Special Edition: Hema Ravi

Hema Ravi

When hope rests in the soul…(Prose)

Roshni watched the sights from the open verandah.  Beyond the treacherous mudslide stood the stoic hills, a picture of verdant green.  Above the hills, white clouds were gently passing by.  No tell-tale signs of the disaster that struck the villages below; in a matter of seconds, she, along with a hundred others lost her homes, livelihood and belongings – all around the air was putrid.

She shed copious tears as the uniformed men pulled out bodies.  A smile lit her shriveled face when there was a shout of joy - a survivor!

Strange are the ways of Mother Bhagirathi. Just a month ago, hundreds of people from her village and the nearby villages had gathered for the annual festival.  She, along with others prayed for timely rains and well-being of all.  Some well-to-do people gave them sarees and sweets. Roshni was overjoyed to get a brown cotton saree with paisley design.  One of the two sarees she owned was almost in tatters; the gift was manna from heaven not just for her, but for the others too.

It was now gone forever, devoured by the torrent, along with her thatched home and meagre belongings. Stoic and resilient, she knew there was a higher purpose in her life being spared in the deluge. She had survived greater storms – the demise of her god-fearing parents, and devout husband; amidst it all,  she had managed to hold on to the gossamer threads.

Most of the people in the village were small farmers who grew apples, rajma or grains on their tiny patches of land.  It wasn’t easy to make ends meet, but others like her had accepted their poverty without rancor or ill will.  After her husband’s demise, she sold the tiny piece of land to the village money lender to pay off the money borrowed from the rural bank. 

The money lender advised her to keep the remaining money in the bank for future use, which she did.

Soon, Roshni began to earn a living by helping on the farms, which was sufficient to fulfil her basic needs.  Life had been peaceful until...she sobbed uncontrollably once again.

In the blink of an eye,  the torrential waters spewed rock, mud and water over their homes, uprooted them from their foundation, buried roofs and left them homeless. 

The pathetic faces of the few young survivors in the makeshift community hall brought another lump to her throat. The handful of them  were huddled together in the relief camp; most of them were still in shock and in uncontrollable grief at the loss of their kin.  

Roshni noticed a young girl in their midst, her face buried over her grimy lehenga.  Moving closer, she patted her head gently and coaxed her to eat the gruel that lay untouched in front of her. The little girl sat there without a murmur or a tear; her eyes had a vacant stare.   Placing the girl against her frail chest, Roshni fed her the gruel, little by little, smoothening her hair and nerves. 

Slowly, the girl asked, Why… Why did they leave me behind? Her heart filled with sympathy, Roshni said in a tone barely audible - Divine Mother’s plans cannot be understood, my dear. Pushing aside her personal woes, Roshni offered words of solace to the traumatized survivors. She knew that even if relief came, it would take a long time for the villagers to recuperate.  The mud slide had engulfed the village, it was a mound of hills, and it was unfit for farming now.  

Summer went by, and autumn had set in.  The survivors were lodged in the makeshift home, they had rationed food, some clothes, and a thin blanket each.

An invisible bond kept them together.

One windy afternoon, a government official came up, he was panting and puffing as he came closer and announced - We will arrange compensation for the survivors and the families of the deceased. With downcast eyes, Roshni muttered, No one can ever farm on these mud hills anymore.  With a stern expression, the official retorted- although it’s a small sum, it will help you to start a new life at the edge of the hills. To claim your compensation, you’ve got to come to the Panchayat Bank in Harsil valley.

He walked off hurriedly without uttering another word.

The sun was dipping over the horizon; the sky was painted in hues of gold and crimson.

The little girl came up to her and said nonchalantly- the hills just don’t care; they just stand in silence.

Letting out a deep sigh, Roshni patted her and said, that’s the lesson, dear- rain, shine, heat, dust, storms, earthquakes or more….just remain there, be grateful for the lease of life. You’ve another opportunity, unlike many others who got sucked into the slushy grave, not with joy, but  with screams and shouts.

The words meant nothing to the young girl.  But Roshni was determined.

Early next morning, she left the little girl under the care of a few women and said, I’ll be gone for two days, I promise, I’ll be back soon…

Roshni walked on and on. Her legs ached; there were blisters on her feet after the long walk over the mud, rock, slush and debris.  She reached the large building in the town of Harsil valley. There was a large lock on the gate. She decided she would wait there until the gates opened once again, knowing little that the wait would be long, eternal perhaps!

 

Cul-de-sac (Poem)

She stopped at the large grilled gate -

Its locks were dusty and rusty.

Worn out clothes, her hair done into a plait

Diminutive and sharp-nosed, her  face was crusty.

 

The gentle wind suddenly turned gusty.

Move off, lady!  A passerby shrieked

A storm is headed, don’t you see everything’s dusty..

By his remarks she was piqued.

 

A thunderous roar followed a  flash of lightning

People rushed hither and thither in search of cover

Squally winds, clattering noises, dark clouds menacing

She said to herself – the storm will soon get over!

 

While the lashing continued, she plodded towards her shack

little knowing it was a  cul-de-sac…

 

 

Bionote: Hema Ravi is passionate about teaching and writing.  She is the author of Joie de Vivre, The Cuckoo Sings, Everyday English and Write Right Handwriting Series.  As the Secretary of the Chennai Poets’ Circle, she empowers and encourages aspiring writers to unleash their creative potential.  She is the editor of Efflorescence – the anthology of the Chennai Poets’ Circle.

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Setu, September 2025