It was the month of March. In the fag end of the Indian winter . The sweaters have not yet been abandoned and summer hasn't fully arrived.
Mornings were still cool with dewy grass and light breeze.
We lived at our grandfather's home which was roughly 20 kms from our school .
The last ten kilometres were on the highway and were easily crossed by vehicles of all sorts. The first ten involved crossing two small seasonal streams on a bullock cart .
My grandfather was a zamindar ( a landowner). Though we had a rented house close to school, where we stayed during our school days, we were enjoying our end of the session holidays and we all had packed up and moved to the ancestral home in the village.
This day, 31 st of March 1979 was momentous for several reasons. My brother,my sister and I had all been promoted to higher classes . My brother was to start classes in class eight, my sister in class six and me in class four. Dadu ( my grandpa) took us all to school , despite it being a holiday, for two reasons .
We were supposed to collect our report cards and collect whole sets of new notebooks and books and other sundry stationery items.
My grandmother had also given a list of groceries to be bought from the town
She had also given a brand new cotton bag , dyed with raw indigo , for carrying the new books and note books.
The day started off bright and fruitful. We had all got distinctions in our respective classes and our sisters ( nuns from the convent school we attended) were mighty pleased with us .
My brother, being the eldest amongst all three of us, gave a small , impromptu inspirational speech to all my classmates, me being the youngest in the family. My friends clapped and my heart swelled with pride .
We also had to rush to the tailors , to give measurements for our new uniforms and then Dadu took us for a treat to the most famous sweetmeat shop in the town . We gorged on balushahis , boondi ladoos , piping hot spicy samosas , washed down with cups of scalding sweet milk tea . Life was good.
Dadu , being a respected citizen, always had dedicated rickshaw wallahs to ferry him around in the town. Today it was a person called Bilal . Bursting with all the purchases, good food and vibes , we four squeezed into the thin reccine seat meant for two . We doubled up , a common practice those days , and Bilal got to work .
It was late in the afternoon , and clouds had been gathering since morning . The entire day , in our excitement of getting new books and uniforms , we never noticed the weather .
Now we sat in the gathering darkness, noting glumly, the stuff breeze and the thunderstorm building up .
Apprehension and worry lining his forehead, Dadu urged Bilal to go " phataphat"( chop chop) . It was not an easy task . There were four of us , with load of books and sundry purchases and the poor cycle tubes groaned and squeaked on the tarmac.
Dadu , being the Bengali patriarch, wore his dhoti and kurta, while my brother wore shorts and we sisters wore frocks . Needless to add , all these clothes were crinkly and new , ironed crisp for the occasion .
Now , as the raindrops pelted us , we all could feel the damp soaking through and turning our clothes soggy. Dadus see through dhoti clung to his legs .
Bilal had rolled his dirty white pyjamas into a shorts of sorts, which was steadily getting wet.
Dadu had implied to Bilal, right at the beginning of the journey that , he is not to stop , at any cost, come rain and thunder.
Now, as the rain beat mercilessly down , and thunder crackled,deafeningly rolling across the skies, the road turned into a shiny white , lonely rivulet . My sister, B , is just two years older to me, but every inch the fierce mother. We clung to each other, occasionally wiping rivulets of rainwater from our face with our palms . My brother huddled together.
This section of the highway ran through the country side , and would be mostly bereft of traffic after dark. On a wet twilight like today's, there was scarcely anyone on the road. The trees lining the street swayed this way and that with the thrashing winds , like drunken giants .
In addition to the havoc wreaked by the weather, this was the decade of 70s, when lonely stretches of roads could quickly become a scene of petty theft, robbery or worse .
No way Dadu would let any danger befall three children he loved more than anything else .
He urged Bilal on and on , shouting above thunderclaps . On one occasion, the naive Bilal abandoned us on the side of the road and ran to take shelter under a date palm tree. Dadu shouted at him to return immediately.
We were born in the countryside and we knew that it was a terrible idea . One, because lightning is more likely to strike you under a tree ( as it seeks the heights of tree tops ) , secondly the date palm offers no shelter and thirdly ( this is mildly debatable), date palms harbour ghosts of road accident victims .
Bilal ran back and we proceeded on , bravely in face of slashing rain and whipping wind .
By now, we were all fully drenched and had given up the pretense of clinging to the rickety wooden frame of the overhead sunshade , a flimsy cover in rickshaws, mostly used to keep the sun out .
At the village bus stop, we were greeted by umbrella wielding people from our village. They had been waiting there since noon, as my grandmother had sent them to pick us up early .
No one expected this delay .
It was already eight PM and the bus stop mandir had closed for the night . Dripping wet, we waited for the bullock cart to come round to the front of the temple .
All of us , wet and tired , were bundled into the bullock cart, which, though padded on the sides and bottom with rice straw and bags of husk , was still very uncomfortable .
Every step taken by the bullocks , threw you in a new direction, against the Bamboo frames of the sides , or the roof . However, the downpour has reduced to a steady drizzle , and the roof being adequately airtight, we were protected against the elements.
Twice, while crossing the rain fed rivulets , the bullocks threw their yoke off and had to be put on by much whipping, cursing and cajoling by hardy workmen in wet dhotis and pugrees .
Eventually, we reached home , wet , shivering with achy bones at around 9: 30 pm.
Our lunch that had been saved for us , was heated up. We were changed into dry, clean clothes and we tucked into hot home made food, with gratitude and thankfulness . All these years later, I still remember the menu . We had broad bean curry, yellow dal and rice . We also had hot rotis . We were so famished .
But Dadu had kept his cool and with his wisdom and persistence, brought three of us kids safely home.
Although, my grandmother's indigo bag had run colour after getting wet and had coloured the edges of all our new books in a blue badge of honour. Anyone asking us about the strange colour on the book edge would be regaled with this amazing tale of survival.
