Kanya struggled with the sodden, matted black hair coating her drenched forehead. The roof of their bungalow was punctured, and gulps of rain swept through gaping holes. She was shaking at the horror of it all. Threatening storm clouds had gathered but she had had no idea a hurricane was coming. Now, filthy water gushed in under the badly fitting door and puddles round her ankles.
Niran wasn’t home, he never came when he said he would, he always broke his promise. Mostly she didn’t mind but tonight she needed him here. She couldn’t get inside his head; he was an only child and she knew for a fact he’d been spoilt but that did not excuse bad behaviour. She and Dara, her sister often laughed about the unreconstructed man Kanya had married; but it really wasn’t all that funny. She was in anguish over their daughter Mekhala who wasn’t home either; she’d gone out early to photograph the birds around the estuary and hadn’t returned. Before her accident, Kanya would often go with her, but not anymore.
The bright yellow shutters of the window facing the river rattled and banged on torn hinges. It was still light but Kanya had no idea of time. She liked the shutters, their brightness, and how they reminded her of Swiss cabins she had seen in films. She had tried to contact Mekhala and Niran but all connection was gone. The sky was dark with shades of black and granite-grey and intermittent bursts of lightening in brilliant flashes and zigzags. She thought of their garden on the bank above; of her beloved papaya tree, of Mekhala’s chillis and eggplants. ‘If the river reaches our garden, then I will be gone too, so it will no longer matter,’ she mused.
Niran taught at the high school and at the end of the day would go to the bar with his mates. It wasn’t a Gogo bar with prostitutes, just a drinking place called the Chi Bar, out of the village by the Moon Bridge. He was in a good mood after so Kanya was glad of that. He liked male company and disagreed on so many issues with Kanya that it was hard sometimes to communicate. She had been a mid-wife before her accident but now her life had changed and Niran was angry with Mekhala, blaming her for her mother’s fall. His current behaviour towards their daughter was overshadowing all their relationships.
Kanya was injured a year ago when she accompanied Mekhala on a visit to the local wild-life sanctuary. They saw beautiful birds; the Baya Weaver and the Dusky Broadbill, quite rare birds that nested in the giant Kabak trees, magnificent in their own right. On return they had found a shorter track, rocky and steep and Mekhala persuaded her mother it was easy. Mekhala was nimble but Kanya had lost her footing and fell, shattering bones in her left leg and severing nerves. A forest ranger saw her fall and got them to hospital but after several operations, the leg was still useless.
She held on to the cooker feeling the water reach the calf of her good leg but felt nothing in the damaged one. She pulled her flimsy woven jacket around her taught chest and struggled to breathe. She took a step towards her walking frame bobbing around on its side and pulled it upright. Water seeped sluggishly between the door jambs and the wooden framework, but suddenly, a surge of water forced the door open. Their home was on a shallow bank above the river but below the village. ‘I am going to die,’ she told herself, overpowered as the swirling flood welled around her knees. Unlike Niran, a Buddhist, Kanya knew her spirituality was within but at this apocalyptic moment, she prayed to Buddha, to Allah, Jehovah and Christ.
Below, she heard the spluttering of a motor, and in the half-light glimpsed a small inflatable rescue boat moving slowly. ‘Please see me! Help me! she called out, propping herself against the doorway. Mr Chan, head-teacher and colleague of Niran quietened the boat’s engine and Mr Boonya, his deputy, lashed the boat to a sturdy acacia. Mr Chan lifted Kanya and Mr Bunya, carrying the walking frame, supported him as they returned to the boat, avoiding all manner of debris. Kanya cried when she saw Dara with three other rescued villagers. The teachers had no news of Niran and Mekhala but would take the boat out again.
They sipped large mugs of warm sugary coffee and listened to the sounds of animated voices. The school hall was lit by oil lamps and candles; all services had failed. ‘I know Niran would have been in the Chi Bar,’ she said, ‘And Mekhala could have been anywhere along the river.’
Light was fading and a flickering glow radiated from the school hall above. The two men were out again in the rescue-boat. The wind still raged across the valley and the rain was unceasing but they knew for Kanya’s sake, they must get to the Chi Bar. ‘And Mekhala; that poor, poor, girl. I pray to Buddha, she did not drown in the estuary,’
The little boat pushed through uprooted trees and severed branches. For the first time they saw the stricken Chi Bar; the village and its river were becoming one and only the top of the parapets of the Moon Bridge showed. They fought against flow and moored by the building. Both wore life-jackets and head-lights and they lowered themselves into the water and tied the boat to a solitary streetlamp emerging uselessly from the river water.
Part-swimming they entered the open doorway. Stools and tables bobbed around and the men were sickened to see a body floating amongst the wreckage. ‘Dear God,’ said Mr Bunya, ‘It isn’t Niran, it’s Mr. Aromdee from the top farm; this is what I feared, I expect the music was loud and they were deep in conversation.’
The upper rungs of the wooden steps at the back of the bar leading to the floor above, were still above water. Despite the moans of the wind, they heard human crying. ‘Someone’s up there!’ whispered Mr Chan. He held on to the ladder’s frame and hauled himself into the space beneath the partly- collapsed bamboo roof followed by his deputy. They knew of the shrine there. It seemed like an anomaly, but some men, after a night of drinking, would go up to the shrine and make peace with Buddha before setting off home. Both men shone their headlights on the man outstretched before the shrine and on the whimpering young woman in whose lap his head rested. ’Dear Lord, it is Niran and Mekhala, father and daughter.’ murmured Mr Bunya. Niran’s face was bloody and he was unconscious. Mekhala was half-awake and crying, bruised on arms and cheeks, shirt torn and wet. Both men knew of the significance of Niran, a devout Buddhist, finding peace before a shrine.
There was no time to delay, Niran had a severe head wound and Mekhala was exhausted. They gave water to both from their hip-flasks which roused Mekhala
enough for her to describe her ordeal. The current had carried her to the Chi Bar. ‘It was fate. I kept my head above water by hanging onto shelves, anything. It was still light and I saw men floundering in the filth including dad. His head was bleeding but he was still conscious and we pulled ourselves up the steps and then he collapsed. I thought he was dead. I tore a strip off my shirt and wrapped it round his head. I felt his pulse; I kept him warm; I think I’ve saved my dad but I know he doesn’t love me!’ Mekhala began to cry again as if her heart were broken.
More super-human efforts from Mr Chan and Mr Bunya found father and daughter in separate wards in Ko Chang hospital. Niran’s injury had been life-threatening but Mekhala was treated for exhaustion, cuts and bruises. Today, Mekhala was to go home so when Kanya came to visit she accompanied her mother for the first time to her father’s bedside.
Niran wept as he spoke; ‘I love you Mekhala but can you ever forgive me for not being the best dad I could have been? I’ve been a bully and I am truly sorry. you saved my life and nearly lost yours. And how could I blame you for mum’s fall? I am a stupid man.’
‘And my lovely long-suffering wife, how can you bear to be with me? I am a pig, and that is an insult to a fine animal. I pray soon you can walk and live your life as you wish. But please, please try to forgive me’
Mekhala and Kanya held Niran’s hands and his voice faded as he drifted into sleep.
‘How are we going to reconstruct this man?’ Kanya said to her daughter, ‘If he doesn’t mend his ways he will have no family. ‘
Mekhala smiled and hugged her mum. ‘Praise to the female sex! We are strong and I pray dad now respects our female gender.’
‘More importantly,’ said Kanya, I pray to Buddha he will learn to keep his promise!’
