Nectar in a Sieve by Kamala Markandaya Read Free Book Online Page B

husband was building; but I could only point to the blackened tree, its head bitten off and hanging by a few fibres from the withered stump.
    "We must thatch our roof before the night," I said. "The rains may come again. We need rice too."
    Nathan nodded. "We may be able to buy palm leaves in the village -- also rice."
    He went to the granary in a corner of which the small cloth bundle of our savings lay buried. It had been heavy once, when we were newly married: now the faded rag in which it was tied was too big and the ends flapped loosely over the knot. Nathan untied it and counted out twelve rupees.
    "One will be enough," I said. "Let us go."
    "I will take two. We can always put it back."
    In the village the storm had left disaster and desolation worse than on our own doorstep. Uprooted trees sprawled their branches in ghastly fashion over streets and houses, flattening them and the bodies of men and women indiscriminately. Sticks and stones lay scattered wildly in angry confusion. The tannery stood, its bricks and cement had held it together despite the raging winds; but the workers' huts, of more flimsy construction, had been demolished. The thatch had been ripped from some, where others stood there was now only a heap of mud with their owners' possessions studding them in a kind of pitiless decoration. The corrugated iron shacks in which some of the men lived were no more: here and there we could see the iron sheets in unexpected places -- suspended from tree tops, or blown and embedded on to the walls of houses still left standing. There was water everywhere, the gutters were overflowing into the streets. Dead dogs, cats and rats cluttered the roadside, or floated starkly on the waters with blown distended bellies.
    People were moving about amid this destruction, picking out a rag here, a bundle there, hugging those things that they thought to be theirs, moving haltingly and with a kind of despair about them. People we knew came and spoke to us in low voices, gesturing hopelessly.
    "Let us go," I said. "It is no good; we will come back later."
    We turned back, the two rupees unspent. Our children came running out to meet us, their faces bright with hope.
    "The shops are closed or destroyed," I said. "Go inside. I will get you some gruel presently."
    Their faces faded; the two younger ones began crying listlessly from hunger and disappointment. I had no words to comfort them.
    At dusk the drums of calamity began; their grave, throbbing rhythm came clearly through the night, throughout the night, each beat, each tattoo, echoing the mighty impotence of our human endeavour. I listened. I could not sleep. In the sound of the drums I understood a vast pervading doom; but in the expectant silences between, my own disaster loomed larger, more consequent and more hurtful.
    We ventured out again when the waters had subsided a little, taking with us as before two rupees. This time things were somewhat better; the streets were clear, huts were going up everywhere. My spirits rose.
    "To Hanuman first for rice," said Nathan, excited. "The gruel we have been swallowing has been almost plain water these last few days."
    I quickened my steps: my stomach began heaving at the thought of food.
    Hanuman was standing in the doorway of his shop. He shook his head when he saw us. "You have come for rice," he said. "They all come for rice. I have none to sell, only enough for my wife and children."
    "And yet you are a merchant who deals in rice?"
    "And what if so? Are you not growers of it? Why then do you come to me? If I have rice I do not choose to sell it now; but I have told you, I have none."
    "We ask for only a little. We will pay for what we have -- see, here is the money."
    "No, no rice, but -- wait... they say Biswas is selling ... you can try...."
    To Biswas. "We come for rice. Look, here is our money."
    "Two rupees? How much do you think you can buy with two rupees?"
    "We thought --"
    "Never mind what you thought! Is this not a