Red Earth and Pouring Rain Read Free Page A

language and the wonderful and incomprehensible
     things they spoke about. Consider, if you will, the hideousness of my situation. To be sure, I had once professed to despise
     the condition of being human, and had longed for a lifeconfined simply and safely to the senses, but to be trapped in a furry, now-unknown body, fully self-conscious and aware yet
     unable to speak and unwilling to communicate for fear of causing terror —this is a terrible fate. To construct an elaborate
     simile in the manner of the ancients, my soul prowled about restlessly like a tiger caught between a forest fire and a raging
     river; I was now immeasurably grateful for the gift of self-awareness but was terrified of the trials and revelations that
     would undoubtedly follow in this strange new world. For a while, at least, I was content to sit in a corner and watch and
     listen. I learned, soon enough, that the woman’s name was Mrinalini. With her greying hair, quick laughter, round face and
     effortless grace she reminded me of my mother. He, Ashok Misra, was tall, heavily-built, balding, gentle, with a wide, slow
     smile and a rolling gait. From their conversations I gathered that they had both been teachers, and now lived in retirement,
     in what passed for vanprastha-ashrama in this day and age, more or less free from the everyday tasks and mundane worries of
     the world. Apart from the natural respect one feels for gurus, for those who teach, I soon conceived a liking for this amicable,
     gentle pair. Even for one such as I, it is comforting to see people who have grown old in each other’s company, who enjoy
     and depend on one another after long years of companionship. Perhaps, despite myself, I communicated some of this feeling
     to them, in the way I sat or the way I looked at them, for they grew less fearful of me. Soon, each of them thought nothing
     of being alone in the room with me, and went about their business as usual, regarding me, I suppose, as a sort of household
     pet.
    On the twenty-ninth day, Ashok sat before his desk and pulled the cover off a peculiar black machine, which I was to later
     realize was a typewriter. Then, however, I watched curiously from a corner as he fed paper into it and proceeded to let his
     fingers fly over the keys, like a musician playing some strange species of instrument related vaguely to the tabla: Thik-thik,
     thik-thik, and the paper rolled up and curled over, revealing to me, even at that distance, a series of letters from the language
     I had paid so much to master. Intrigued, I lowered myself to the ground and walked over to the machine, causing Ashok to jump
     up from his chair and back away. Fascinated, I hopped up onto the table and circled the black machine, running my fingers
     over the keys with their embossed, golden letters. I touched a key lightly and waited expectantly.Nothing happened, and I tried again. Smiling, Ashok edged closer and reached out with his right hand, index finger rigid,
     and stabbed at a key, and an
i
appeared on the paper. Without thinking, delighted by this strange toy, I pressed a key and an
a
magically appeared next to the i; intoxicated, I let my fingers dance over the keys, watching the following hieroglyphic
     manifest itself on the sheet: ‘iamparasher.’ Ashok watched this exhibition with growing uneasiness; clearly, my actions were
     too deliberate for a monkey. I learned much too fast. Bending over, he peered at the sheet of paper. Meanwhile, I was engaged
     in a frenzied search for the secret of spaces between letters, pressing keys and rocking back and forth in excitement. Finally,
     I sat back and tried to remember the manner of the movements of Ashok’s hands over the keys. I looked up at him, and motioned
     at the machine, gesturing at him to type something again. He grew pale, but I was too excited to stop now. He leaned forward,
     and typed: ‘What are you?’ I hesitated now, but I had already stepped into the dangerous swirling