A Child In The Rain

Shafi Shauq

"How come, you footing these old paths?"

With a start he looked to his right and saw a smallish man with a huge stuffed sac tied to his back with cords. He raised his photochrome goggles up to his forehead and stared at the man. A tramp with grizzled untidy short beard, sparse hair, clad in a besoild short shirt and pajamas, was there taking a short rest on a big stone which lay to a side - showing his snuff-covered dirty teeth.

"O you! How are you? In fact I missed to see you." Responding his smile with an intimate concern, he wanted to show as if he had yearned for years to see him. The potter stretched forth his right arm, and he, in spite of his reluctance, took his hand and warmly pressed it with his both hands.

"Do you make out who I am? - But how could you, sir? I am seeing you after a long long time - I think more than fifteen years. Now you are a big man of the town. How could you remember everyone? And, I? I got stuck to this village and grew old. One clearly forgets one's past in the city. You are not to blame". He said all this in quick succession without giving him time to understand whether he taunted him or tried to alley his embarrassment

"Oh no. I remember everything, - everything I remember. How can one forget the friends of one's youth?"

Then tell me my name. Yes, come out"

He blushed but still ventured to say, "We were once class fellow? How good were the days! I remember everything."

"Yes, that is obvious. But you do not tell me my name. And I know you cannot I am - Ahmad Pala. Remember?"

"Oh yes, yes. I remember. Now I can remember everything. Gone are those days." Taking out the pack of cigarettes from his pocket, he offered him one, tucking another in his lips, and affecting pleasure, lit a match stick, and took it first near the stranger's mouth and then to his own. Leaning against a willow, he shared with him a few funny remembrances. The yokel took initiative to end this happy encounter by asking his estranged friend, "But tell me, how is it that you tread this unkempt path-? But yes, I can guess, you intend to visit your new orchard, yes. Isn't it? One gets rekindled there. Your Kaka Lala tends it well all the time."

"Yes. And more so because I wished to pace these old old avenues for the fun of it I really longed to do so. I came from the town only yesterday."

"How are your kids and your wife?"

"Yes, they are well. They too are with me here. How could I leave them there in the city? I insisted them to have a stroll today., but what have they to do with these old paths of mine? And then tire present conditions! One has to avoid dangers. You know."

"Oh no. I don't think there is any danger to you. Those who are really in danger, are a different lot. So now I take leave of you, Sir. God wishes we shall meet again?" He left and trudged along a narrow path.

He had passed through the village. Dolled up in a well-ironed bright white kurta and pajamas, he looked rather outlandishly weird - or perhaps he himself took it so. But whosoever saw him remained gazing at him. And at a few spots, women and children craned out their heads through their windows to see him. While walking he had time and again glanced to his right and his left and to maintain his equipoise, kept his arms crossed behind him, but feeling it odd, put his left hand in the side pocket; dangling the other arm to and fro - knowing not what to do of his arms. At times he had paced staggeringly and slipped on the round stones. And somehow or the other, he had come out of tie village, and felt relieved, ambling the meandrous avenue, for there was nobody to gaze at him. He wished to whet his slumbering feelings by walking the old forgotten paths of his native village. He rather laboured to do so for he thought that pain or pleasure might give him a feeling of life. Not that he had decided it of his own accord to have a ramble, it was on the insistence of his elder brother -Kaka Lal. 'Have a stroll in the orchards. He had pressingly told him. You shall surely recover from this cadaverous malaise of yours. And then you shall yourself see how we keep your share of the land.' Since his wife complained of pain in his legs, and his children felt jaded in the village, he went out alone. And he, in fact, wished to go alone.

Engrossed in the splashing ducks in the ponds and the burgeoning orchards, he kept plodding the undulating path. All the while he consciously strived to stir his benumbed feelings and memories and to some extent he succeeded in the attempt Initially he felt listlessly fatigued, but soon the ambience subsided all the commotion of his mind. The twenty four years of estrangement gradually got reduced into almost nothing, and he was again the same carefree Youngman when he used to roam about in the same fields and orchards to while away his jobless days. With every stone, every brook and every ridge he had a fond intimacy. Each event of his prime days that had happened in the glens of willows got exhumed from fate ashes of forgetfulness, some made him perspire with shame and some enlivened him with a fresh joy.

The path meanderously clambered up the hillock - the same did before. There was, however, one perceptible difference, instead of open terraced rice fields and stretches of unused land, there grew profuse apple orchards all around, and the path was hedged on both sides with tall poplars of an exotic breed, making it look like a long tunnel. The farmers had divided all the available land into numerous small fragments and fenced each fragment with barbed wire. They had grown bitter-cherry, plum and apricot along the demarcations to reinforce the fences.

In front of him, he could see the distant white snow-line of the Kousarnag cliffs as if it supported the deep, bright blue sky, rather a dense network of sun rays. Each step revealed more and more vistas of the mountain. And then he reached near his own orchard. He halted for a while as he descried someone carrying an insecticide- spraying machine on his shoulder coming. From him he got his guess confirmed and bending the barbed wire at a loose place, he entered the orchard.

It was a newly grown pear-orchard. The young trees were crowned with white bloom, making a beautiful match with the golden mustard bloom heaving on the ground. Silence prevailed everywhere but the buzz of the bees. The cuckoo, perched somewhere on the top-twig of a popular, made the whole valley from the Kousarnag to the Harmukh, resound with its intermittent calls. Resting his feet on his, yes his own, piece of land, he was almost tranced. He desired to stretch himself out as far as possible to get dissipated into the inebriating environs. He could not decide whether to lie down or romp about Each of the calls of the distant cuckoo made some or the other repressed desire raise its head again in his bosom. The white fluffy clouds on the mountains reminded him of something very passionate, very intimate, but what, he could not make out. Nevertheless, he soon realised that this joy was not lasting, and he was overpowered by the sense of his helpless routine life. He sighed deeply and spotted a piece of sward behind a big hay-covered ridge at the brim of a pond. For a long time, he remained watching the small colour-dispering bubbles emerging from the tiny insects and glossy blades of grass proliferating on the sediment. He sighed again, lit a cigarette, took rapid puffs and feeling himself alien in the surroundings, he decided to leave. Having cast a farewell look at the orchard, he carne out. crossed the ponds cautiously, he resumed his ascending journey along the field ridges.

He had no idea of the exact path leading to the apple orchard, he walked in the direction of the familiar distant plane growing on the crest. Climbing down a slope, he reached the bank of fast-flowing stream, the clean and icy water of which foamed splashing against the greenish boulders. The stream was not much deep and wide, but it was not quite easy to cross it. Hoping to find out a pole-bridge or a ford. he continued walking along the bank over the round stones. To his left, there was a wall raised by loose stones and to his right, across the stream, there stood a steep crest and as such, he could no more keep the plane of the upland in view. Suddenly, he got enthralled when he beheld three girls singing some folk lays full throatedly while gathering wild vegetables like dandelion and rumex.

One of them seemed to be married, another was in her prime youth and the third one was only a child. They too saw him, stopped singing and stood up to see who he was. He tidied himself up and continued walking, assuming nonchalance. His perspiring forehead irked him.

"Who is he?" The youthful girl asked the elder one.

“Someone he must be. Who knows?” She replied.

The girl in her early teens, nestled close to her elder companion. He again felt himself an odd man. He removed his goggles and, feigning a cough, asked the girls.

“Could you please tell me the way to Nayakpora?' He received no reply. He wiped off the hanging sweat drops from his forehead.

“I am asking you, girls- Is this path leading to Nayakpora?” The youthful girl giggled and said to the eldest one.

“Why don't you tell him? Tell him please.”

'Yes'. The eldest girl felt encouraged and said in a shout, 'But you should have crossed the stream by the pole-bridge. Listen. There is a ford only a little ahead. When you go across, ascend the steep.'

Having received all this instruction, he heaved a sigh of relief and walked again. But he could not forget the girls and their enchanting lays. He looked back and found them staring at him.

“A strange fellow!” the youthful girl said and laughed audaciously.

“The ford was not farther than a minute-walk. Having crossed the stream, he again looked back, the youthful one was standing on the stonewall, gazing at him. He went up the steep and again looked back, the girls were out of sight

Nayakpora was a cornfield in his childhood. It would grow stunted maize, beans and vetch and that too, when it received rain timely or untimely, or it remained a nude upland of yellowish clay, abounding in old potshels. He saw no maize or potshels there -only luxuriant apple trees could be seen all around. The big plane and a smaller one, not much away from each other, stood there conspicuously as the souvenirs of the bygone times.

He entered his own piece of apple orchard. He did not feel the ecstasy he had felt in the first orchard. A strange melancholy overwhelmed him. Yet he went from tree to tree, touched the bark of each and cast a look on each of the blooming crowns. He came out and slithered warily among the hawthorns to the loop of the Tonger in the ravine where its waters flowed with unabated gusts. He reached his choice-spot shoaled with pebbles. To have a change, he washed his face there and walked a few steps in the shallow water over the sediment.

The day had already drawn to a close and the sky was overcast with thick swarthy clouds. He felt perturbed when he looked at his watch. He climbed the steep and sat to repose under the sprawling vernal branches of the big plane which stood there as it did years ago: a gigantic mass of foliage, mute like a hermit. He softly felt the ground, it was again velvety and slippery as it used to be in his childhood. All of a sudden, he shivered with a strange fear - He remembered Salama who died some twenty-five years ago at the same spot when the yurt made of boulders collapsed over him. He remembered how Salama used to be always with him, and how in autumn days they loved to make bonfires to bake the cobs stolen from people's corn fields. He remained stirring his remembrances sweetly painful. He wished to give out a loud scream, but it got stuck in his throat. Nor could he soften his eyes with any tears. It had already started drizzling.

The sky was more densely decked and it looked to be hanging over the hamlets strewn in the valley below. The clouds had descended down the surrounding mountains and the Kousarnag was no more visible. To his left, far away, he could see a lonely passenger bus plying along the ridge of the wavy crest- perhaps to the city. He breathed a deep sigh and having lit the last cigarette of the pack, he looked deep into the foliage of the plane, as if adieuing a thousand faces dwelling there that eyed him with surprise. He then leisurely left for home on the clayey track between two grassy mounds.

It began to rain a little heavier and he no more liked the icy drops that pricked his skin and rolled the powdery clay producing mud. Hardly had he taken a hundred steps than it began to pour down in showers. All his clothes were thoroughly wet and glued to his skin. The cold penetrated him deep into the marrow. He shrunk his body and increased his pace, but his nylon sandals began menacing him. He chose to step on the turf patches along the sides of the muddy path. It rained so heavily that it washed away the memory of the sunny day. The bloom-laden trees also shrank themselves to avoid the downpour that hurried steadily. He looked back, the crest was completely enveloped by clouds. The gloaming began to contain everything that was still visible. There was no sound of any sort except that of the splashing rain. The birds had already huddled themselves in their unseen nests. It was very cold, indeed, but he began to feel the pinch of a different cold that emanated from his inmost, the cold of some unnamed fear.

He heard a tap-as if somebody struck a stick against something. He started, stopped and looked around to make out what the sound was, but could not sense anything. He took longer strides. The sound was heard again, but it was nearer. He looked back. A small boy was standing all alone under an elm, hardly some twenty or thirty steps away. His sparce garments had got pasted to his thin profile and his dense kinky hair was plastered down his forehead and ears. He held a wooden stick in his hand, and it was clear that it was the stick that he had struck at the elm. He felt that there was, after all, some other human being in the torrential rain going that empty way. He showed him to come closer, but the boy only smiled.

"Come nearer! I shall take you along. Don't be afraid of me."

He almost cried out to him, and quite confidently, but the showers washed away his voice as soon as it came out of his throat. The boy did not perhaps hear him, he thought

"You listen me? It is already evening, come on!" Saying this he kneeled to draw up his wet soiled trousers and then he climbed the grass covered hog-back to make him hear. There was nobody there. " the poor child must have shied away from me,” he reasoned with himself, while slithering down. He resumed plodding on the muddy path, flooded by the overflowing pools. He took cautious steps along the grassy edge.

He reached the small pole-bridge. There he sensed the sound again. He looked back. The same boy stood there, embracing a willow.

"Listen, you imp! I tell you come along. Why don't you come nearer?" Hardly had he winked than the child disappeared, as if dissolved in the downpour. Every hair on his scalp stood like a thorn. He somehow crossed the pole-bridge and plodded the slippery path. He almost ran, but very clumsily. One of his chappals got stuck in the mud. He took out the other one, and bent down to pull out the one buried in the sticky mud. The goggles placed in the side pocket of his shirt creaked under the pressure of his ribs, and he stood up with a start. He could not choose what to save and what to let go. He stealthily raised his head to look around. He clenched his teeth when he saw the drenched child standing on the ridge of a rice field. He could not see his face nor his stick, only a silhouette stood there. He slipped and barely could save himself from falling into the pool, his clothes were all besmeared. He managed to stand up and wished to run home but he felt his legs heavier. He could not make it whether he walked or carried himself step by step.

Coming out of the ravine, he came to the top of the mound wherefrom the path was better for having been spread over with rounded stones by the panchayat people. He felt somewhat relieved that he could put on his chappal and walk steadily. There grew thorny bushes, of blackberry, briers and thanival everywhere. It was not time of the thanival blossoms, yet he could sense the smell of its leaves. He halted to wring the clayey water out of his trousers and the skirt of his shirt. But the rain was so heavy that in no time his clothes were soaked again. He took counsel to himself that it was vain to try to tidy himself and that every step he took was to his advantage. He heard the child again -the child, clattered his teeth and whined, as if with pain. A hiccup like shriek escaped his throat He looked back and saw the boy standing behind a bush. He shivered with cold and made a piteous whine. He could not see his tears that were mingled with rain. A strange pang rose in his inmost. He pressed his chest with his hand, and supporting himself against a tree, he began staring at the miserable creature. He thought it useless to call him as that might scare him again. He wiped his face with both hands to clear it of the dribble and then looked to the bush, the boy had vanished as if dissolved in the rain. He no more felt afraid of him, he rather felt compassionate. He tried to pull out a withy from a nearby pale, but soon felt ashamed of his demeanor for it was only a child in the rain that followed him. Having reassured himself, he looked all around, the child was seen nowhere.

The rain drops where so huge that when hurled down, they could stir the silt from the pools. All his body ached, particularly his bald head. He walked to the village.

He continuously heard the plaintive whine of the child, but it distanced away with every step, till it was heard no more. He had entered the village purlieus. He stopped and looked back, the crests and the uplands looked like huge monsters sleeping, some prone and some supine. The dark gloomy sky was weighing on them. Seeing the first signs of the dwellings he felt strength in his limbs but the weepy face of the child was still in his mind.

He did not take the path that ran through the full length of the village by the graveyard. Although he had made up his mind to visit the graves of his parents and his elder sister, he chose the longer path that was not muddy. There were no people to open their windows to eye him with curiosity A couple of cows were there running clumsily and shaking their stuffed tummies and udders. The shopkeepers had drawn the shutters down. Two men nestling close to each other under one umbrella walked hurriedly across the road and vanished in a narrow street. A peasant wearing a blanket came out of the same street crossed the road and disappeared in another street.

The rain had abated.

Kaka Lala, his elder brother, was anxiously waiting for him at the verandah. 'How sad! How tortuous this trip might have been to you! I wish you had taken an umbrella with you'. He said to him to his drenched brother.

'But it was so fine in the morning.' Responding Kaka Lala's concern, he pushily entered the bathroom where he washed his feet and hands. Kaka Lala handed over a towel and his own dry shirt and trousers to him to change.

Inside the house, the children had raised a pandemonium. driving their aunty mad. His wife accompanied him upstairs where he changed from his wet clothes to put on a warm woollen sweater, then wrapped himself up in a cozy blanket, and came down is the kitchen. He quelled the children's noise, made them gather the strewn carom pieces and warmed himself up with a Kangari filled with glowing embers. Three cups of Shyiry tea made sumptuous with almonds helped him be himself again.

A palatial dinner sent all to an early sleep except the two brothers who had a long tête-à-tête while occupying themselves with the collection of antiques and old manuscripts possessed by Kaka Lala.

After staying confined to indoors for two days more, he along with his small family left for the city by the early-morning bus. With hugs and kisses the kids adieu the old couple and others gathered there. He had a long speechless shake hand with his brother and then with a choked voice took leave of his Aapa. They, each carrying a baggage, took seats close to each other.

The bus plied the road that took a half circle round the village along the ridge of the wavy plateau. Looking through the window, he spotted the far off big plane of Nayakpore growing aloft under a deep blue sky among the sprawling apple orchards. He continued staring at the plane till he could virtually hear the continuous whine of the child in the rain. It lacerated him.

The bus took a sharp turn, leaving the plane out of sight, and he attended to his family.

(Translated from the Kashmiri by the author).