The Day the River Spoke By Kamala Nair

Class 07 English

A big bright tear splashed down her nose. And another. A kingfisher swept down, its wings an arrow of blue in the sunlight. And a green lizard slithered down to the river’s edge to bask in the sun.

“Dear, dear!” said a sleepy, murmuring voice, “What’s the matter?”

Jahnavi was startled, because she was sure she had been quite alone. It couldn’t have been the lizard. And the kingfisher was up in the thicket of bamboo eating the fish it had caught. It couldn’t be the parrots, because parrots shrieked and this was such a sleepy voice. She looked around her. There wasn’t a soul in sight. She was rather scared and wanted to run away.

“You shouldn’t cry, you know,” the voice went on. “And you really shouldn’t be scared, when you have been coming here to see me every day, well, almost every day.”

She was puzzled. It was such a voice, like the river. It couldn’t be the river!

“Well, tell me all about it,” said the River, for it was the River. “I’ve got to hurry to reach the sea, you know.”

“They won’t let me go to school,” said Jahnavi. “I asked my mother, ‘Why can’t I go to school like Ettan and Meena?’ And Mother had replied, ‘You are too small, baby. Maybe later.’ ” But when she was five, little Ramu was born and Mother still said, “Maybe next year. Jahnavi, mind your little brother while I go to the fields.” Now, she was nearly ten and minding Little Appu, who was the smallest. “They don’t want me. They only...”—she stopped with a sob...

“I am scared to go to school. And I’m so old now, they’ll never let me go. But I want to go. I want to learn to read like Ettan and Meena.” Jahnavi called her brother ‘Ettan’. Ettan means ‘Elder brother’, but his real name was Gopi. “I want to know why spiders are yellow in yellow flowers, why bamboo trees rustle, why the moon always comes from behind the hills, never the other way, why the baby fish in the field water become frogs, why...”

“Stop!” said the River. “You make me breathless. So many whys! I can tell you where the moon goes,” the River said conspiratorially. “It goes down towards the sea. I’ve seen; it always takes the same way — over the mountains and down to the sea, like me!”

II

“Even little Ramu goes to school,” said Jahnavi, “pity, the school isn’t by the sea,” said the River. “Then I could take you along, you know. But, I suppose I couldn’t really. You’d get your feet wet. And that would never do! I’m afraid there’s only one thing you can do.”

“Can I do something?” asked Jahnavi. “Well, it’s up to you,” said the River. “Seems to me little girls can do as much as little boys — they swim as fast as little boys. You just slip along one morning and sit there in the school and listen to what’s going on, and maybe the teacher will let you stay.” 

“I couldn’t,” gasped Jahnavi. “I couldn’t! They’d scare me! They’d chase me out.”

The River laughed. “You? Scared?” the River said, “when you’re not afraid of the green lizard, or of the snake in the bamboo clump, (Jahnavi startled) or the big trains rattling past that bridge.” “Trains are noisy; I prefer ships,” said the River.

Jahnavi never knew the snake lived in the bamboo clump.

“What are ships?” she asked.

“Big boats,” said the River, “so big that they can take hundreds of people, and they sail along the sea with lights that shine all night.”

Jahnavi held her breath. “Will they come here?” she asked.

“I’m afraid not,” said the River. “Too large, you know. Chandu’s catamaran is good enough for me. Chandu can take you to see a ship, someday.”

“They’d never let me!” wailed Jahnavi.

“Try going to school first,” said the River. “Remember — it’s up to you!”

Jahnavi gathered courage. The next day she reached the school, panting and out of breath and stood by the door listening while the teacher read out the lesson. It was a story about a prince called Asˊ hoka, who became a great king. Little Appu had fallen asleep on her shoulder. She crept nearer and nearer till she was in the back row, squatting with the others on the earthen floor. Little Appu made no noise and she listened.

“Where did you spring from, little girl?” asked the teacher. “And what is your name? You’re new in my class.”

“She’s Gopi’s sister, Gopi is in the next class,” said one of the boys. “It’s Jahnavi,” said another. “So, you’re Gopi’s little sister? Nice lad, Gopi.”

“If you really, really want to come to my school, Jahnavi,” the teacher had said, “we’ll talk to your father about it. Don’t you worry. We’ll find a way.”

Jahnavi saw the teacher walking up the steps to their gate the next evening when she was lighting the lamp. She could see her father scratching his cheek the way he did when he was worried and the teacher was nodding and saying something she couldn’t make out. And Mother said, “Little Jahnavi, I shall miss you when you go to school. Girls should learn as much as they want. When I was your age, I wanted to go to school, but your grandmother said ‘No’, but now, I am glad the teacher came to talk to your father.”

And Jahnavi said, “Mother, when I grow up, I’ll be a teacher and I’ll go from house to house in our village and ask all the little girls to come to my school. And I’ll teach them all that I’m going to learn.”

And she went down the path between the fields the next morning before school began, to meet the River. “I did it!” she told the River. “I was scared, but I did it! And they’re letting me go. I’m going to learn to write my name and do sums and find out why our little fishes in the rice fields turn into frogs.” She heard the river’s sleepy chuckle, “Come again, little girl, and I’ll tell you all about the ships that sail the sea.”