LHM
It was the month of June. The sky wore her black mantle, trees began to shake their branches in the fast blowing wind. Birds chirped and flew into their nests. Streaks of lightning emerged continuously, followed by the mighty roar of thunder. The dark clouds broke into heavy down pour filling the streams and rivers with water coloured red with the mud washed down from the hills in the east. Puddles formed everywhere, scores of naked children plunging into the cool waters and jumping into the puddles. ponds became full with fresh water. Paddy fields became a long stretch of flowing water, welcoming fish escaping from the rushing rivers in search of quieter breeding places. Boys rode their makeshift boats made of huge banana trunks, paddling them with bamboo poles in the vast ocean gifted by the benign monsoon.
Going to school in the wet season, loathsome to many kids, was a pleasure for the maidens of Aarukara. School was, in fact second home to us, as all children were treated kindly and without any distinction by our teachers. Ours was a school only for girls, managed by Catholic nuns. Facing our school was the boy's school, run by priests. Boys and girls, from different villages, had to reach their schools on foot, treading miles and miles of hilly terrain, cris-crossed with rivers in spate connected to land by wooden bridges. The bridges were mostly made of bamboo poles, tied together with coir ropes and suspended across trees with the help of strong steel wires. Most of such bridges were made by the collective labour and contribution of the parents of school going children. Smaller streams were bridged by single coconut or even Arecanut palms, culled from plantations that were more than half-a-century old.
The sight of well clad village kids, with well scrubbed faces, oiled and neatly combed hair, bundle of books under their arms, crossing these low slung bridges that twisted and swayed in cool gusts of Kerala’s monsoon wind, in their morning march towards school is a pleasing experience. There is a lot of chatter and laughter in the air, emerging specially from the young lasses with long black hair plaited in two and adorned with jasmine flowers.
On that fateful day of June 15th, the "thick five", as they were called, left for school separately in two's and three's. Mother had prepared a quick omlette and packed my lunch in an aluminum tiffin box. Holding my books and tiffin with the elbow, I opened my umbrella and moved to my cousin Nisha's house. Nisha was given to habitual depression, ever since her previous examination. Fearing failure, she, along with her friend had run away from home and boarded a train to Madras. Providence had brought them back home through the agency of a old gentleman who was traveling in the same train. Sensing the girls were in trouble, the gentleman took the girls to his home in Madras, gave them food and put them back the next day, on a train going to Trivandrum. He and his wife had warned the girls of the dangers lurking behind them in a strange place and convinced them to go home at the earliest. One can well imagine the emotional trauma and social stigma the then teen aged girls families had to go through in a close-knit village group. Though relieved at the return of his daughter safe and sound, Nisha's father, a strict disciplinarian, showered verbal abuse and physical torture on the little girl. Even more unbearable was the cat calls and the snide remarks by the schoolboys on our daily march to school. Nisha, the lively, bubbling, vivacious girl was never the same thereafter and withdrew into a cocoon, by shunning friends. I was the only companion whose company she did not detest.
We set out for school around 8 in the morning. After a short while, it began to rain cats and dogs. We reached a small stream with an Arecanut palm bridge. Strong currents of water were about to touch the palm bridge. We looked at the flushing, leaping, frothing, mud red water flowing under the bridge with trepidation. There was no question of going back home, for Nisha's father was sure to skin her alive for bunking class. Holding the books and the umbrella in our left arms, we climbed up the bridge, holding the steel wire tied to trees on both banks with our right hands. The palm began to wobble and sway. Praying to all the saints we were aware of, we somehow made it to the other bank and reached school half an hour late, fully drenched and shivering from head to toe. Sister Emma, our headmistress was kind enough to let us in and gave a pair of change of clothes to wear.
At the sign of inclement weather worsening, headmistress declared that school would be closed by lunch. She advised us to leave school at the earliest sign of the rain weakening. Even after a wait of half an hour, there was no sign of improvement. From the school itself, we could hear the roar of the flowing water and see uprooted trees and logs being carried away by the rushing waters. Our teachers asked us to wait for some more time to leave school so that the ferocity of the monsoons weakens a bit. There was no sign of any respite even after a wait of half an hour. One by one, the girls ventured to go back home. The "thick five" finally decided to make their move and started walking towards the stream. Nisha was last in tow. The sound of the water striking against our umbrellas and the roar of the stream was so deafening that we had to make ourselves heard. Though it was only past two, it had become as dark as night. The flashing streams of lightning and the loud thunder that followed gave such a tremor to our hearts. At every lightning, we ejaculated the names of Jesus, Mary, Joseph or Rama Rama or Allah O Akbar.
As we approached the stream with the palm bridge, the sight of the strong current sent a chill down each of our spines. There were a group of boys from the other school were already on the bridge. They did not seem in the least to be overawed by the situation. They were in fact, enjoying themselves, shouting at the top of their voices, singing cinema songs, parodying their teachers. We hesitantly looked at the swelling columns of water barely touching the palm bridge, unsure of whether to cross the stream or wait for some more time. Suddenly, Nisha came forward, neatly folded up her long skirt upto her knees, held up the books and umbrella in her right hand and climbed over the bridge, holding the supporting wires with her right hand. As soon as she reached the centre, the boys in front emitted a howl of shouts akin to the voices made by foxes and some of them began to sing a lewd film tune. Nisha felt giddy, lost her balance and plunged into the swirling water. As was inevitable, the current swept Nisha downstream. Even while being tossed about by the water, she held on to her books and umbrella tightly. As we the frightened girls were looking at poor Nisha not knowing what to do, one of the boys, who we considered to be one of the naughtiest, threw away his books and jumped into the water and tried to swim towards Nisha. But before he could catch up with her, the current swept him off to the other side. Nisha somehow was able to reach near the bank some distance downstream where she caught hold of a protruding root of a large Jackfruit tree. We shouted at Nisha to throw her books away and hold on to the roots with both her hands, but she continued to hold on to her books.
In the meantime a boatman downstream had saved the boy who had jumped into the stream to save Nisha. Soon the boatman, along with a large group of worried villagers came and fished out Nisha from the swirling waters. The books and the umbrella were still under Nisha's tight grip.
Nisha later told us that if she had lost her books, she would have had a severe thrashing from her father.
Lilly Joseph
