Half a Rupee: Stories by Gulzar Read Free Book Online

and said, ‘If you could have held on to your pregnancies, here also would be a long line of kids.’
    Shobha glared at him, ‘There is a God above, no, to save me. Here … eat it.’
    Damoo grabbed her wrist, ‘Why, God’s your relative or what?’
    ‘Let go of me!’ Shobha said in mock irritation. ‘Be readyto leave … just look how fast the water’s filling up.’
    Shobha had propped a chair on top of the two trunks. Damoo quietly stood up and climbed atop the chair, ‘This high your relative cannot come also. Forget the water.’
    ‘Be careful! Don’t fall down. There won’t be anybody here to pick you up.’
    ‘Why? Where are you going?’
    ‘To the roof on the garage. They need help. Even Kishni’s there.’
    ‘When is she coming back?’
    ‘As soon as the rain lets up we will all return.’
    But this time round nobody let up—neither the rain nor Damoo. The floodwater in the lane kept surging. The drain metamorphosed into a river. Muqadam’s youngest son fell into the water and was swept away. A few people ran to pull him out but the current dragged the boy further away. A few people got wounded in the effort. Some people thought that the boy had got sucked into an open manhole above which the floodwaters had created a whirlpool.
    And then the electricity went. Or perhaps the government had shut off the power to stave off electrocutions from short circuits. As the day began to wear off the city begun to drown in darkness as well. The three garages on the upper side of the lane got filled with six feet of water. The cars, stripped of their engines for repair, were floating in the water like graves. There were a number of huge floor-to-ceiling cabinets in the garage. People threw out the stuff from the shelves closest to theceiling and crawled into them. No one had any intention of stepping down till the rain abated.
    Those who could escape sought shelter on the roofs of sturdier buildings, in hospital verandas, in school classrooms. Kishni was sitting lifelessly in a hospital veranda. Somebody had broken the news to her—they said Shobha was seen drowning in the floodwater; a few others said that she had been bitten by a snake. A number of serpents had been seen swimming in the deluge.
    While there still was some daylight left, a couple of young men did venture to enter Damoo’s kholi. But they could not break in. The water now reached up to their necks. The goat hung in the water, legs up, in the doorway. It was long dead. The undercurrent near the wall was strong, and the window at the back was totally under water. Damoo had somehow managed to pull the other table—on which Shobha kept their utensils—up on their bed. A few pots and pans were still floating in the water. Most had been swept away. The roar of the rain and the gurgle of the surging water threatened to split their eardrums. The young men called out for Damoo, yelled his name till they were hoarse, but Damoo—a bottle in one hand and a long wooden stick in the other—was busy trying to fish out a few floating tomatoes and cucumbers from the water. He was actually fishing—hooking them and then reeling them in. And he was laughing. He neither heard them call out to him nor did he call out for help. Perhaps he had not even thought of seeking help—he was still above the water, he was still in the race, the bet was still in play: who would let up first—the rain or Damoo.

The Charioteer
    The first steamboat to Elephanta Caves left the piers of Gateway of India at seven-thirty in the morning. That was why Maruti had to be there by six-thirty. His chores were well-defined: sweep the boat, pick up the litter of last night’s passengers and finally wash and mop it clean; then move on to the next boat. That was what his mornings were all about, that was his routine.
    Narasingha Rao, his employer, was happy with his work but he had the foulest mouth one could possess—he had no control over his tongue, swearing out a litany of