resisting body to the tunnel entrance, and even if I could get her that far, I could not force her bent limbs to straighten and in that way pull her along the winding path. So I crept on my bruised hands and knees, passing the brilliant window of day, until I came out into the lighted forest.
It was already morning, and the clearing had a slight mist rising from a nullah that still had water in it. I slid down the steep embankment and splashed water on my face, then stuck my head into it and drank deeply.
Rubbing the drops from my eyes, I looked around. Lying against one bank of the nullah was a large stick, no doubt washed downstream by the recent rains. I picked up the stick and hefted it, then slammed it against the bank. It did not break.
Climbing back up, I mulled over my plan. I did not dare go back to The Home for help. What if Kamala died in the meantime? What if I could not find this clearing again? No, there was only one way.
I went back over to the mound and with the stick began to dig feverishly, stopping only once in a while to catch my breath.
I heard again, as if in a dream, Mr. Welles’ voice in the clearing near Godamuri, saying, “Dig!”
The packed earth was as hard as stone, and bits of the stick kept breaking off, but still I dug, widening the tunnel entrance, and then, when I remembered it, battering at the hole through which I had seen the stars.
After an hour’s frantic shoveling I had torn away only one small section of the mound, but I would not stop, not even to go back to the nullah for another drink of water.
Every once in a while I called out Kamala’s name. Not that I expected an answer, but I wanted to remind myself that she was still there. Tears coursed down my cheeks, making muddy tracks. Sweat poured off my back. My hands and knees and shoulders ached. I did not care. I dug.
Suddenly one section of the mound collapsed. I dropped the stick and began to root around in the dirt with my torn hands, throwing the dirt behind me and screaming Kamala’s name.
I heard my own name in answer. Then strong arms were around me, and I looked up. Mr. Welles and Rama and the carters and several men I had never seen before were by my side.
“Mohandas, Mohandas, we have been so worried about you. And then we heard your screams. What are you doing?” Mr. Welles asked.
“It is Kamala. She is in the den,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded,
“Dig!” Mr. Welles said to the men.
They had only hands and feet, too, for they had been carrying guns, not shovels. But they dug with a fury that matched mine, and they were big men—and strong.
Within minutes the mound was destroyed, caving in toward the central den.
I saw Kamala’s feet sticking out of the heaped dirt, and I leaped into the center, throwing clods every which way. In moments I had uncovered her head and began brushing the dirt from her mouth and eyes.
Mr. Welles stepped over the fallen walls to help.
“No,” I said, pushing him away. I picked up Kamala’s body and cradled it in my arms. She was not heavy at all, and I could feel her breathing against me. “I will carry her home myself.”
We were a strange processional. Ahead of me went Mr. Welles and Rama, to hold bushes and thorns out of the way. Behind came the carters and the villagers, guns ready, for we were fairly deep into the sal and one can never tell when a tiger with her cubs might be on the path.
We walked nearly two hours, and not once did I put Kamala down or let anyone else touch her. And then we crossed the puddles where the mahseer swam along the pebbly bottom, and I knew we were close to The Home. All at once Kamala felt heavy, but still I would not let her go.
Ahead I could see the walled house. The gate was open, and there were many figures in front of it, jostling for position.
Mrs. Welles stood in front, and with her were all the children except Indira, who had been banished inside. Even Cook was there, patting little straggles of hair back
It was already morning, and the clearing had a slight mist rising from a nullah that still had water in it. I slid down the steep embankment and splashed water on my face, then stuck my head into it and drank deeply.
Rubbing the drops from my eyes, I looked around. Lying against one bank of the nullah was a large stick, no doubt washed downstream by the recent rains. I picked up the stick and hefted it, then slammed it against the bank. It did not break.
Climbing back up, I mulled over my plan. I did not dare go back to The Home for help. What if Kamala died in the meantime? What if I could not find this clearing again? No, there was only one way.
I went back over to the mound and with the stick began to dig feverishly, stopping only once in a while to catch my breath.
I heard again, as if in a dream, Mr. Welles’ voice in the clearing near Godamuri, saying, “Dig!”
The packed earth was as hard as stone, and bits of the stick kept breaking off, but still I dug, widening the tunnel entrance, and then, when I remembered it, battering at the hole through which I had seen the stars.
After an hour’s frantic shoveling I had torn away only one small section of the mound, but I would not stop, not even to go back to the nullah for another drink of water.
Every once in a while I called out Kamala’s name. Not that I expected an answer, but I wanted to remind myself that she was still there. Tears coursed down my cheeks, making muddy tracks. Sweat poured off my back. My hands and knees and shoulders ached. I did not care. I dug.
Suddenly one section of the mound collapsed. I dropped the stick and began to root around in the dirt with my torn hands, throwing the dirt behind me and screaming Kamala’s name.
I heard my own name in answer. Then strong arms were around me, and I looked up. Mr. Welles and Rama and the carters and several men I had never seen before were by my side.
“Mohandas, Mohandas, we have been so worried about you. And then we heard your screams. What are you doing?” Mr. Welles asked.
“It is Kamala. She is in the den,” I said.
“Are you sure?”
I nodded,
“Dig!” Mr. Welles said to the men.
They had only hands and feet, too, for they had been carrying guns, not shovels. But they dug with a fury that matched mine, and they were big men—and strong.
Within minutes the mound was destroyed, caving in toward the central den.
I saw Kamala’s feet sticking out of the heaped dirt, and I leaped into the center, throwing clods every which way. In moments I had uncovered her head and began brushing the dirt from her mouth and eyes.
Mr. Welles stepped over the fallen walls to help.
“No,” I said, pushing him away. I picked up Kamala’s body and cradled it in my arms. She was not heavy at all, and I could feel her breathing against me. “I will carry her home myself.”
We were a strange processional. Ahead of me went Mr. Welles and Rama, to hold bushes and thorns out of the way. Behind came the carters and the villagers, guns ready, for we were fairly deep into the sal and one can never tell when a tiger with her cubs might be on the path.
We walked nearly two hours, and not once did I put Kamala down or let anyone else touch her. And then we crossed the puddles where the mahseer swam along the pebbly bottom, and I knew we were close to The Home. All at once Kamala felt heavy, but still I would not let her go.
Ahead I could see the walled house. The gate was open, and there were many figures in front of it, jostling for position.
Mrs. Welles stood in front, and with her were all the children except Indira, who had been banished inside. Even Cook was there, patting little straggles of hair back
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