THE SEA

(A short story)

RAMEN POLIT

Sri Aurobindo Ashram, Pondicherry

“Have you ever heard the call of the sea” Samir asked suddenly.

“The call of the sea! What’s that?” we echoed in unison.

We took this as a frivolous remark or perhaps a cynical comment on my secret attempts at writing verse. But Samir’s face was impassive, betraying neither cynicism nor humour.

We your friends–Pravash, Samir, Saumen and myself–all confirmed bachelors, were enjoying the leisure of Sunday morning. What was such a fine day meant for except swallowing cups of tea and gossiping. Regarding the serious face of Samir, I thought to myself, “Now, our holiday is doomed!” Samir appeared to be more serious than usual. In fact he was not much communicative. A black sheep in our circle of friends, he was distant, throwing pungent remarks at odd moments, making us feel really uncomfortable.

“You are a practical man,” remarked Saumen, “I did not know you too, like Bijan, shared these poetical fancies.” “And after all, you are a materialist and an income-tax officer on the top of it, how do you reconcile your present remark with your profession, for example?” snapped Pravash, raising his face from his tea-cup. All remarks regarding materialism in general and income-tax in particular was distasteful to Samir.

I looked at him apprehensively expecting an outburst. Seeing that these remarks had passed unnoticed, I gathered courage and began humourously: “The call of the sea, the drum beat of the sky….” “and the trumpet-blast of Bijan” completed Srila, my sister-in-law suddenly entering with a steaming plate of snacks. “I say, what is all this noise about?” She said turning to me. I felt like a school-boy caught in some prank, and became suddenly tongue-tied

“No, no...er, I...I mean”...I began falteringly. “You are hopeless,” exclaimed Srila, “I don’t know how you manage to be a teacher–you should have been a stammerer by profession.”

Saumen came to my rescue. “No’, he said, “we are really worried about Samir. Leaving aside his professional duties, he has begun to hear the call of the sea–this really is a poet’s disease,” he concluded with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.

“Is it so?” replied Srila with a mock-serious face. Couldn’t this poor female also listen to your account? Oh Samir! if your story is exciting, I’ll reward you with steaming cutlets; there! That’s a good boy.”

This strengthened our position. We all began coaxing him to recount his story.

At the end, Samir began in a low voice, as if addressing himself more than to an audience.

“Well, it was pretty long time back, when I was young in heart and spirit. I couldn’t dream that circumstances would campel me to turn into a materialist and a cynic.”

“Hallo, hallo! what do I hear? Are you in your senses Samir!” snapped Srila.

But Samir did not mind this interruption.

“That time in my post-graduate classes I was much taken in by the English romantic poets. So much so, friends avoided me lest I should be reciting from the ‘Ode to the West Wind,’ or ‘Hyperion’.

This aspect of Samir’s character was unknown to us. He was taciturn, uncommunicative; who could surmise that this gaunt and prematurely senile individual should have borne such a keen love for poetry in his younger days.

Srila, however, could not control herself. She put her hand on her mouth to suppress her laughter.

“Can I believe you?” she broke out. Samir gravely nodded his head. Apparently he was ruminating about something. As we expected a good story, we frowned at Srila, who seizing our silent admonition, put her finger on her mouth in mock gravity:

“One day there came a break in this easy life devoted to poetry...” began Samir.

“Income-tax” interjected Srila, unable to restrain herself, I glared at her. She stopped.

“Oh! all that came much later,” replied Samir, “ I met a boy in extraordinary circumstances. It was summer. The university was closed. To escape the tedium of city life, I went to a small resort by the sea. Here was uninterrupted freedom. No wasting of long hours in seeking for jobs, between studies. Neither there was the constant din of the metropolis. Boundless leisure, splendid freedom! And the solitude was enchanting. The empty brain didn’t become devil’s laboratory, but became the playfield for the ghost of poetry.

One day I went out for a long stroll after breakfast. The sea was bright in the morning sunshine the brisk air was envigorating. Suddenly the sky became dark with ominous clouds the winds suddenly turned sharper and heavy rain came. In a few moments the waves of the sea grew violent. The sea, at a greater distance, became all dull grey churned with earth and sand. Near the shore; it was all foam and lashing waters hurled themselves with renewed violence on the beach. The beach became deserted. The fishermen and others like me had disappeared. The plight of the coconut and casurina trees was miserable, all bent before the fury of the storm. Loud thunders pealed and blinding lightning flashed in this prematurely dark scene. The horizon the sea was lost, the sky and the sea were one even grey mass.

This could have been the fit occasion for poetry, but sand and sharp rain came down on me and wind blowing a at supersonic speed (at least that is what appeared to me as the moment). I felt no inclination to recite ‘Ode to the West Wind’, but to seek a cover at any cost. With great difficulty I advanced and reached a tumbled down shrine, long disused; but the roofs were whole which offered shelter. I entered the temple to find that I wasn’t the sole occupant of the place. A young boy sat crouching by the wall. He was staring in front, through the gaping hole in the opposite wall, at the sea, rain and storm. He was of slight built; he had keen intelligent eyes but a sad and apprehensive expression. Beside him lay a basket and a fishing net. He was dry, unlike myself. He must have taken shelter before me, quite obviously.

“Hallo! there, who are you?” I asked. The boy gave a start. “I am Sukhan,” he replied meekly.

“What are you doing here?”

“I went out fishing. But seeing the coming of rains, I took shelter here,’ he paused, then added solicitously, “Please, sir, please wring off your clothes, you may catch a cold.”

Suddenly a blinding glare of lightning flashed. The sea roared as if it was the power of death itself. The storm renewed its violence. I sat down by the boy. There was something in the boy that attracted me: his pensive eyes, his dignified manner and his gentle behaviour. Having nothing else to do, for this summer-storm would take sometime to pass, I began conversation, in a casual manner.

“Aren’t you too young to be in the trade?” I asked.

“I am. But what’s to be done?”

“Why, Your father doesn’t he help you?”

“No, I have no father,” he answered sadly.

“Other relatives?”

“None. My granny is there, but she is too old to do anything.”

I didn’t press further. To change the subject, I asked;

“Don’t You like the sea?”

“The sea! Oh! I love it,” then clenching his teeth he added hoarsely,

“It’s also by bitterest enemy.”

“How?”

“That’s a long story. Shall you have patience to hear it?”

“Why not!”

In front of the back-drop of heavy monotonous rain, howling storm and roaring, tormented sea, the story sounded enchanting.

“Here is what he narrated. But let me remind you, he was not a professional story-teller. Simple facts were recounted with unadorned simplicity, devoid of art and sophistication.”

Samir paused. Impatient, I asked him: “Hallo! where is the famous call of yours?”

“Wait,” replied Samir “This is only an introduction.”

“Good God!” exclaimed Srila, “If Your introduction be that long, your main narrative would surely surpass Arabian Nights.”

Samir smiled. He continued:

“The storm raged unabated. Before a decade Sukhan’s family employed sixteen fishermen and they had four large fishing boats also, were the proud possessor of a fishing net two hundred metres long. To throw it in the sea it took two boats and eight men and to haul it back needed another eight persons, who had to drag for a full half hour, till the total net was pulled out. Forty to fifty kilos of fish could easily be hauled in one catch. Here Sukhan heaved a sigh. ‘Yes, all these are of the past. Now only myself and my aged grand-mother are the sole survivors, and that tiny net is all my fishing equipment.’

I interrupted, “But your parents and other relatives, what happened to them?”

Suddenly Sukhan burst out into a wailing cry “That devil of the sea has swallowed them all!”

Then when he calmed down, he continued: His grand-father came from Champaran in Bihar and as a boy he fled from home to Calcutta, where the city life didn’t suit him. The inborn wanderlust and his restless nature made him move from place to place and from occupation to occupation, till he finally got anchored here to marry and raise a family and ended up by building up an extensive fishing business.

When Sukhan was born, he was already quite old. And by the time Sukhan was two years old, he left the management of his business to his son. Sukhan has a faded photograph in his hut where the old man is seen squatting under the front verandah of their hut, surrounded by little children of the fishing village. In fact that was his only pastime: to smoke the ‘hookah’ and recount his youthful adventures, to his juvenile audience.

One morning a sudden storm swept on them, as it has done today. Feeling chilly, he crept into the hut and lay down to doze. Suddenly he woke with a start. “Who calls?” he cried “Lali, Baiju, Ghasi!”

Sukhan’s mother Lali was mending a net in the next room. She heard the old man but didn’t care to reply. She was none too pleased with her aged father-in-law. After a while she entered the room to find the room empty. But she didn’t worry. When the storm abated and all gathered for evening meal, the old man was still absent. They were worried. That evening and night there was no trace of the old man. Sukhan’s father Ghasilal rebuked his wife for not attending to her father-in-law. And they spent the night in great distress. Early next morning Sukhan’s father was startled awake, someone was calling “Ghasi, eh Ghasilal!” It was Gopal the fisherman living a few houses away. Together they went to the beach. Ravages of previous day’s storm were everywhere: broken logs, twigs, piles of leaves. In the hazy light of dawn they saw someone lying in a heap near the water-front. Coming close, Ghasilal recognised his father. He lay on his stomach with extended arms as if he attempted to clutch at something. His mouth and eyes were wide open, registering great terror and altonishment. “Yes, he was dead:” Sukhan paused. He heaved a sigh, wiped away his tears and clearing his throat continued:

“From that day they faced a reverse. Two of their fishing boats sank caught in an undercurrent. Majority of men employed left in fear. And as if that was not enough, there came flood and famine, followed by draught and pestilence. But Sukhan’s father was a courageous and hardworking man. With sheer dint of perseverance and tenacity, he pulled on against overwhelming odds. Three or four years passed, when...” ‘The sea called again!’ cut in Srila.

“It isn’t exactly like that. Where was I? Yes...after four years another storm visited them without any intimation. For two days and two nights it raged and followed by heavy rain. It became bitterly cold. Just before the storm began, Sukhan’s father had gone to a neighbouring village, for the hire of two boats, now that conditions were improving. Naturally during the storm he could not return home. On the third day a message was sent to that village. The headman of the village replied: “Ghasi? He was to come; but he hasn’t turned up.”

The shadow grew aeeper. By this time Sukhan had grown old enough to have a glimpse of the tragedy in his own childish way. Then the tragedy struck them in a new manner.

Sukhan’s mother was a sturdy woman, given to little talk but capable of great work. It was she who maintained the family after her husband’s disappearance.

It was the rainy season. It was drizzling with intermittant gusts of wind. Sukhan’s grand-mother sat by the kitchen-fire warming herself and narrating fairy tales to her two grand-children, Sukhan and Hasu. Lali, Sukhan’s mother, was not keeping good health for some time. Wrapping herself in her tattered kantha, lay asleep in a corner. Suddenly she woke with a start. “I come, I come,” she exclaimed and rose to her feet and rushed out, as if someone really had called her. The doors flung open. A gust of wind came and extinguished the tiny lamp. A bitch lying cuddled up in the front verandah, suddenly yelped as if someone had beaten her. And Lali went giddily out of the room. I tumbled and fell down in a swoon. They hurriedly went to her. When she recovered consciousness, she muttered “Yes, he had come, he called me.” From thence she showed signs of mental derangement. She would leave her work and all of a sudden would start giggling, or else would burst out in tears. She became quite unmanageable. People gossiped that she had been possessed by an evil spirit. Sorcers, witch doctors failed to cure her. In fact, as days went by, she became more and more erratic. At last the headman of the village sent word to her brother, Sukhan’s uncle, who was very much attached to his sister. He came down forthwith and took away Lali and Hasu with him to their parental place in Bihar.

Sukhan and his grand-mother were left alone. Sukhan did not want to leave his grand-mother, and she on her part did not intend to part with her husband’s hut and few possessions.” Sukhan stopped.

‘Then?’ I queried.

‘Well, now I am deliberating whom will the sea call next–myself or my granny?’

I shivered at these fatalistic words. How could a boy become so prematurely senile so as to lean to this utter dejection. I asked myself, is it natural? Could the elements exert so tremendous an influence on lives or men? Outwaradly I comforted as well as I could. “These are only superstitions,” I told him. Sukhan replied in a low bus sharp voice “That my grand-father and father died is true, that my mother became insane is equally true, then?” I had no answer to these questions. I merely smiled, patted Sukhan on his back and rose to my feet. Sukhan too rose and gathered his basket and net and put it on his head. The rain had stopped. The fury of the storm had become less as well. Only the sea growled on as if its prey had escaped its clutches.

Together we went to Sukhan’s hut. On the way I was silent so too was Sukhan. Sukhan’s grand-mother was overjoyed to see Sukhan. They invited me for a meagre repast. But I declined. I promised to come back some day before I left. Then I walked back to my hotel. Someone laughed aloud. It was Srila. “You are surely kidding, Samir ! Either the boy told you a cock-and-bull story or else you have yourself invented this, just to fool us. Call of the sea indeed!

Samir did not reply.

I was vexed at my sister-in-law’s comment. I frowned at her as if I was scolding a naughty child. Then I rose and went up to Samir. I patted his hand. “Is this end of the story?” I asked. Samir shook his head negatively. Then as if he was addressing himself he continued: “Visits to Udaygiri, Khandagiri, Konarak and other notable places kept me busy for some time. Before I left, I remembered all of a sudden that I had not paid a visit to my young friend.

I went to the fishing village. The door of Sukhan’s hut was closed. I called “Sukhan, eh Sukhan!” None replied. Perhaps the boy had gone out fishing. I turned about to leave and came face to face with Sukhan’s grand-mother. These ten days appeared to have made her more old and feeble. Tears were flowing from her eyes. She was tottering. Slowly she sank down and said: “Sukhan is not there, Babuji. After you left, he too rose and went out. He didn‘t pay any heed to my words. No, he hasn’t returned since.” Her cracked voice rose like a wailing. Then she added in a whisper: “Oh! the sea has taken him too as well.”

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