by Tulasi Acharya
1984.
I was four years old. Heavy monsoon rains had been pouring down for a week, causing the Bakra River to overflow its banks. The river was just a mile west of my parents’ house in Charghare, in the village of Madhumalla in the Morang district. The house survived many monsoon seasons.
My mother endured her labor pains in that house where I was born. My father, along with his brothers, had toiled for a month to build it. The house sheltered us and the bees. The bee-covered hives looked like big black clumps of living mud suspended from the ceiling of the veranda. The bees never bothered us, even if we bothered them at times. They occasionally stung us as they defended themselves, but the inconvenience did not seem particularly significant, so we let them be. They lived with us like they were our family members. I sucked on a honeycomb as I ran about. Honey dripping off of my elbows, my mouth painted with sticky layers which dried and coated my face with a filmy translucent sweetness.
The house had a small attached barn for cattle and a storeroom to keep the harvested crops through the winter. It was a thatched house, but much stronger and more spacious than the house we would eventually have to build.
On that night, the flooded Bakra River stealthily approached our house, creeping closer until it was just a few meters away. Soon it engulfed the house completely. The flood water reached up to my parents’ thighs. It covered my chest. Looking down on the flood from the top floor of the house, we saw nothing but water everywhere. The river completely swallowed the land. My father said it makes him feel as if he is on top of a miniscule island, with no people or boats or ships for miles. We saw uprooted trees, debris, and dead animals floating past. Here in the countryside, we lacked any print or electronic media to learn of death tolls or displaced families. People began to leave. We watched them grabbing their belongings and rowing away on flat boats made of banana stems or bamboo sticks, crossing the vast, swollen swath of water toward the east, away from the river. I could see the swollen, red, tear-filled eyes of people escaping the flood. They looked like they were in pain. They left for the city in hopes of a new life, carrying nothing of value but hope.
Those who had nowhere to go worried about what would happen if it continued to rain and the waters rose further. We waited, too, expecting that it would stop raining and that the water level would eventually drop. We put our faith in luck, hoping the house would be spared. We, too, had nowhere to go.
Our extended family lived in the house with my parents: my grandfather, grandmother, my father’s older brother along with his wife and two children, my father’s two younger brothers, and me. During the flood rains, the entire family gathered in a single room and prayed to Indra. Indra is a Vedic deity in Hinduism and a guardian deity in Buddhism. His mythological power is similar to other Indo-European deities, such as Jupiter, Perun, Perkūnas, Brindanis, Zeus, and Thor. In the Vedas, Indra is the king of Svarga (Heaven) and the Devas. He is the god of the heavens, lightning, thunder, storms, rains, rivers, and war.
We placed our hands together in a Namaste position and prayed with all of our might that nothing bad would happen to us. We all chanted the same mantra in soft, trembling voices, the fear ripe on our faces: “Rahi, rahi, rahi, Indra.” We asked Indra to stop the rain.
The rains lasted one very long week. It took another week for the water levels to subside. The land was devastated. We could barely believe our eyes. The undulating floods caused landslides and swept away our ten acres of land, leaving just the house, surrounded by the rotting remains of dead animals and debris. The flood had taken all our crops of maize and rice, our only source of food and income.
Looking back, I believe now that our family’s chants and prayers helped stop the rain and prevented the Bakra River from sweeping away our house, our animals, and ourselves. “We were lucky,” my father said. “We were spared.” I now feel quite certain it was divine intervention.
There was nothing left but the thatched house, no way for the joint family to eke out a living, so my parents had a decision to make. We were all suddenly destitute, and destitution leads to desperation. Leaving other family members behind to fend for themselves, my parents decided to migrate to Gauradaha in the Jhapa District, thirty miles south, where my grandparents on my mother’s side lived. We left in search of food, clothes, and housing. We had nothing. It was not going to be an easy journey because my sister was growing in my mother’s distended belly, which looked bigger than a watermelon. There was no bus route, and we would have to walk through jungle-like woods that were untrodden and infested with wild creatures, including dangerous snakes. Now the jungle path we walked seems like a child’s fairy tale, but at the time I was full of fear. There is no trace left of the jungle except for the scanty ridges where they cultivate tea plants over hundreds of acres. Years later, the path we walked was replaced with a busy asphalt road, small towns and larger cities clinging to its sides.
At the time of the flood, there were no vehicles along that route except on the East-West Highway that passed by a little town called Urlabari, four miles from where our land had been so violently and utterly swept away. The jungle extended across the district and with it the threat of encephalitis, a mosquito-borne virus. There had been a great epidemic of encephalitis in the area, which was eventually eradicated in the 1950s, but fear of the disease was still palpable. Travellers had to walk in groups along trodden paths in the thickest arms of the jungle, to protect themselves against thieves who would suddenly emerge from the dense vegetation and steal people’s money and belongings at knife-point. Every so often along the jungle path, a small clearing would open up to reveal a hamlet with a tiny market containing scant grocery stores and a few small tea shops.
We left our family and waterlogged house early on a summer morning. My father had a large duffel bag that contained the entirety of our sparse wardrobe. The water level in the small rivulets that remained after the great flood had subsided to the level of my five-foot-five-inch-tall father’s knees. The Bakra River had shrunken, but it still occupied a space stretching all the way to the horizon. There were still many water-filled terraces on the farm. Bloated animal carcasses, debris, logs, and scattered haystacks littered the land. The dead animals lying in the scorching heat had begun to stink. The flood had dumped sand and other random objects on our farmland that had been ripe with golden rice paddies and corn just moments before. We would have been harvesting the rice by now had the flood not swallowed it all.
My father, carrying our clothes on his back, also supported my pregnant mother, hoisting her up and down the now slippery and treacherous terraces along the journey, treading carefully to avoid getting stuck in swampy muck or hidden water-filled ditches. I sat on my father’s shoulders with my legs dangling on either side of his sideburns and it looked as if my father was wearing a garland of legs. My father literally carried us all. He was a rock of strength, but still good-natured. When my father tickled the soles of my feet, I giggled and stuck my feet up in the air, grabbing the hair on my father’s temples so I wouldn’t fall off. I was happy on my father’s shoulders, safe above the water.
My father wore baggy pants rolled up to the knees. My mother wore a kurta that came down past her knees and harem pants underneath. Their clothes got soaked as they splashed through the water. I could see some people moving with their belongings on their backs, with their children by their side, or atop their shoulders like I was. I do not remember the conversations my father had with those people, but I could see the weary looks they exchanged. We were all in a similar pain.
After two long hours we exited the flood-covered swath of land and arrived in Urlabari. We had to continue moving farther south. It was still early morning, and the journey had just begun. The vast jungle lay ahead of us. I was just a young child, and this journey was exciting to me. I felt very safe being with my parents; they were my home, my world, my protectors, providers, and creators, like Brahma, Bishnu, and Mahesh. Brahma is the creator, Bishnu is the preserver, and Shiva is the destroyer/regenerator. In Hinduism, the cosmic functions of creation, maintenance, and destruction are personified by these three deities. Together, they are known as the Trimūrti in Sanskrit, meaning the trinity of supreme divinity. When I was bouncing along on my father’s shoulders, the world seemed to be filled with joy. I never had a sense of loss as long as my parents were by my side. The journey was fun. It was an adventure.
In the jungle, atop my father’s shoulders, the twigs and branches of the trees poked at me. As the wind blew, leaves fell off the trees and brushed against my skin and my father’s shoulders before falling gently to the ground. The road ahead was just a trail, strewn with leaves, narrow and meandering, but level. I saw jackals in the distance peeping at us through the trees. I heard hissing sounds and wondered what they might be. In some places the jungle was not very dense and the sunbeams streamed in glittering strands through the trees. I could hear animal cries in the far distance, birds chirping and crows cawing.
In Nepali culture, whenever a crow caws people wonder what message the bird might have for them, and they often predict that its message is a bad one. “Tell me, is it bad or good?” my mother sighed, as if asking the bird directly. We saw only a few others cross our path, but my parents continued walking with me on my father’s shoulders.
Throughout my childhood, my seat upon my father’s shoulders allowed me to see millions of things and gave my imagination room to breathe. I looked at the stars—dwarf stars, brown dwarfs, red giants, orange dwarfs, or so I imagined—and the clear, bright full moon in the night. I listened to his stories and old Aesop’s fables while perched up high. I had been to markets many times and done a lot of shopping with my father. I watched fairs and the circus while squatting on his shoulders. In my earliest years, it felt like I lived on his shoulders.
On the journey, I played with my father’s mustache, which my people viewed as a symbol of a man’s machismo. They believed that the mustache should not be shaved until his parents died. I giggled at his mustache because I did not have one. My smile was his panacea; it cured all of his ills. So each time he seemed drained of energy, he tickled my feet to make me laugh. The action was repeated frequently, my hands grabbing his hair and me guffawing and flinging my feet up in the air.
My mother shuffled along slowly, like a snail, holding my father’s hand. My parents talked to me more than they talked to each other.
As we headed farther south, the summer sun was sizzling right above our heads. My father was already drenched with sweat; perhaps I might have peed on him, too—after all, I was still so young. That day, he could hardly have distinguished the smell of my pee from his sweat. We continued walking. My mother started panting. She dragged herself forward for a few minutes and then could no longer move her feet.
“I can’t walk anymore,” my mother murmured, wiping the sweat from her forehead.
“Let’s rest for a while,” my father suggested. “You look thirsty. Drink some water.”
All of a sudden, my mother collapsed to her knees. Her belly shifted and moved under her garment. Perhaps my sister in her belly danced to the rhythm of my tickled feet, I thought at the time. But it was likely my mother’s sudden fall to the ground that roused my sister from her warm, wet sleep. My father propped my mother up with one hand and with the other held onto me.
My father set me down quickly and handed my mother the bottle of water he was carrying. “Drink,” he encouraged.
As soon as my mother swigged the water in gulps, her feet jerked suddenly and she fell back in a faint. My father shook her in a panic, holding her head on his lap and calling out, “Hey, hey, are you okay?”
My mother was stiff. My father sprinkled her with the bottled water, but it was too hot to be refreshing, too warm to rouse her. His forehead creased with worry as the sweat ran down his face in rivulets. His heavy eyebrows lowered and his eyes turned red. He continued calling to my mother, “Hey, hey, are you okay? Come on, please speak to me…” Laying her back on the ground, he stood and looked around. He paced left and right, circling around my mother, uncertain what to do. There was no one around to help.
The episode did not last more than a few seconds, but it felt like many hours. I started crying, unsure what was going on. Finally, my mother slowly moved her feet. My father grabbed her as if he’d discovered his long-lost wife after many years. She opened her eyes; they were searching for me.
“Where is my son?” she mouthed audibly between her gasps, while my father fanned her with his hands to cool her.
“He is right here,” my father said, pulling me closer so she could see me out of the corner of her eyes. “Are you okay?”
“Yes, I am fine now,” she said weakly. “The water got stuck in my throat. I could not breathe.” My father looked up at the sky. The sun was tilted ever so slightly towards the west; perhaps the time was half past noon. My father let her rest there for a while, with me by their side. I was terrified, but my father calmed me down, saying, “It’s okay, it’s okay” and patting me on the back.
The man made path through the jungle was still new to many travelers. It was a shortcut for people on their way to town to go shopping. Many people used it during festival days, especially Dashain, the important Hindu festival that occurred each year in October. Since it was summer and no festivals were approaching, we hardly saw anyone else walking along the path.
It would take almost two days to reach my grandparents’ house, with periods of rest for my mother. At the halfway mark, we arrived in a small village with few houses. It was a welcome break from our long walk through the jungle. There was a small market and a tea stall open on two sides with a straw roof, its corners supported by poles. Homemade benches and tables offered rest not only for residents, but for travelers, wanderers and beggars to stop by and quench their thirst, relieve their weariness and chat over sips of tea. These strangers shared stories about family life and the weather, avoiding any mention of politics. Everyone knew that political discussion in a public place was banned. If the government found them chatting about politics, they would be imprisoned.
Finally, after two days of walking, sleepless and exhausted, we reached my grandparents’ house in the evening. The house was made of corrugated tin and wood.
“Nothing is left,” my mother murmured. The moment my mother saw her parents she began wailing. “We are left squatters.” A stream of tears flowed down her cheeks. “Where do we go? What do we do?”
I saw my sister kicking in my mother’s belly. My grandparents hugged her tightly. “Nothing is lost; you are spared,” they said. “You will be okay!”
My mother couldn’t stop her tears. She dropped to her knees and sobbed her heart out in front of my grandparents. “Buwa, father, we lost everything—everything. We have no place to go,” she repeated. My grandmother started crying in sympathy with my mother’s pain, but my grandfather didn’t show any trace of anguish on his face. “Nothing can resist nature. It happened because it had to happen,” my grandfather said, lifting my mother’s teary face. “Don’t cry. Everything will be alright. It happened for a reason.”
My grandfather—slender and slightly stooped; smiley and smoky; puckered and peaceable—continued, “I will let you cry until that washes all your pain away, but remember you have a whole life ahead of you, and what has not killed you will make you even stronger. Be thankful that the flood swept away your land but left you and your child and husband unharmed, and the baby in your belly is still alive. God is great!”
Originally from Nepal, Dr. Acharya embarked on his American journey in 2008, pursuing a Master’s degree in Professional Writing at Kennesaw State University. His academic journey includes a Master’s in Women’s Studies and a Ph.D. in Public Administration from Florida Atlantic University. Currently, he is an MFA student at Georgia College. Dr. Acharya’s literary footprint spans across genres from fiction to nonfiction, poetry, and translation. Dr. Acharya’s short stories have earned accolades such as a Certificate of Excellence from the University of New Hampshire.