Non-Fiction
An Unforgettable Boat Ride
1955 was a memorable year. It was the year of the Great Flood. Our home was one of the few dwellings in the entire village which did not go under water. Our 'bangla-bari' --- an outer house detached from the main complex and used for a variety of purposes, including accommodation of a live-in school teacher --- was brimming with people who were given refuge. The temporary residents were villagers whose association with our family was forged over several generations. The communal camaraderie helped to alleviate their suffering. They waited patiently for nature to run its course; their homes lay submerged under water, with perhaps just the rooftops sticking out their heads in a show of determined defiance. There was very little to do. There was no school and our live-in tutor had to return to his own family. All activities appeared to have come to a dead-stop as nature unleashed its fury inflicting its worst assault on those who could defend the least. There was an inherent unfairness in nature's wrath, its dark mood revealing its viciousness at its worst - almost cowardly in spirit by attacking those who are most vulnerable. Being just a little kid, I was of course oblivious to this dimension of the tragedy. The buzz of so many people crammed into our 'bangla-bari' gave an appearance of a festive atmosphere. If there is any positive I can take out of this great deluge, it is my memory of an unforgettable boat ride with my father. He commissioned the ever resourceful Makub Ali Bhai, my father's trusted jack of all trades, to undertake the necessary preparations. The purpose of the mission was for my father to go on a fact-finding tour. Makub Ali Bhai hired a boat an uncovered dinghy which was propelled and steered with a long bamboo pole by none other than Makub Ali Bhai himself there wasn't anything he could not do. My father had some farm land in an adjoining village several miles away. He was concerned about the share-croppers families who tilled those fields. Usually, we saw them only during harvesting time when they brought their produce. My father agreed to let me accompany him on what I considered to be a joy ride. Our journey began at the nearest flood water point where Makub Ali Bhai docked the boat about 100 meters from our home. I don't recall any relief supplies or rations for the distressed families whom we were going to visit. It was perhaps meant to be a morale booster for the marooned farmers. One of the most fascinating sights for me was that of a raft made of banana plants tied together by vines which hang off tall trees as symbiotic plants. I saw a few young boys, not much older than me, navigating such a raft. They had evidently decided to get on top of their tormentor, i.e. the flood, and ride the crest of its rage and have some fun. They were carrying small fishing rods and evidently planned to take home some food too, making nature pay for its excesses. I felt a little foolish at my own incapacity and vulnerability. Dependable and deft Makub Ali Bhai might be, but I was nevertheless a captive in his hands! On the other hand, these boys had tamed nature, if not into full submission, but at least into a participatory venture like a mahout mounting an elephant. A few years later, the image of the raft-riding youngsters helped me to fully appreciate the essence of a well-known short story: the story line has a 'smart' young man from the city going on a boat ride; he quizzes the poor boatman's knowledge about 'important things' in life and harangues him about his ignorance; he smugly declares that the boatman's life is almost meaningless; then the skies turn dark and ominous; a nor'wester storm looms on the horizon; the boatman asks the sleek city dweller whether he knows how to swim and when he replies in the negative the boatman has sweet revenge by declaring that, under the circumstances, his own life might be devoid of some meaning but the life of his patron is totally meaningless. The image of watching these boys piloting their raft in an inland sea with reckless abandon while I sat crouched up in the middle of a boat will forever be a personalized sequel to this short story. So often are we blinded by our hubris. We are unaware of the impending storm which can easily shatter the shimmering glass house we live in. Our boat plied through endless water, an enormous front which stretched out in all directions. Little clusters of inundated huts were like tiny islands in this vast sea. Our boat stopped by some of these dwellings and Makub Ali Bhai's voice boomed, breaking the deadly silence of the gloom all around, and made our presence known to the huddled humanity inside. After some shouting and hollering, a man's face would peep out of the darkness. He would poke his head out of the makeshift machang (raised bamboo platform) which he had erected as close to the ceiling as possible. All available rations were hoisted up to keep his family alive while they played a waiting game with nature's fury. There would be a brief exchange of words between my father and the man. At best those would be words of encouragement assuring him that the worst of the floods was over and that the water would soon be receding. He must hang on as it was now going to get better! We docked in and out of these submerged homes for a few hours. More greetings and more words of hope. There was nothing more we could do or offer. Trapped in their sub-human machangs, only their superhuman resilience would have allowed them to extract any hope out of our visit. Makub Ali Bhai navigated the boat by instinct, with clumps of waterlogged cottages acting like markers. Finally, he looked at the sky and declared that it was time to turn the boat around. He didn't quite seek permission from my father for he was the captain of this little ship. We started this trip empty handed and we returned empty handed. But it was an unforgettable boat ride which imprinted in my mind some intense images of human ordeal and survival. Ours was no Noah's ark. I wish it was.
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