“Ha…” Saru one of my friends sighs to get our attention, “Listen, the fights of our parents are an everyday business now. Why? I heard Lachi’s parents fighting yesterday over the thatched roof that did not have enough Palm leaves. As if it is going to rain anytime soon!” She laughs “So, Let’s talk about something interesting.” She says.

We are walking back from the next village, three miles away, carrying pots of water over our heads and on a hip. What Saru says is true, the stark white clouds over our heads are the proof of it. The clouds are as parched as the dusty soil beneath our feet. It should have rained ages ago, but the rain Gods don’t seem to be happy with us. The air that should have been filled with the sounds of the dripping; wet, overburdened leaves is still abuzz with lazy flies of the mid-summer days that are yet to realize that the seasons have changed.

We have done everything – we have fasted in the name of the rain gods (Not much out of the way when you are already starving), the whole village slept under the stars for 3 days (which was nice and cool when the nights are as hot as summer), we have sacrificed scores of goats (which were already half-starved to death), we have married off a frog and a crab;  we hunted a fox and married it to a dog that was ready to bite everyone and anyone. The rain gods still do not seem to be appeased. Their smile upon us is essential but they do not seem to think so.

“Why Lachi? I have never heard your parents fight before?” Paru asks as she adjusts the pot over her head, she was a very lean girl to begin with, now with the famine she looks even more emaciated. She has never been able to carry pots with as much ease as others, but that has never stopped her from coming with us.

“I don’t know,” I reply but I know. At least I think I know; it is perhaps because of the bitterness of hunger. Amma never spoke against father but that was when our grains stock and stomachs were full. But now the grains stocks have dwindled to nothing but broken rice. Three years it hasn’t rained, my brother had to stop working in the fields and go work in the town, walking ten miles each way. Amma saves her share of food for my brother as he must walk these extra miles only to earn a few extra Paisa. Paisa that gets us what little food we eat, even after which Amma still goes on starving, we all go on starving. So, she fights with Appa. One day it is the rotting roof overhead, the other day it is that he can’t provide for his children, it is my torn dress one day, the hurt Oxen the other. She fights for things, but I have noticed she never fights for her own sake. It is always about the house and us children.

“Like I said,” Saru interject “Nothing interesting there. Let’s talk about something interesting.”

“The newlywed couples next to my house…” Paru starts.

“Newlywed?” Saru scoffs “Paru, they have been married for three months now. Move on.”

Three months, I wonder, the last time there was a newlywed couple in the village, Saru Couldn’t stop talking about them for a year.

Paru sighs “I do not have anything new to say.”

“That is correct.” Saru laughs. She waits for a moment and then breaks the silence “Listen, I have something to say.”

I can see, whatever she is about to say, she has been dying to say since we left home for water but only waiting to make us beg. We crumble “Tell us, tell us.”

She shakes her head “Oh! I don’t know we are not supposed to speak of them.”

“Come on Saru, you know you want to tell us.”

“Ok,” she gives in “The other day I was walking home from Dasayya’s house after buying some oil at dusk and I saw him.” She whispers.

“Saw whom?” we ask, matching her whisper – excited and scared at the same time.

“A Bhairaansha.” she replies.

Paru and I stop in our tracks “You did not!” I say.

“I did, I did, I did.” She is smiling. As much as I and Paru are scared, Saru is excited.

“But… but…” Paru mumbles “Did he try to grab you and run away?”

“What are you talking about?” Saru sneers.

“You know what I am talking about Saru,” she whispers “They take away girls our age, these girls are never seen again.”

“Do not be ignorant,” Saru scoffs “Bhairaansha are the messengers of Lord Shiva. They do nothing of the sort. They take nothing that is not given willingly to them.”

“But the girls that are never seen again…”

“Are the girls who go willingly.” The all-knowing Saru says “They are taken to Kailasa, the abode of Lord Shiva.”

“No, that’s not true.” Paru shakes her head. “My uncle says…” she starts but Saru interjects.

“Yes, your drunk uncle talks things that no one believes in.” Saru is clearly not happy with Paru. “Haven’t you heard? If a girl leaves with a Bhairaansha, an eternal fortune comes to her parents’ home?”

Paru doesn’t reply as she is clearly upset with Saru. Saru turns to me “What do you say Lachi? Won’t you leave with a Bhairaansha if that will bless your father’s home?”

“I don’t know,” I shrug “I don’t want to go when I do not know where I am going.” That was true, wherever they take the girls; I never want to find out – good or bad one can never trust the unknown.

“Bah!” Saru scoffs again “What a pair of scared-y cats I have for friends.”

*****

The thoughts of Bhairaansha, are driven out of my mind as soon as I reach home; for Amma is in a sour mood “You, insolent girl!” she starts as I put down the water pots. “Lazy girl, I asked you to make haste and come home before noon! Your father will be starving!”

She hands me the lunch basket she has prepared; I look at her infuriated and walk out of the house with the basket on my head, what does she think? It is easy to walk miles with pots of water over our heads and hip? But I know, I could have reached home earlier if we hadn’t stopped to hit stones at the bare Mango tree, but I do not have to admit it to her.

“Lachi!” I hear Amma shout again “You absent-minded girl!” She walks after me “What is your father going to drink?” She hands me a lota, filled with water I just brought home. I glare at her and turn around to walk away when she pulls me around “Here,” She pushes a bit of jaggery into my hand “Now hurry.” She speaks urgently but not with anger anymore.

The moment I see the jaggery in my hand, I forgive her. I even smile. I do not eat it immediately, if I eat it, it will be gone in a minute, so I walk with it in my hand all the way to the farms. Savoring the sight of it, savoring the smell of it, looking at it from every angle and then licking on it but never biting. It is only when I reach the farms and it starts to melt in my hand that I put it into my mouth, not before sucking on it to my heart’s content.

Appa, seeing me from the barren land he is working on, walks up to me. I do not understand what he is preparing for. I wonder if he too should stop working in the farms and seek our fortune elsewhere, but I also know that is not right, we cannot eat money, even brother is working in the mines only for time being. We know we cannot abandon our farms – Appa would never do that.

Appa smiles at me. “I thought, you were lost on your way.” He says as he helps me with the basket on my head.

“Ta…” I suck on the jaggery in my mouth before I answer, “Just got late, bringing water.”

“Ah! I see” Appa says as he unwinds the turban on his head, wiping at the dripping sweat, he looks up at the skies and sits down “Give me the food Lachi.”

I spread a cloth on the dusty ground and serve him the cold and stale ragi-mudde with an onion Amma has packed. He looks at it forlornly.

“There are the dried Mango bites too,” I say as I lay them on the side.

He smiles at me and looks up at the skies again before he sets to eat. As he continues to eat, I go around looking for wild roots, I used to find a lot of them once but now I find nothing.

I return, empty-handed when he is done with his Ragi -mudde. He is constantly scanning the skies. More than usual. He wipes his hand on the cloth, looks up at the skies again and takes only a sip of water from the lota and returns it back to me, “We shouldn’t waste any water”, now I feel bad for not bringing him food early.

“Go home safe, Lachi.” He whispers hoarsely as he gets up. “And don’t anger your Amma.”

“But the dried Mango bites?” I ask pointing at the mango bites. but I know his answer even before he says it.

“I am full Lachi, you eat them on your way back.” He says with a smile “We have to probably tell your Amma to not pack them.” He adds.

That is what he says every day to me but every morning he reminds Amma to pack them. I like to chew on dried Mango bites, so I say nothing.

He picks up his pickax. I can see his hands straining under the weight, but I can remember the days when he used to pick it up as if it was a breeze. Something else catches my attention, today there is a long rope that he carries too. I cannot understand why he needs a rope. So, I say “Come home safe in the evening Appa.”

He starts to speak, but stops, frowns and then walks away towards the dusty, dry farms.

***

The mile back home is a known path to me, I am sure I can walk back blind folded. The only thing that has stopped me from doing so is the fear of stepping on a cobra. the cobras I think, think themselves to be the kings of this land, they stretch out anywhere they want and the moment you step on them by accident, they bite as if it was your fault to begin with.

Paru lost two of her brothers this way. Although only one was bitten by a snake, the other died because he tried to suck out the venom from his brother’s leg with his teeth instead of bringing him to the village Mantrika. Now we know, you cannot suck the venom out with bare teeth, only the Mantrika can. But he charges money, a lot of money – as much as my brother’s week’s worth of wages. No wonder Paru’s brothers had tried to treat themselves. The Mantrika, then warned the village to do nothing of this sort again for it takes superpowers to cure snake bites. I heard Amma once saying that the Mantrika had to undergo years of starvation to get the powers. I wonder, with the famine, we may also go starving for years and then maybe all of us can get the powers that the Mantrika has? Then we won’t have to go to him to get treated. That would save us a lot of money.

At this moment I step into the only shady part of the hike back home from the farms. It is a stretch of tamarind trees. I take my time walking through this part for it brings back memories of happier times. The rest of the mile back home is nothing but barren fields that smell of nothing. It is a sad thing, fields should smell of either green paddy fields or brown wheat ready for harvest. But now, they smell of nothing. That is why I like to hang out for a while in the tamarind shade, for I can still smell the nonexistent raw tamarinds when I crush the leaves.

I sit on what little dry grass is left in the shade and lean on the tree. I must have dozed off, for I hear Amma calling my name, I wake up with a start to find she is nowhere around. I continue to sit under the tamarind tree, and I continue to chew on the mango bites – a tiny bite at a time. I look around dreading my walk back home when my heart jumps into my throat. In the dark shade of the tamarind trees, I see a Big Black Bear. I run leaving the lunch basket behind but still clutching the Mango bites dearly as if my life depends on them, I run a few paces and I turn back to see if the bear is following me. It hasn’t, it hasn’t moved. I stop and I wonder if it is dead. I look at it. It looks back at me with sharp, white eyes. That is when I realize, there are seashells stitched all over its body. they clink with its every movement. I also see a flute the is stuck in its waist band and it holds a stick that looks like a trident.

I realize it is not a dead bear but a Bhairaansha, wearing the skin of a bear, it’s head still intact. That doesn’t bring me any reprieve, I still want to run and hide.  But Amma has taught me never to disrespect a Bhairaansha.  I look at him closely and see that apart from the bear skin that is stitched with seashells, he wears a loincloth around his waist and has covered his entire body with ashes, I also see that he is exhausted. I walk back, timidly to the tamarind tree where I left my lunch basket, as I put it back on my head, I realize I am still holding the Mango bites. I pick up the water Lota and walk to him. He is watching all this but hasn’t moved. I hold out the mango bites in my palm. He takes them without a word, his seashells making a quaint sound while he moves. I am about to walk away, when I follow his eyes, he is staring at the lota in my hand. All I want to do is hide it. I walk miles to next village in hot sun to get just enough water for three days. The water I hold is the water Appa sacrificed to save me the trouble of walking there more frequently. But I hold out the Lota, he takes it and drinks deeply.

I turn around and start towards home, I see him pull out his flute. He plays a tune of melancholy, it makes me hope and dread at the same time.

*****

As I near home the fear of the Bhairaansha is driven out of mind when it starts to rain. Not a pouring rain but just enough to give us hopes. Appa follows me home soon with a big smile on his face as Amma and I are sliding what pots we can spare to collect the dripping water from our rotting roof.

“Oh Lachi!” he says as he pulls the ladder and gets to work on the roof hastily. “Oh Lachi! this is wonderful.”

“What is?” Amma asks as I hastily stow away the rope Appa discarded at the door. Amma will not know, she will never know but Appa and I know, and we will never speak of it again.

“There is still hope!” Appa smiles. “This is just enough rain to plow and sow the seeds.” he continues as if he did not hear Amma. “We can still hope the rain gods will continue to smile upon us.”

Amma frowns, I smile but what might have happened scares me.

It is days later, I am lighting the fire at the fire-stove to boil Ganji for the night, Appa is sitting in the Veranda, chewing on the dry betel leaf, content after he has sowed the seeds on the farm. He occasionally looks up to the skies not with the dejection I had seen on his face days earlier but with the hope that it will rain again to water the seeds he has sown. The skies are dark but haven’t opened yet.

It is as I am coaxing the fire to burn a little brighter that Amma walks in with a Winnow of broken rice in her hand, she seems confused. “What’s the matter?” Appa asks as he spits the betel juices out.

“I do not know.” Amma says still confused “There is a Bhairaansha at our door, he didn’t stop at any of the other houses, he came right to our door.” My heart jumps into my throat again.

“So? Just give him some alms, he will be on his way.” Appa replies as that is obvious.

I step away from the fire-stove as Amma replies “I did offer him the broken rice, but he doesn’t take it. He continues to stand in the doorway looking straight into the house.” I hold out my hand and that is when she realizes. She follows me to the doorway. She is as scared as I am, probably more.

I hold out the broken rice and he holds out his Jholi, to take the alms. Without a word he turns around and walks away. That night it rains again.

Everyone at home is happy, except Amma who looks at me from time to time as if the next time she looks around I won’t be there.

It goes on for five days, he comes every evening just before dusk, Amma gives him alms he refuses. I take it to him, he accepts and walks away without a word and it rains in the night, just enough – not more, not less.

It is on the fifth day, Amma has by now stopped to fear. She has even gone out to a pooja at dusk next door. No one is home, for Appa is still in the farms digging canals in the field. Brother is helping him. I take the winnow of broken rice and stand by the door. There is no point in delaying the inevitable. The hair on my skin prickles just before he comes and then out of nowhere, I see him, standing in the doorway. Although every day he stood in the doorway silently, he stands today playing the same melancholy tune I heard on the first day on his flute. As he continues to play, I take a deep breath and smell the fragrance of monsoon.

I know there is no turning back but I still ask, “Why do you come?”

He stops playing “You know why?”

“Are you going to take me away?” I ask as the air around turns chill, not creepy chill but the comfortable chill that come just between a hot sun and satisfactory rain.

“I do not take anything that is not given to me willingly.” He replies.

“I do not want to leave home.” The sun seems to be pushing his way between the clouds.

“No Sparrow chick wants to leave its Mother’s nest.”

“Will it still continue to rain if I do not leave?” I ask with little hopes.

He only smiles in reply.

“If I leave?” I ask as the sun is again pushed beneath the dark clouds.

“It will rain.” He smiles

I believe his words. He says more than he speaks. He says every year in the monsoon it will rain just enough to turn all those barren lands to lush green crops. It will rain just enough to make those banana leaves droop down with dripping water, it will rain just enough for the girls of the village not to have to walk miles every day to the next village to fetch water, it will rain just enough so that Appa didn’t have to content himself with just one sip from the lota, more than anything it will rain just enough so that he didn’t have to carry his rope with him to the fields.

My eyes start to tear up “Can I visit them again?” I ask.

“It is up to you. no one will stop you if you wish to visit.” With that he has said all he has to say, He turns around, puts the flute to his lips, playing it, he walks away. He has said all that he has to say.

I look back at the house as distant thunders boom. I see Amma’s food from the afternoon that she has saved for Brother’s dinner, I look at the rope that Appa has left behind. That is when I know I will be happy, that is when I know, Appa and Amma soon will know I am happy.

I step away from the door, from under the awning of the house and that is when it starts to pour. The rain I haven’t seen in years, the rain that wants to make you dance, the rain that just doesn’t drizzle but makes you feel fresh and rejuvenated. I followed him.

*****

In a distant village, it is said that there is a daughter named Lachi who returns to her parents’ home just as the monsoon season begins, she eats nothing but a bite of Jaggery and takes a lot of dried Mango bites with her. She doesn’t say where she goes after. But all she says is that the girls love the Mango bites. Nobody sees her but her Appa and Amma, but the very day they say Lachi visited them, the Monsoon rains begin. Amma hasn’t starved herself since, Appa hasn’t taken the rope to the fields since. It rains just enough – not more not less.

***The End***