With The Rain Comes The Damp One week is a long time. Isn’t it? As the rickshaw hiccupped along the country road he saw the furrows on the hard clay road. He asked the rickshaw-wallah, “Has it rained the past week?" The rickshaw-wallah answered, “Yes.” “A lot?” “Yes, a lot. It rained continuously for four days and yesterday also it drizzled. Those four days I did a brisk business but then I fell ill. Nobody can stand getting wet for four days in these unseasonal rains. What do you say? No one! Only today I came out feeling well. Kochamma’s medicine worked. He told “two days” and so it was “two days”. And now I am well. You’ve made the lad…” He smiled and went on hearing, the rest of the journey. He arrived and unlocked the door of his cottage, feeling satisfied at the greasy feel of the lock. He has spent a week in the city but for him the time he spent in the train and the rickshaw journey seemed much longer for it made him tired. So he retired. He slumbered unaware of what has happened in the past week. It has rained in the past week and with the rain comes the damp and with the damp they come. Within an hour, after he awoke, his room was littered with shreds of paper and dust adhered to each other in the damp. He stood in the corner and watched his handiwork. He began to recollect the past years. The hard work was now all lost. The fort that he built brick by brick and which looked formidable enough has now given way to these meagre forces. The rural setting of this countryside mofussil had advantaged him through all those years of formation. And today he saw a single stroke of disadvantage. It has caused a calamity. The very thing that had attracted him has now spelt his doom. It has rained. So he stood in the corner when Kochamma entered the room. The boy was confused - for though he was happy to his schoolmaster; he couldn’t express the look of gloom on his teacher’s face. And the condition of the room was even gloomier. He came out from the room and slapped Kochamma tightly and yelled, “Go away.” The excruciating pain that Kochamma experienced did not show up on his face. Though his eyes have started pouring he wasn’t crying. Why should he cry? He hasn’t done anything wrong that would make him feel guilty in any way. He swallowed the lump caused by his master’s unwarranted action and stood there. The master raged at Kochamma, “I told you to look after my cottage when I m out.” “Yes,” sniped Kochamma. “And you…” “I oiled the locks, swept the floor, dusted the bed and and…” “And the shelf!” “You told me not to touch the shelf.” Realising his mistake the master mumbled, “Okay, go away now.” Kochamma left the room but he wasn’t sad. Unlike the only other time when his master had slapped him, this time he experienced only physical pain. There was no mental anguish. Had he been fair, the marks left on his cheek would have made his master speak to him in cordial terms. But since he wasn’t fair he didn’t rouse any affection from his master for the rest of that day. So it was not until the next morning that the master confided to him, “Kochamma, my manuscript is destroyed. My labour of one whole year is destroyed. My masterpiece is destroyed.” From then on the master became a vagabond. He went about from places to places; from hills to hills. Destroying them. In the afternoon he sat on the steps of the village pond and watched life - no longer the throbbing life but a humdrum life. At night he slept very little. The dim bulb of his room can always be seen lit. Everyday Kochamma came and cleaned the place but the master kept quiet all the time. And for months he didn’t teach anyone. Everyone was worried but no one said anything. What will they say? That man had taught their children for more than two years without asking for anything. He could well have become a professor of in the city and earned a hefty sum. But he was here, teaching for nothing, except for a few gifts that the villagers presented him now and then. And he was happy to see his bank balance diminish gradually and his hoard of mangoes and bananas increase. The village did have a school, but they had to cross the river by boat to reach it. So the mothers never sent their little children there and when the children were older they had lost all interest in schooling for they did not like to sit with younger students in the same class. The master, being the only channel through which they gained education, had become both their schoolmaster and their school. And now he was a vagabond. How different it would have been if his manuscript would have been published and he would have got his desired sum for it! A school building would have been set up with that amount. That was his plan and it now remained a plan. His manuscript was ambrosia for them. And within a week it was all over for it has rained. In this part of the country it was not necessary that with the clouds will come the rain. Even a white fluff in the sky might cause a hailstorm. Who knows? He remembered how Kochamma had confused ‘Columbus’ which he had read in history with ‘cumulonimbus’ which he had read in geography. He shrieked in laughter from behind the bush that had screened him from the sight of those little ones bathing and playing in navel-deep water. Coming to know the presence of their master in the neighbourhood the children ran naked helter-skelter away from the pond. He has slapped his favourite, Kochamma. Who knows what he might do to them! But Kochamma will never be angry with his master; no matter what happens. For two years Kochamma has been his student - at first an unruly brat but now a xenial current flowed in his veins. He was now a mentally precocious child of ten. Though the master never showed any squeamishness towards him, he knew he was his master’s favourite. The thought of Kochamma stirred his mind. He got up from the steps of the pond and trudged along the grassy path shaded with trees on both the sides. He could no longer see the sky and Kochamma replaced the cloud in his mind. Through his mind’s eye he saw the eight-years-old Kochamma pissing his doorway dirty; he saw the nine-years-old Kochamma who won’t cry when his father, the medicine man, died; and he saw the ten-years-old Kochamma having no grievance against his master who has slapped him unmindfully. Everybody say, “You’ve made the child such a good boy.” When the master arrived home, Kochamma was locking the door with the duplicate key that was given to him by his master long time back. He recalled how Kochamma had vociferously volunteered to clean his room. He never failed in his duty. As Kochamma turned he saw the master and smiled. The master chivied, “Come in Kochamma.” He caressed Kochamma and took him in. He gave him the word-game he had bought for him in the city. The rest of the afternoon they played scrabble. The master deliberately losing and Kochamma knowing it. From the next day he again started writing. Like Kochamma he won’t mind anything anymore. Like Kochamma he won’t cry. Kochamma was now his inspiration. In Kochamma’s throbbing breath he saw throbbing life. There was nothing humdrum about it. This time he will be careful; he will be prepared and won’t be afraid. He destined himself not to write just a personal masterpiece this time but a masterpiece for all time - for all ages. As time passed Kochamma became wiser and wiser and his manuscript became thicker and thicker. Again there was a buzz that the village is going to have a school building. He taught the students and his hoard of mangoes and bananas increased. No longer did he go to the city. He played the rest of his time writing and playing scrabble with Kochamma. No longer did he deliberately lose to Kochamma. In fact he no longer lost and the day he really lost to Kochamma his manuscript was completed. And both he and Kochamma were happy. During all this time it had often rained but it was of no worry to him. His manuscript was now in the safe hands of Kochamma. Everyday Kochamma cleaned the shelf along with the floor. So this time when he has to go to the city he was confident that his manuscript will be safe. Kochamma will do his duty even when it rains. He returned to find his manuscript safe and sound. He woke from his slumberous retirement smelling something. He tasted - the air was moist. He looked at the shelf. Kochamma was on guard of his manuscript; for with the rain comes the damp and with the damp they come - his nemesis, the white ants.
Copyright © 1997 Amit Shankar Saha |