sumptuous dinner for having brought such an acceptable proposal. Maybe the delay is due to the fact that after the initial agreements they were now settling the details. Whatever date they suggest, he thought, I will agree to it. I only need a few days to call my mother and order a few dresses and maybe a little jewellery for Radha. He was sure everyone on the dam site would envy him for getting such a beautiful bride.
And then Bhola limped back, looking the very picture of defeat and disappointment. There was a thick layer of dust on his new shoes, his turban was all askew, and there was a tear in the shirt where it had caught on the thorny bushes that formed a boundary wall for Chhotu Ram’s hut.
Slumping down in a corner, Bhola shouted, ‘Don’t ask me anything. First give me a glass of water. I am dying of thirst.’
Govinda tilted the earthen pitcher to fill a cup and, handing it to his friend, he said in surprise, ‘But didn’t they give you something to drink? I thought they always offer sherbet on such an occasion.’
‘Yes, they do offer sherbet – provided they are going to accept the proposal,’ replied Bhola with some acidity.
‘And they didn’t accept the proposal?’
Bhola shook his head. ‘No, and on top of that, Chhotu Ram gave me a long lecture: “I am not going to marry off my beautiful daughter, who has studied up to seventh standard in school, to a day labourer getting a daily wage of a rupee-and-a-half. My Radha is going to marry someone young who has a good job and is earning a decent wage – maybe a tractor driver, an electrician like me, or who knows, even a crane operator.” So there was the reply, and not so much as a cup of tea did he offer me, not even a glass of plain tap water. This is the end of my career as a matchmaker.’
In the gathering dusk, Govinda walked back to his own hut, and as he lighted the little oil lamp, he saw a letter the postman had pushed under the door. It was from his mother, for he recognized the handwriting of the village schoolmaster who supplemented his paltry salary by writing letters for illiterate women like Govinda’s mother. It was to acknowledge the receipt of fifteen rupees that Govinda sent every month, and to remind him that the annual rent and the moneylender’s interest were both due that month and that Govinda must somehow send some more money – at least a hundred rupees.
And so for hours on end, he had been sitting there gazing at the picture of Hanuman, as the jackals howled in the jungle, the trapped river roared its protest through the gorges, and the cranes at the dam site sent forth a metallic message that became clear to him only towards the end of the night as sirens blew to announce the end of one shift and the beginning of another.
Shivering slightly in the cold breeze, Govinda came out of his hut and looked at the dam site where the huge cranes, like giants with arms outstretched, stood silhouetted against the rose-pink dawn. Now he knew that untiring cranes that worked round the clock without a moment’s respite were sending forth a message that was at once a promise and a challenge. He decided to accept the challenge, for he had promised himself he would move all the mountains that stood in his way.
That day Govinda did not report for duty at the quarry where the day labourers, most of them illiterate and itinerant, gathered every morning. Instead, he went on a tour of inspection. First, he stood for a long time near the dam, watching the cranes at work. He saw how a man in a cabin high above manipulated some levers and switches and lifted the heavy buckets, swung it over the dam and then lowered it to pour the cement and concrete at the exact spot it was needed. He saw welders with their masks shooting jets of flame into the steel girders. Then he walked to the other side where rocks were being blasted and saw men at work with electric drills, boring holes in solid stone as if it was a lump of cheese. He saw bulldozers at work forcing their way through piles of rubble and sweeping everything clear. He had seen all these machines before, but today he saw them with new eyes, he saw not only their power but also their purpose. Once, he had been frightened of them, but now he marvelled at their precision, their enormous capacity to do the work of hundreds of men and the tremendous speed at which they worked.
‘Eh, you, want to be killed?’ A sharp voice jerked him out of his reverie and Govinda jumped to one side just in time to escape being slapped by what seemed to be a huge steel arm.
It was what was called an excavator – a mechanical monster which crawled on its steel belly, slithering over the ground like a dragon-sized caterpillar, and probing whatever came in its way with an enormous arm ending in a paw that could open and scoop up tons of stone or earth. But now, Govinda saw that the monster was tamed, that it worked at the command of a man with a grey moustache who sat at the steering wheel manipulating his gears and levers. Fascinated, Govinda watched the excavator operator, quietly edging his way closer and closer to watch the process by which the man could make the monster obey.
At one o’clock, as the sirens echoed through the hills, the workers put down their tools for lunch break. The excavator operator, who had scooped up many tons of rocks and piled them in trucks to be taken to the stone crushers, now switched off the engine and walked off to the canteen. Govinda furtively looked around and scooped up the whole pile of rubble. All the workers had gone to the canteen or retired to shady nooks under the trees to open the lunch packets which they had brought with them. The hills, the rocks, the mountains of stone and rubble, the excavators, bulldozers – everything was silent under the pitiless glare of the noonday sun. The muffled whisper of the river came as if from another world.
Suddenly the stillness was broken by the roar of an engine being started. It was Govinda who had sneaked into the operator’s seat and pressed the starter. To his surprise and joy, the engine responded and throbbed with power. Then he pulled another lever and the giant arm began to come down with a metallic clang, down, down, till it touched the pile of stones. Govinda, breathless with excitement, forgot which lever to pull next and tried this and that, until the caterpillar treads were set in motion and the gigantic paw opened to scoop up the whole pile of rubble. A touch of the lever closed the paw and lifted the arm – and Govinda felt a strange exhilaration, a sense of new-found
power. I have done it! I have done it! His heart throbbed with excitement and a strange new thought went through his mind. This is not just a machine, this is the mighty arm of Hanuman that can lift whole mountains and carry them where it wills. And now at last he had in his hands the secret of unlimited strength, this giant machine that was his servant and his friend, which would help him move the mountains even as Hanuman the monkey god had done it for Rama.
And then, as he pressed yet another lever, there was a strange, grating sound, and the steel arm of the monster came down with a crash. The engine stopped with a gurgling sound that was like the death rattle of the monster. In the silence that followed, Govinda could hear only the pounding of his heart. Then he was conscious of men running towards him, shouting and cursing. And the man with the grey moustache was saying, ‘You fool, playing monkey tricks with such a machine? It will take me two days to repair the damage. Don’t you know how dangerous it is? You could have killed yourself. What madness drove you to do such a thing?’
With tears in his eyes, and with folded hands, Govinda said, ‘Please, please forgive me, but I wanted to learn to drive this machine.’
‘And so you jumped in like a monkey and started playing with the levers! What a wonderful way to learn! Let me tell you, boy, you can’t learn to drive an excavator – unless I teach you to!’
Some months later, as Govinda scooped the last rubble of what was only a few hours before a whole mountain of earth and stone and deposited it in the waiting truck, he felt happy and at peace with the world. The mountain had been removed from its place and would be placed now where it was needed – to close the steadily narrowing gap between the gorges to complete the dam. And the dam, when it was ready, would send the waters of the Rihand to the thirsty fields in thousands of villages, including the village of Sitaramgarh where Govinda had his land.
Yes, that day’s mountain had been moved and now he could go back home with his wife who was waiting for him. She had brought his lunch and, since then, had been fascinatedly watching her husband at work with the wonderful machine. Govinda switched off the engine and, on second thought, took out the key lest some mischievous boy decide to play monkey tricks with his gigantic arm of Hanuman.
‘Come, Radha, let’s go,’ he said, jumping down from the machine, and unmindful of what the old gossips and tongue-waggers would have to say about the shameless newlyweds, he took Radha’s soft little hand in his, and together they walked into the glorious sunset.