A Drop of Life

Watching the dawning and setting of sun over the sand has a tremendous effect. It is almost magical, as is my recollection from a June morning, ten years ago, when I stepped out of the overnight bus, in rural Jodhpur (Rajasthan), India. There was nothing but a vast sea of sand in front of us, and the sun was rising over it. Like a master it was rising and with pride looked down at the infinite number of sand particles, which seemed to be minuscule duplications of the godly sun, itself. Each particle shone as if in pleasure at the master's sight, absorbing the beautiful orange light and storing it in its small entity. Energizing itself with the heat, which burned in them all day, as it did in the sun.

When that trip was being arranged through college, not many parents were happy. Spending the summer in the desert was not wise they rightly pointed out. But without much choice the wards had to be sent, that being a mandatory training excursion to study the water and soil management in the desert. We were seven girls with one professor as our guardian. Desert land, devoid of water, and soil that would not hold water, that gives the perfect challenge and full scope for this particular field of study. Also, a desert should be visited in the high of summer, as the passionate intensity of the sand land could be best understood only in the summer.

The rains had not blessed the land for almost three years. That year was no exception. The drought had resulted in dying of already half-dead cattle and drying up of the water-scarce canals and rivers. The previously deep water tables had receded to levels to which depth no well could be dug. In that trying situation we ventured the land of utmost beauty.

There we were young girls in our early twenties ready to take the challenges. Every morning we got ready, equipping ourselves with sun-hats, scarves, sunglasses, notebooks, and water bottles. That was a similar morning. The sun glowed threatening us with all its might, but disregarding the intimidation we climbed the Jeep and left for the nearby villages. After completing our survey forms visiting a few water wells and having lunch at the village-chief's house we were ready to leave for the shelter for that night. Many had warned us about the "Kali-Andhi" (Black Storm) the most dreaded sandstorm of Rajasthan. But little did we know that we would encounter it ourselves. We were expecting to hear more dreadful stories and take them back as stories, not to have one of our own. But we did.

That afternoon driving in the immensity of sand we were happy. Singing all the songs we could remember. That was a fun expedition, until the driver stopped. He, a native of Rajasthan, saw "it" coming. He said that it was best to stop and wait for the storm to pass, before we continued any further. Not aware of the full power of the storm, made us fearless. One girl proposed to get down of the vehicle and see the monster approach us. She was reproved, which settled her down in her place.

The storm engulfed us, with its enormity. There was yellowish shroud around us. The brightness had intensified, seemingly. Those were sand particles rising themselves and waltzing madly around us. Teasingly they danced and daunted us for a long time. Sand was all over us, in our eyes, hair and shoes. Then for a moment it appeared as if it had subsided. It was not over yet. The yellow was now changing to an orange-red, very much like the reddish glow at the time of dawn and dusk. The wind was blowing hard. Suddenly it seemed as if the squall had changed directions. It was then that we discerned a musical sound coming from somewhere nearby. It was as if someone was whistling or playing on a lute. That was a distraction from the storm. We now had a mystery to solve. The mysterious music made us wonder, who could be insane enough to play on a lute at the time of that difficult weather condition? A girl suggested that that might be a wandering spirit. Half amused and half nervous were our giggles that followed. During the entire uproar, the professor sat unusually reposed. Probably, his concern for our safety had pushed him into a silent worry. Some more minutes passed by and we couldn't figure out the source of the melodic entertainment we were receiving. Our sand-flogged minds weren't bright enough at that time. It was only when our Jeep-drivers memory was refreshed about the pipes, which he had tied up at the roof of the vehicle. Wind was blowing into them making those tuneful and playful sounds, seemingly amused and indifferent to our tense circumstances.

By that time the angry storm had turned from red to a dreadful gray, finally taking a black shroud over it. We were terribly frightened, then. The driver insisted that we hold on to each other as strongly as we could. The Jeep swayed many times, each time stabilizing itself back into its original position. The darkness, which swallowed us up, was as black as a new-moon night, whereas a feeble peek at our watches said it was only six in the afternoon. After twenty minutes, which seemed like eons, the reverse process began. The blackness changed to gray, then red and then in to bright yellow. Finally, the storm moved on leaving us thirsty, disheveled, and very exhausted. The last drop of water from our bottles was gulped down hurriedly somewhere in the brief quiet moments that storm gave us. On top of all that there was a dune, which had immersed the back wheels of the vehicle. The driver said we would have to get down and push the Jeep to steer it out of it. But we had no strength left; we only wanted a few drops of water to wet our throats before we consented to do that.

Sitting there, cursing the storm and the moment we took that trip, we felt very restless and helpless. In the vast sand, there was nobody who could bring us a drop of water. From the empty distance, to the amazement of our eyes, a dot emerged. That dot was gradually getting bigger and bigger. That was a man carrying two water-filled pitchers tied with ropes at each end of a broad stick on his shoulder. A frail and tired looking man approached us and said something in the native tongue and accent, which was foreign to us. The driver conversed with the man and explained the whole situation. The man seemed very sympathetic to us. He was pointing to our bottles and seemed to be asking if we had water. When we shook our heads in negative, he offered to fill them up. We were eyeing his pitchers, greedily. That was when we saw the awful sight of the water. It was dark and muddy in appearance. The helplessness that thirst can generate in the human body is very overwhelming not to mention so strong that it leaves the body weak and sometimes lifeless. That is what we felt in those moments, lifeless and longing for a drop of water. Even the murky and filthy water did not seem a wee bit less than nectar to us. He tried to explain, regretfully, that the water was not very good. He had to walk two miles down the direction from which he came to us, for it. That was a daily ritual, he articulated through words and hand-gestures. The water source was a nearly dried up canal, we gathered. After learning that, we could not take more water from him. He said that he was used to carrying water, whereas, us girls seemed to be new to the situation. He also added as the driver explained that we were guests in Rajasthan, and by the culture of the land should be given the treatment fit for gods. After water was kept for a while to let the sand and debris settle down, we quenched our thirst. Pushing the vehicle, it turned out was not that big a task anyway. The lax and dry sand drifted easily from a slight push from us. We insisted to the driver to convince the man to take a ride back home with us. He would not comply and walked away with a smile as if that was what he did everyday of his life.

Water was and still is more precious than anything else in that land. Fancy a man who toiled through the burning sand for two pitchers of water, for a long distance of two miles. Water, which his wife probably needed for cooking, his children wanted to quench their thirst with. Water, which his children might have wanted to play with, but were advised not to touch. With that dear-than-life water, of which each drop might be like gold to him, he parted so easily.

That face is still alive in my memory, those smiling and kind eyes. And so beautiful, in its entirety, sunken cheeks and deep-set eyes, graying and receding hair and thin limbs with thick raised veins, an obvious outcome of hard physical labor. In other circumstances that man would have given the impression of being the needy one. We could easily have found him to be our inferior, socially, intellectually, and economically. But amazingly, in those moments he appeared to be standing at a height from us and we all raised our heads to look up to him. Today when I look back, that face still smiles at me from that pedestal.

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Published on 7/25/05