Govinda’s teacher set the class twenty-one words to write as a spelling exercise, but no one listened to him. At his desk, Govinda wrote his own list. Nitesh grabbed it and began to read it out.
Things I want:
To be India’s first astronaut
To be Shiva
To grow my hair long like Mumbles
To discover I am adopted
To collect all the cards of Australia’s cricketing stars
My parents to notice me
‘You want to be a god, Butt-scratcher?’ said Nitesh, crinkling his nose.
Govinda grabbed his list as Nitesh covered his ears with his hands and said, ‘Just playing, Govinda.’
‘You’re an idiot, Nitesh,’ Govinda said.
Nitesh wore a green fleece cap, the kind with flaps that came down over the ears. He peered through his thick glasses at the new watch on his wrist. Govinda remembered Nitesh’s father had won the watch playing cards on the red gambling mat.
Lightning ripped into the classroom and then a rolling crack of thunder fell from above, as if the whole of heaven was collapsing. Outside the sky was black. The clouds were swollen and obese, and seemed to descend upon the tallest trees. A small breeze rose as more heavy clouds gathered over the lane and bumped into each other. Spraying rain fell.
‘The monsoon has arrived,’ Nitesh said as he and the other classmates inhaled the rain-scented air.
‘Rain, rain I love you,’ sang one of the boys.
Govinda ignored Nitesh’s comment because he felt angry with him. He didn’t want anyone to read his list. He didn’t like people trying to control him. He wished he had a secret power, but then he remembered the curse. Could he be washed away by a mighty flood? Was water coming to take him away? Was the rain a blessing or a curse? The swollen cupboards creaked. The windows burst open. There was a racket; the sounds of the birds, horns, the daily lessons entered through the open windows and added to the pandemonium.
Although it was only three o’clock when school finished, it was almost dark outside and the wind had set the trees in motion. Govinda ran from the school compound with the other children. In the lane the shopkeepers busily battled the torrential rain. Covers made from bamboo, timber, tin, canvas, plastic, all manner of scrap, were erected. When all the school children had left, Govinda turned back into the gate. He ran across the playground over the place where the elephant had been cremated, into the school building, and up the stairs, to their home.
He ran to his room and changed his clothes. In the kitchen, Mumbles was talking to his mother in low muffled tones. Govinda dressed in a shirt and trousers and walked past the room with the dining table and rattling French doors, into the kitchen. He sat in the kitchen with his mother and Mumbles where the wind disturbed the latches, shook the glass and banged the doors. White lightning flashed at the windows. A peal of thunder tore through the sky and rain lashed the lane below as Mumbles combined flour, salt and sugar in a large mixing bowl to make roti.
Govinda jumped at a thunderclap.
‘You are acting like a baby,’ said Mumbles.
‘Shut up,’ said Gitanjali. ‘The boy is the master of the house. Remember that.’
The phone rang and Govinda moved to answer it.
‘Don’t answer the phone,’ his mother said. ‘The lightning might strike you down.’ Over the sound of the rain a loudspeaker crackled. ‘Allahu Akbar’, a muezzin commenced his call to prayer but was drowned out by thunder. A small, hollow, clay statue of Kali fell from her hook on the wall to the ground. A spice rack followed. Govinda thought the clatter sounded like demons.
‘The sound of thunder is Agni hurling his thunderbolts to protect us and our houses,’ his mother said.
His father came home as night approached. He entered the house with a wet umbrella and raincoat, leaving a trail of water behind him. His hair was plastered to one side.
‘That’s a big shower,’ his mother said when she greeted him in the hallway. She threw a towel over his head.
After vigorously rubbing himself Sunil Seth shook his arms, legs and hair and headed to their bedroom. As he changed into dry clothes, he screamed, ‘Somebody close the windows and doors and unplug all the electrical appliances before this house gets flooded.’ Gitanjali and Govinda ran frantically closing the windows that had been blown open by the strong wind, and the French doors.
‘This doesn’t look good,’ Sunil Seth said.
‘I want to run out there,’ Gitanjali said idly.
Nearly forty-eight hours had passed since the hijra’s curse and the rain continued to fall. The walls had grown soft and bulged with dampness seeping from the roof. Govinda believed he was going to be washed away now. The wind was high and the rain poured down, hammering anyone unfortunate enough to get caught in the downpour. It was impossible to see past the verandah. The rain coursed into the building and formed little eddies at the bottom of the staircase. As water swirled near the entrance, Sunil Seth said to Govinda, ‘One of these days the river will wash us away. We have to move. We must get out of India.’ ‘Out of Calcutta?’
‘You will understand,’ said his father. ‘One day.’ Water started to collect on the verandah and seep into the house. Mumbles and Sunil Seth emptied the buckets of rainwater out over the railing. Govinda observed how each man tried to bail more water than the other. No words were spoken but Govinda found it disconcerting to see his father and Mumbles united in this way. The more they filled their containers with water and emptied them over the verandah the more competitive they got. ‘Come and help, Govinda,’ his father called as he poured water onto the rubbish heap at the back. Outside, beyond the lane and above the main road, clouds billowed like spilt ink across the sky. Veins of lightning streaked the heavens. Govinda filled several buckets and threw the water over. ‘Good job,’ his father said. ‘Let’s go inside and get dry or we are surely going to be drowned out.’
Another jagged fork of lightning slashed the sky and Mumbles prostrated himself on the floor. ‘If you lie flat on the ground the lightning can’t get you…’ he said quietly, tapping his hand on the floor beside him. Govinda couldn’t hear him very well, but since he was lying there on the wet floor, Govinda followed suit. He got on his knees and lay down beside Mumbles. His father looked down at them and started to laugh.
‘Which of you is the adult? You’re both equally stupid. Get up for heaven’s sake! We need to go inside,’ his father said, but for a moment Govinda and Mumbles lay quietly, side by side, mouths agape, as the sky erupted.
When they had dried themselves, Mumbles took off his dastar and untied his long hair, which fell to his knees. Govinda had never seen Mumbles without his turban. You have hair like a woman, he thought.
Sunil Seth went to the bathroom to change his clothes. While Govinda awaited his father’s return, Gitanjali tentatively approached Mumbles, who was drying his hair in a towel. She said, ‘My hair is long, too, and what a nuisance it is to wash.’ She held out a cup. ‘Try this coconut oil, I find it helps.’
Mumbles was staring at Govinda’s mother’s breasts, as he took the oil. She wore a damp, low cut blouse. Gitanjali stood for a second, then noticed Govinda watching them and told him to change his clothes.
As Govinda and his mother walked out of the kitchen, Mumbles asked softly, ‘Is this for my hair?’
‘Yes, for your hair,’ Gitanjali said, smiling. ‘I want you to have it.’
‘C’mon mum,’ said Govinda.
Water had laid siege to the Seth’s house, filled every crevice, and clung to the window panes. The floor was sticky and damp. Brass hinges and door handles were wet to the touch. Light fittings leaked.
That night Govinda sat with his parents on the damp lounge chairs waiting expectantly as Mumbles prepared dinner. The large room was lined on one side by French doors that were now closed against the rain. There was a tea-table and a comfortable lounge. On the other side of the room, the dining room table, and six high-backed chairs. Beside the table was a doorway that led to the kitchen.
When Mumbles announced dinner was ready, Govinda and his mother and father wandered over to the dining table. Mumbles served them roti and eggplant and sweet tea. The family ate and sipped tea and talked. Govinda wanted to be interesting and worthy of his parents’ regard as they asked him questions and listened to his responses.
He asked his father about the people who lived on the street, ‘Where will they find shelter?’ His father struck a match, lit his pipe and said casually, ‘With so many people there is no room for such thoughts. In these circumstances it is impossible to consider every person and what they might and might not do. All we can do now is look after ourselves. Later we can see what we can try and do for others.’
Govinda looked uncertainly at his father. ‘I do know what you mean but that seems sad and unfair,’ he replied. Govinda felt so sheltered, living in a school compound, and in moments like this he was heavily aware of it. He saw through things too easily. He was protected from so much and even though he thought he had a good understanding of what life was about he wanted to see and know more. He was not sure if people were really the way he thought they were. How could anyone ever know what a person was really like? He nodded his head and pretended to understand what his father said. He felt unreliable and false.
‘There are many stages in a life,’ resumed his father as he puffed his pipe. ‘When you are a child you are a king. You are royalty. You do not need to worry about things yet. But when you are my age you are expected to be a donkey and a donkey must work hard and do difficult things. I have to take care of you. That is my job. A father must look after, protect and sacrifice himself for his family. That is a father’s job.’ Outside it thundered. Govinda moved closer to his father.
‘Why don’t I have brothers and sisters?’ asked Govinda.
His parents looked at each other reproachfully.
‘It was too hard for us to have any more children,’ said his mother.
It rained for seven days. The streets were like rivers. People travelled in little boats to get from place to place amidst the roar of the wind. The lane fared poorly as the drainage system failed. Shops were washed away. The oxcarts disappeared and animals drowned. Beggars and street urchins were found dead beside their dogs.
The rain hammered the roof, and the wind felled a neem tree. It was said to be a lucky tree, a tree that healed. ‘It’s good there was no real damage to the house,’ Sunil Seth said. The servants inspected the fallen tree but the family stayed indoors. They ate rice and dhal and green mango pickle prepared by Gitanjali and Mumbles. After they ate, his father tied a string onto a stick in preparation for fishing. Being a novice, Govinda tried but he couldn’t tie the knot. ‘I will help you with that,’ his father said, and with his large hands he traced the line around the stick and expertly made a loop knot. Govinda sat beside his father quietly anticipating catching fish on the wet doorstep where the water had risen. ‘Will we catch some fish, Dad?’ he asked.
‘You never know,’ his father replied. ‘Fish are always worth fishing for. It doesn’t matter if we don’t catch anything. The rivers and lakes have all flooded and the fish have to go somewhere. Perhaps some have come all the way to our door.’
On the water making its way to their doorstep all varieties of flotsam journeyed: crockery, fruit, vegetables, flowers, toys, bottles, dead fish and excrement. Govinda wondered if he would see any lingering elephant remains. He feared seeing any part of the burnt elephant. Govinda and Sunil Seth spent many hours fishing together while the flood lapped at their front step. He was proud and happy to have so much of his father’s attention even though they never caught anything. ‘You are always so busy, Dad,’ Govinda said.
His father sniffed angrily. ‘There seems to be no way of getting past that.’
After the rains, Govinda stood on the verandah. His mother and father had opened the French doors. Crows were busy with their opinions and arguments. He watched as cars drifted helplessly, bumping against the school wall. He could hear the sound of cheering in the lane as people slowly came out of their houses and resumed their busy lives, even though they walked waist-deep in water. He watched as children leaped like frogs in and out of the water. A boy paddled by in an old tyre. A group of vultures circled a dog’s carcass floating in the lane. One by one they flew down to it and clawed the rotting body.
As the water receded, Govinda was thrilled to see the lane visible again. The rain had removed all traces of the elephant but Govinda couldn’t rid himself of his old unease that no good could come from killing and burning it. But he felt relieved to be alive and that his family had not been washed away.