Red Earth and Pouring Rain Read Online Free PDF Page B

Sandeep. Finally, when all were seated in a little circle
     around Sandeep, Shanker said, softly:
    ‘We are eager to hear it, sir. Tell us.’
    And Sandeep said:
    ‘Listen…’
    In my wanderings through the dense green forests of the foot-hills, I happened upon a clearing where soft grass grew under
     foot and sunlight hung in golden bars through the branches above. Weary, I sat on a smooth, black slab of stone and opened
     my bundle; as I raised my last apple to my lips I saw a form on the other side of the clearing, a dark form lost in the patchy
     shadows and in the green, black and brown of the trees behind. I rose to my feet and walked over, my feet sighing against
     the dense grass.
    ‘Namaste, ji,’ I said, folding my hands in greeting, for it was a thin, wiry, dark-skinned woman, dressed in bark, seated
     cross-legged on a deerskin, head bent over so that her shaggy black hair hung down to brush her shins. She was peering, unblinking,
     into her cupped hands.
    ‘Namaste, ji,’ I repeated, with no response forthcoming. I knelt down and saw that she was staring, with a wild intensity,
     into a little water that she held in the bowl made by her palms. Her face was emaciated. I looked around and noticed the grass
     growing over the edges of the deerskin, the dead leaves caught in the dark hair and the fingernails that had grown till they
     curled around, twisted and fantastic. Remembering, then, our first poet, who too had stared at a mystery in cupped hands and
     found poetry, I resolved to stay in the clearing and serve this woman who meditated upon water, probably seeing things I could
     not imagine. For a long time, I do not know how long, I attended to her needs, picking the twigs out of her hair and carefully
     cutting her nails with a sharp knife, while she sat like a statue, never once blinking or looking away from the secret in
     her hands. Every day, I laid wild fruit and a cup of fresh water by her side. About once a week, I woke to find the rough
     earthen cup empty and the fruit gone. I suppose I should have felt fear, but looking at her face, weathered and lined, not
     young or beautiful, I could feel only warmth. I could not imagine that she could do me any harm; I was, after all, her shishya,
     her disciple. One day, I knew, she would look up at me and smile.
    The seasons passed, and still I stayed, and soon I grew so used to the routine of foraging, cutting grass and cleaning up
     that I expected nothing from her, no explanations, no gratitude, no smiles. In that clearing, in that world of sunlight and
     rain and night sounds, I felt that I should pass the rest of my days, perhaps the rest of time, serving my silent mistress.
     The wind moaned through the branches, and I felt as if we had both vanished into the light and dark of the forest, melting
     away until we were nothing but two particles in the huge surge of life that swirled around us, ebbing and flowing according
     to the rising of the sun and the rhythm of the rain.
    So, one morning I came back to the clearing with a handful of ripe tamarind and two chikus. Putting the fruit on the deerskin,
     I picked up the cup and was about to walk away when I heard:
    ‘Thank you.’
    The voice was husky and deep. I sank to my haunches and peered through the thick black strands that hung down like a curtain.
     The cupped hands slowly rose and the water splashed over her face and chest; she looked up at me, then, large dark eyes twinkling,
     and smiled, smiled a happy child’s smile that revealed a large gap between her front upper teeth.
    ‘Thank you very much,’ she said. I nodded, unable to speak. ‘Have you been here for very long?’
    I nodded again, and then burst out with all the questions that had accumulated over the long silent days. She shook her head,
     and would not tell me her name or where she came from. She did tell me, however, that she had fled from the world of men and
     women, disgusted with its inconstancy and the ephemeral