Lost And Found In Banaras Is A Tale Of A Widowed 3-Yr-Old; An Excerpt

Banaras celebrates death, but what does it do to the living dead? When three-year-old Brinda is widowed after being married for a few hours, her family refuses to take her back in. She finds her way to an ashram. An Excerpt:

‘Brishti!’ someone shouted. The men hurriedly folded the charpoys and the women started gathering the food and stuff that was laid out. The raindrops spattered on the rangoli pattern that Chuhiya and Chidiya had helped their mother with and it soon turned into an unrecognisable muddle. Chidiya started to sniffle. She couldn’t bear to see her hard work reduced to a muddy splatter of coloured water that made its way into the low sides.

A word had reached the village that the Jalangi river had overflowed its banks in many areas in Nadia district and till today morning there had been no let off. And going by Ghurni village’s history, this news was sinister. Bibhuti swallowed hard as men and women huddled under the canopy that had pooled enough water in its middle. Its bulging belly had started to drip as water had begun to seep through. The crowd was rife with discussion.

‘The rain should settle, it’s windy, the clouds would blow over,’ someone said.

‘Aare, remember last year also, the rain was far worse than this. . .a flood is a far probability. Don’t worry. . . .’
‘It had rained incessantly for two weeks at a stretch and then a bit of damage here and there, life was back to normal. . .’ someone forced a laughter. An empty laugh. . . .

They all knew that there had been an announcement on the radio from Murshidabad, that rains could debauch into a flood in the making. The pounding river had swelled greedily. ‘Oh! All hogwash, nonsense, haven’t we seen this more often than to believe a bloody radio announcement?’ an old man quipped.

Mona Verma

‘Yes. . .just a storm in the making. That’s all.’ A young man nodded absently. Denial was reassuring. They all understood that having lived in Ghurni, such guesses were of no consequences. The hard splatter turned noisier with the roaring clouds above them. They all looked nervously at the grey sky above, which seemed a mile thicker now. The river ran angrily through the village, drinking up the embankments as it recklessly shifted its course.

The sweet makers and the vendors scurried down the muddy pathways that had turned into small rivulets. The plastic sheet that covered their carts was rustling at the edges. It had started to give away, barely able to cover their belongings anymore. Within a few hours the rain had turned into an unexpected yet dreaded outpour. Bibhuti raised the level of the cot on which Chuhiya, Chidiya and Brinda sat by placing bricks and pieces of wood under its legs. The water had started to stream into their hut and Bibhuti soon realised that the efforts to keep the river from swallowing the village were turning wasted. The three girls started to cry. Bithika looked at them nervously and patted her daughters’ hands. Their mouth had gone dry with fear.

‘No,’ Brinda shook her head. ‘I want to go back to Dada,’ she wailed. Bithika hurried towards her and wiped her face with the free end of her saree, the only part that was not sopping wet. Although, the deluge showed no signs of abating and she had no idea when it would end she tried to comfort the children.

‘No Brinda, don’t cry. Look at Chuhiya and Chidiya. Look at Bisbaas, they are all so brave.’ She brought the child’s head to her bosom, and patted it lovingly. Chuhiya and Chidiya snuggled close to her. Bithika squeezed her eyes shut to keep away the tears, she had to lump her fear. Meanwhile, Bibhuti and Bisbaas were trying to steer their boats off the river embankment, frantically tugging at the ropes. The thick sheet of rain that was pelting down made it almost impossible to manoeuvre the sails into the wind or even lift them. The boat was bouncing out of control, rocking and shaking, hurtling upwards and downwards with the violent river. It seemed impossible to breast the river and pull the boats to the shore. More clouds began to amass in the sky, rain and thunder went pealing back and forth, echoing between the slopes and making spooky whistling sounds. The children shivered as the plastic sheet on their hut fluttered angrily making crackling sound. As the sluicing water ran down the declivity and the tarpaulin on rooftops fluttered against the pounding wind, it took the older lot, no more a glance at the river below and the sky above to size up the inevitable.