THE LAST EARTHQUAKE……..a short story by RoshanC

September 18^th 2011

Darkness was falling on a hazy mid-September evening and the residents were preparing for blackout.  At the corner of the house, the frequency was set at S/W 60.04 MHz and the All India Radio host was bellowing the weather forecast for the next 24hrs. The ground outside was still wet as a result of the previous night’s torrential downpour and the wind outside was perpetually on the move making boisterous reverberation. The mud walls of the house kept the interiors warm and the thatched roof silenced the rain hitting the house, making it the coziest alcove for catnaps. Old Dataram cuddled himself at the corner of his bed, making sure not to budge his ageing wife from her peaceful hebetude. He was waiting for the local news at 6:40, a customary activity that he’d been religiously following from the day he got the radio, possibly the only notable item he got from his in-laws along with his wife. The only other room of the house was occupied by his two sons, who at the moment were already into deep hibernation.

A sudden jolt woke him up, his sluggish eyes reacting to the ground shaking under his bed. There was a grim silence for the next few seconds until this time the slight tremble was replaced by a strong jolt. Before he could clear his mind of the mayhem, a huge chunk of the mud-wall adjacent to his bed, perilously close, came crashing down.It was the third time the Earthquake had struck within seconds, and the century old mud walls had fallen prey to it. With a slight stutter he gestured to his wife showing the only exit door.She was already up on her spine staring sullenly at him like a rabbit caught in the glare of headlights. It struck again. Rising unsteadily on his feet, he followed his wife towards the door only to be joined by his two sons, like ants scurrying down a hole. And when the quake struck the fourth time in the ten minutes or so, and just when the family managed to make their way out to the open, the house came crashing down before their eyes. He looked back and stared sullenly at the rubble and a groan went up. A big drop of rain hit like a spear on his forehead. This purgatory night was to be sealed with the rain, and it saved him the shyness to hide his tears. And then it rained.

Old Dataram stood outside in the rain, unbroken and unnaturally still. His small thatched kitchen survived the nature’s fury, and from its shelter he could see the rubble of his house under the faint moonlight penetrating the darkest of the clouds. He heard the bleating of the goats in some distance, and then he realized that it was not just the humans affected. The shed which kept the goats was now just a pile of bamboos, and with the help of his sons he got the goats inside the kitchen. There were seven of them which cramped the tiny kitchen with eleven lost souls. He shut his eyes in despair; the worst would only be seen in the following morning. The whole night it rained heavily. The fire was lit and everyone crumbled around the fireplace, the wait for the first light of dawn was not far away; but was somehow not even anticipated.

This fateful night he found shelter at his neighbour’s house and he humbly obliged to the request. When he woke up the next morning after being offered tea, his eyes were still red and moist, a sign that he couldn't catch sleep as well as his tears. He didn't have the courage to go, or even look at the direction of his house. Everyone knew that it were all pile of mud and wood. Less than twelve hours and his life had completely changed having come to a standstill. The hot tea touched his lips at a very slow pace, all the while he was thinking. How could he rebuilt his life again, his house again, which had took him more than five decades to build?  The time in the clock said six and how Dataram just remembered the same hands of the clock the previous night had proved disastrous. Someone had just switched on the radio. The Earthquake had struck the entire state and the casualties were piling up. Old Dataram looked at the radio and silently cursed. Life would never be the same, not for Dataram, and not for many more like him.

It was still raining outside. And when it stopped for some hours in the afternoon, Dataram (instead of even looking at the direction of his house, which no more stood at its previous place) directly headed with other men towards the village to take an account of the damages incurred. The heavy rain had caused severe landslides and almost all the houses in the village had suffered some kind of damages or the other. But more than that, it was the fear that was clearly visible in everyone’s eyes. And this fear would certainly remain in their hearts too for many more days, if not years.

The whole day it rained and also in the evening until night slowly started falling in this small hamlet. Dataram had still to knock him back to senses. He was still lost, having not knowing yet what would be his next step. In small villages and with daily wage earners, there’s nothing known as a Plan “B”. It is only applicable to those who have a bank, or a bank manager as a close friend. For the next three days that followed, Dataram and his family quietly took shelter at the neighbour's. Only on the third day, and when the rains finally stopped, he, along with a group of villagers, starting scavenging the piles of his ex-house. They also constructed a makeshift camp for the family, strong enough to keep them safe for the next few months, for, rebuilding would certainly take much more time.

September 18^th 2012

There was a huge commotion at Dataram’s house. Crowd were swelling at every nook and corner of the house, smokes swirled from the kitchen bringing along smell of freshly cooked meat and other delicacies, the small veranda had chairs placed all over and some village girls were busy pouring tea to the guests. Inside the house, in a room at a corner, a pundit was busy chanting slogans, pouring ghee and various other mixtures into the small fire lit at the centre. Dataram and his wife stayed at one side of the fire, hand clasped in a Namaste, humbly obliging to the priest strange requests, sometimes a fruit, then two coins, next some chandan sticks, white flower and so on. Outside were his sons, busy catering the guests, offering them tea, snacks and finally escorting them to a small bamboo makeshift hut which functioned as the lunchroom for the occasion. It was a very special day for Dataram and his entire family; it was the “House-warming Party”

The Rebuilt

Dataram’s two other sons were in the Indian army. They had just joined the force and had left for their training when the fateful Earthquake had struck. Though the two sons did never witness the night, yet the plight of their family was never hidden from them. It was just a matter of time, and when the boys came back home as men, they had a much bigger task at home before they could think of their country. Then the story began of reconstructing the house. What Dataram lost was an ancestral house of mud and bamboo, which not even belonged to him, what now was been rebuilt was a five room structure of cement and rod, a house which he might have never even dreamt in his wildest dream to own in his lifetime. He was just months away from realising his dream home, a house that would have plenty of rooms for the family, even for a couple of guests, and above all, he could have one room all by himself (which he would happily share with his wife).

The poor man’s day had come in the form of his two sons. He ploughed other’s field, harvested other’s paddy, grinded other’s mustard, yet never let his children go to bed hungry, keeping in mind he had ten hungry stomachs to feed every day. He himself never literally went to any school, but he was among the hundred others from his village that carried logs and stones for the construction of the first school in the village. This poor man knew that the rooms that he was helping to construct would be the classroom for his kids in the near future. His children went to the same school, and henceforth moved ahead in life, and today grew up to take the burden off their father’s shoulder.

The last time I went to my village, Dataram’s house was very much into construction. His family was still put-up in the makeshift camp, yet his wife poured hot tea for me. I was surprised it was sugar tea (if you know what I mean). His son was busy giving directions to the carpenter, and upon seeing me, came to me with the request for the design for the window panels.

Metres away from me stood old Dataram, a big grin in his face. The reminiscence of the earthquake was quickly fading from his life.