Sandstorm

It was the summer of 1976, and another savage sandstorm lashed Delhi. The howling wind swirled up dust, leaves, and bits of paper towards the sky. Sand stung my eyes and enveloped everything outside in a blur.

Thwack! A sparrow crashed into the glass as I struggled to bolt the windows. It flapped its wings for a second until it fell, leaving a streak of blood and dust. It would be dead before I could run outside to its rescue. I'd only get choked by the flying sand and scratched by thorns.

I turned the gold band on my finger and shuddered. Sameer was flying alone above the desert. Was his fighter plane turning in clouds of dust and falling . . . crashing? I clenched my fists till my nails dug into my palms.

After a while, giant raindrops splattered on the window. When the shower died down, I packed my satchel. I would go as usual to Poonam's place to study. Her brother, Sameer, had joined the Air Force and was no longer around to help us with Algebra. Poonam and I wanted to go to the same college next year. Without Sameer's help, we needed to work extra hard to get there.

I sped down the lane on my bike, passing rows of identical ochre and brick-red houses occupied by government officials. Poonam's family lived in one of those houses, as did we. I had to reach there fast and feel reassured about Sameer.

I turned the corner and faced the mausoleum of some long-forgotten nobleman. We were used to such ruins dotting the Delhi landscape. Modern buildings sprang up beside them and life flowed on around these islands from a distant past. The tomb stood upon a flat-topped mound. Some blue and white tiles on the onion-shaped dome remained as traces of its former beauty. That afternoon, I willed myself to look away from this place of the dead. I focused on the Algebra lessons and . . . thought of Sameer.

I soon reached Poonam's home, the last bungalow in the next lane. Her mother prided herself on maintaining the neatest lawn on the street. How could she have allowed the open gate swinging on its hinges? Stray animals could saunter into the garden and ruin her dahlias and periwinkles. I entered and secured the latch. The front door was wide open too, and through it I saw Poonam's parents sitting on the couch. She had her head on his shoulder, sobbing, while he stared blankly at the wall. I stood at the threshold, uncertain whether to enter or leave. Poonam came out and held my hand. I looked up in silence at her puffy, red eyes, and waited. Her words emerged slowly. "A messenger came with the news just before the storm began." She stared ahead and bit her lip.

"It's about Sameer, isn't it?" The words screamed inside my head but only a gasp broke through.

"My brother . . . His plane . . . is missing over the Thar desert. No traces." Poonam's hoarse whisper trailed off into a sigh.

I don't remember how long we sat there on the portico steps holding each other's hands. I do remember glancing back at Sameer's picture on the mantelpiece. In it, he wore his Air Force pilot's uniform, like the day he left home. We had a farewell party for him that evening. He came to offer me a slice of cake, held my hand, and whispered, "Will you wait for me?"

After a while, I rose to leave. Poonam offered to come along. I thought she should stay back to console her parents, but didn't contradict her. We trudged up the lane in silence, me pulling my bike along. A gust of cool wind made my hair fly around my face.

The ruined tomb lay straight ahead. A tall, gaunt man in the saffron robes of a Hindu sadhu stood beside it. As we approached, he climbed down the base of the mound and walked to the roadside. His saffron robes, long beard and hair, and a face smeared with holy ash signified renunciation of the material world. But symbols and holy trappings didn't make a saint. Crooks were known to disguise themselves as holy men.

"Jai Shiva Shankar!" cried the sadhu, his voice like the raging storm. His invoking Lord Shiva, the destroyer among the Hindu holy trinity, made me shiver. The sadhu shook his long black trident, rattling the string of cowrie shells dangling from its tip. His matted gray beard and bushy eyebrows hid all but a hawk nose and dark, bottomless eyes. Those eyes sucked in our consciousness, our willpower, like a pair of black holes. We had no choice. We followed him up to the tomb.

He climbed like a mountain goat, his cracked, bare feet gliding over rocks and soil with equal ease. We followed, stumbling up the fifteen feet rise to the tomb. We slipped on loose stones. Thorns scratched our hands and knees, and tore into our dresses. This place of the dead was teeming with life. A parrot peeped out from a crack in the tomb's wall. An enormous beehive hung down in folds from a side of the door into the tomb. Snakes and scorpions would be there too, hidden below the stones and crevasses. The stench of bat droppings filled the air, and something dark flew past my face, brushing my hair as it passed. When we reached the top of the mound, I could see inside the tomb through the arched doorway. The golden rays of the setting sun lit up a pot of holy water, a sadhu's constant companion. Beside it was something round and white. I swear it was a human skull.

My feet followed the sadhu. I glanced at Poonam, but she walked on, staring straight ahead. True sadhus were known to do severe penances to gain spiritual powers. Many spent their entire lifetime in caves in the Himalayas, living on meditation and prayers. The greatest among them were said to have gained control over time and space, even over death. Who was this man who beckoned us on?

Saint or criminal, I steeled my resolve not to follow him inside the tomb. As long as we were outside, in daylight and full view of passersby on the road, we were safe. I clutched Poonam's arm. If she couldn't draw herself away, I would help her.

The sadhu turned to face us with those infinite eyes. "Fear not, my children," he said. He placed a pipal sapling on the ground and placed the pot of holy water beside it. "Plant this, water it every day, and pray for your loved ones."

We took a sharp stone, dug into the soil, and patted the sapling into place. Then, we sprinkled holy water from the copper pot upon its tender, heart-shaped leaves.

"Jai Shiva Shankar!" chanted the sadhu. The name of Lord Shiva resounded inside the tomb like a force destroying everything in its path to make way for new creation. We felt ourselves being sucked inside. I held on to the tomb's wall while Poonam clutched at my arm. Through the arched doorway of the tomb, we saw the sadhu walking, supporting a tall, well-built man. They passed outside through the opposite door. A whirlwind raised up dust around the two figures. When the dust died down, they had vanished.

I don't remember how long we stood there, staring. "Where did the sadhu go?" Poonam was the first to speak. We walked around the mound but didn't dare to enter the tomb. I peeped through the arch, but there was nobody. Inside the mausoleum, there was nothing but markers for the graves of the nobleman and his family. There was no place for the two men to hide. We walked through the archway to the other side, where the two figures had been caught up in the whirlwind. We found two sets of footprints in the moist soil. One was from a pair of bare feet. The other had shoes and scuffed the ground as though the person wearing them had trouble walking. Both sets of prints were large, obviously belonging to men. The footprints continued to the edge of the mound, a sheer drop fifteen feet below, and there they ended. The soil below was clear. We found no further sign of footprints or of heavy objects being dragged away.

The soil was moist from the recent shower. Where was the dry sand and dust raised by that whirlwind?

We looked at each other and returned to the pipal sapling. The copper pot had vanished. Approaching twilight darkened the lavender and purple sky. We had to leave before snakes and scorpions emerged from their hiding places. I made a decision. "We'll come to water the pipal plant every evening."

"We'll pray for my brother," added Poonam.

Then, we parted ways to walk to our homes. When I opened my gate, I heard a rustle in the hedge and bent for a closer look. The sparrow! It was fluttering its wings to break free of the hedge. The leaves had broken its fall. I parted the branches and cleared a path for it. It hopped out, stretched its wings, and flew unsteadily to the top of a nearby tree.

****

Today is May 30th, 2004. Sameer tells the taxi driver to stop as we near the tomb. The plaster has been cleared of black lichens and moss. Steps are cut into the neat wall of stone blocks supporting the sides of the mound. A fence around the top of the mound encloses a manicured lawn. A large pipal tree spreads its branches over the lawn, sheltering a family of picnickers.

Poonam steps out of the taxi, arranges the folds of her pale blue chiffon saree, and takes in the surroundings. I follow her out and put my arm around her still-trim waist. Sameer is the last to emerge from the taxi. He stands behind us and places a hand on each of our shoulders. Poonam's husband, Rahul, watches from inside the car.

Today's the anniversary of Sameer's accident in the desert. Life has taken us to far off parts of the country, but we meet here at this time each year. Sameer begins an account of that terrible day. We know the tale by heart and yet are eager to hear it again.

Sameer speaks as he climbs up the steps to the top of the mound. We follow him, listening. "The sky was clear when I took off. Dark clouds loomed in a corner of the horizon," he continues. "But I ignored them. After half an hour, the skies turned muddy. My plane hit an air pocket and plummeted down to a dangerous low before I could lift it up again. The turbulence increased. My plane turned and rolled.

"I had to look for a landing place, but the nearest Air Force base was 120 kilometers away. My plane tossed about like a toy in the wind. The tan, sand-laden sky and the endless dunes swirled before my eyes. The storm raged like Lord Shiva dancing the Tandava as He destroyed the world to make way for new creation.

"Lightening struck and blasted off my right wing. The plane was crashing. I ejected and opened my parachute. I saw nothing but sand dunes as I floated down. A soft landing would be useless. I would die in the middle of the desert without food or water unless a rescue party found me soon. I prayed before I blacked out."

Poonam looks up at her brother's face. I squeeze her hand tighter. We're on top of the platform now, sitting on the thick grass in the shade of the mausoleum, waiting for Sameer to finish his story.

"I don't know how long I was lying there on the sand," Sameer says. "The blazing sun scorched my face. My tongue stuck to my mouth and my eyes burned. I tried to rise but pain stabbed my body. I needed water. I knew I was fainting, and might never wake up again.

"Drops of cool water soothed my burning face and parched tongue. I was lifted up and felt as though I were floating. The pain vanished. A man in saffron robes supported me up and carried me away. Revived by the water, I looked down at his feet. He seemed to hover rather than walk over the sand. I saw no footprints. I felt cool, relaxed. The words 'Jai Shiva Shankar' resounded in my ears as I drifted off to sleep."

Rahul climbs up and marches towards us while Sameer is speaking. He's shorter, stockier than Sameer, but shares the same upright military bearing. Their friendship dates back to their days as cadets at the National Defense Academy. Sameer, Poonam, and I turn to face him. He always adds the finishing touch to the story.

"When Sameer's plane went missing in the sandstorm," Rahul says, "everyone at the base was worried sick. We had to wait a day for the storm to die down before starting a proper search. They located the burnt wreckage, but there was no trace of Sameer. Even if he had survived the crash, he would have died of thirst.

"We were driving to our base a few days later, when I saw what looked like a man lying by the wayside. We stopped and turned over the body to examine the face. It was Sameer! And he was breathing! We lifted him gently into the jeep and took him straight to the doctors at the base. They found no injuries except a sprained foot and mild dehydration.

"We found Sameer around a hundred kilometers from the crash site. They said his parachute could have been carried away by the strong wind. How he survived without water remains a mystery."

Poonam looks up at her husband and squeezes his hand. I look up at my husband, Sameer. His hair has turned a dignified gray at the temples, but his eyes still have that mischievous twinkle. The four of us go to our pipal tree and pour water over its roots.

© 2004 Monideepa Sahu