In Flood Time by Rudyard Kipling
Tweed said tae Till:
"What gars ye rin sae Still?"
Till said tae Tweed:
"Though ye rin wi' speed
An' I rin slaw—
Yet where ye droon ae man
I droon twa."
There is no getting over the river to-night, Sahib. They say that a
bullock-cart has been washed down already, and the ekka that went
over a half hour before you came, has not yet reached the far side. Is the
Sahib in haste? I will drive the ford-elephant in to show him.
Ohè, mahout there in the shed! Bring out Ram Pershad, and if
he will face the current, good. An elephant never lies, Sahib, and Ram
Pershad is separated from his friend Kala Nag. He, too, wishes to cross to
the far side. Well done! Well done! my King! Go half way across,
mahoutji, and see what the river says. Well done, Ram Pershad!
Pearl among elephants, go into the river! Hit him on the head, fool! Was
the goad made only to scratch thy own fat back with, bastard? Strike!
Strike! What are the boulders to thee, Ram Pershad, my Rustum, my mountain
of strength? Go in! Go in!
No, Sahib! It is useless. You can hear him trumpet. He is telling Kala
Nag that he cannot come over. See! He has swung round and is shaking his
head. He is no fool. He knows what the Barhwi means when it is angry. Aha!
Indeed, thou art no fool, my child! Salaam, Ram Pershad, Bahadur!
Take him under the trees, mahout, and see that he gets his spices.
Well done, thou chiefest among tuskers. Salaam to the Sirkar and go
What is to be done? The Sahib must wait till the river goes down. It
will shrink to-morrow morning, if God pleases, or the day after at the
latest. Now why does the Sahib get so angry? I am his servant. Before God,
I did not create this stream! What can I do? My hut and all that is
therein is at the service of the Sahib, and it is beginning to rain. Come
away, my Lord, How will the river go down for your throwing abuse at it?
In the old days the English people were not thus. The fire-carriage has
made them soft. In the old days, when they drave behind horses by day or
by night, they said naught if a river barred the way, or a carriage sat
down in the mud. It was the will of God—not like a fire-carriage
which goes and goes and goes, and would go though all the devils in the
land hung on to its tail. The fire-carriage hath spoiled the English
people. After all, what is a day lost, or, for that matter, what are two
days? Is the Sahib going to his own wedding, that he is so mad with haste?
Ho! Ho! Ho! I am an old man and see few Sahibs. Forgive me if I have
forgotten the respect that is due to them. The Sahib is not angry?
His own wedding! Ho! Ho! Ho! The mind of an old man is like the
numah-tree. Fruit, bud, blossom, and the dead leaves of all the
years of the past flourish together. Old and new and that which is gone
out of remembrance, all three are there! Sit on the bedstead, Sahib, and
drink milk. Or—would the Sahib in truth care to drink my tobacco? It
is good. It is the tobacco of Nuklao. My son, who is in service there sent
it to me. Drink, then, Sahib, if you know how to handle the tube. The
Sahib takes it like a Musalman. Wah! Wah! Where did he learn that? His own
wedding! Ho! Ho! Ho! The Sahib says that there is no wedding in the matter
at all? Now is it likely that the Sahib would speak true talk to me
who am only a black man? Small wonder, then, that he is in haste. Thirty
years have I beaten the gong at this ford, but never have I seen a Sahib
in such haste. Thirty years, Sahib! That is a very long time. Thirty years
ago this ford was on the track of the bunjaras, and I have seen two
thousand pack-bullocks cross in one night. Now the rail has come, and the
fire-carriage says buz-buz-buz, and a hundred lakhs of maunds slide
across that big bridge. It is very wonderful; but the ford is lonely now
that there are no bunjaras to camp under the trees.
Nay, do not trouble to look at the sky without. It will rain till the
dawn. Listen! The boulders are talking to-night in the bed of the river.
Hear them! They would be husking your bones, Sahib, had you tried to
cross. See, I will shut the door and no rain can enter. Wahi! Ahi!
Ugh! Thirty years on the banks of the ford! An old man am I
and—where is the oil for the lamp?
* * * * *
Your pardon, but, because of my years, I sleep no sounder than a dog;
and you moved to the door. Look then, Sahib. Look and listen. A full half
kos from bank to bank is the stream now—you can see it under
the stars—and there are ten feet of water therein. It will not
shrink because of the anger in your eyes, and it will not be quiet on
account of your curses. Which is louder, Sahib—your voice or the
voice of the river? Call to it—perhaps it will be ashamed. Lie down
and sleep afresh, Sahib. I know the anger of the Barhwi when there has
fallen rain in the foot-hills. I swam the flood, once, on a night tenfold
worse than this, and by the Favor of God I was released from Death when I
had come to the very gates thereof.
May I tell the tale? Very good talk. I will fill the pipe anew.
Thirty years ago it was, when I was a young man and had but newly come
to the ford. I was strong then, and the bunjaras had no doubt when
I said "this ford is clear." I have toiled all night up to my
shoulder-blades in running water amid a hundred bullocks mad with fear,
and have brought them across losing not a hoof. When all was done I
fetched the shivering men, and they gave me for reward the pick of their
cattle—the bell-bullock of the drove. So great was the honor in
which I was held! But, to-day when the rain falls and the river rises, I
creep into my hut and whimper like a dog. My strength is gone from me. I
am an old man and the fire-carriage has made the ford desolate. They were
wont to call me the Strong One of the Barhwi.
Behold my face, Sahib—it is the face of a monkey. And my
arm—it is the arm of an old woman. I swear to you, Sahib, that a
woman has loved this face and has rested in the hollow of this arm. Twenty
years ago, Sahib. Believe me, this was true talk—twenty years
Come to the door and look across. Can you see a thin fire very far away
down the stream? That is the temple-fire, in the shrine of Hanuman, of the
village of Pateera. North, under the big star, is the village itself, but
it is hidden by a bend of the river. Is that far to swim, Sahib? Would you
take off your clothes and adventure? Yet I swam to Pateera—not once
but many times; and there are muggers in the river too.
Love knows no caste; else why should I, a Musalman and the son of a
Musalman, have sought a Hindu woman—a widow of the Hindus—the
sister of the headman of Pateera? But it was even so. They of the
headman's household came on a pilgrimage to Muttra when She was but newly
a bride. Silver tires were upon the wheels of the bullock-cart, and silken
curtains hid the woman. Sahib, I made no haste in their conveyance, for
the wind parted the curtains and I saw Her. When they returned from
pilgrimage the boy that was Her husband had died, and I saw Her again in
the bullock-cart. By God, these Hindus are fools! What was it to me
whether She was Hindu or Jain—scavenger, leper, or whole? I would
have married Her and made Her a home by the ford. The Seventh of the Nine
Bars says that a man may not marry one of the idolaters? Is that truth?
Both Shiahs and Sunnis say that a Musalman may not marry one of the
idolaters? Is the Sahib a priest, then, that he knows so much? I will tell
him something that he does not know. There is neither Shiah nor Sunni,
forbidden nor idolater, in Love; and the Nine Bars are but nine little
fagots that the flame of Love utterly burns away. In truth, I would have
taken Her; but what could I do? The headman would have sent his men to
break my head with staves. I am not—I was not—afraid of any
five men; but against half a village who can prevail?
Therefore it was my custom, these things having been arranged between
us twain, to go by night to the village of Pateera, and there we met among
the crops; no man knowing aught of the matter. Behold, now! I was wont to
cross here, skirting the jungle to the river bend where the railway bridge
is, and thence across the elbow of land to Pateera. The light of the
shrine was my guide when the nights were dark. That jungle near the river
is very full of snakes—little karaits that sleep on the
sand—and moreover, Her brothers would have slain me had they found
me in the crops. But none knew—none knew save She and I; and the
blown sand of the river-bed covered the track of my feet. In the hot
months it was an easy thing to pass from the ford to Pateera, and in the
first Rains, when the river rose slowly, it was an easy thing also. I set
the strength of my body against the strength of the stream, and nightly I
ate in my hut here and drank at Pateera yonder. She had said that one
Hirnam Singh, a thief, had sought Her, and he was of a village up the
river but on the same bank. All Sikhs are dogs, and they have refused in
their folly that good gift of God—tobacco. I was ready to destroy
Hirnam Singh that ever he had come nigh Her; and the more because he had
sworn to Her that She had a lover, and that he would lie in wait and give
the name to the headman unless She went away with him. What curs are these
After that news, I swam always with a little sharp knife in my belt,
and evil would it have been for a man had he stayed me, I knew not the
face of Hirnam Singh, but I would have killed any who came between me and
Upon a night in the beginning of the Rains, I was minded to go across
to Pateera, albeit the river was angry. Now the nature of the Barhwi is
this, Sahib. In twenty breaths it comes down from the Hills, a wall three
feet high, and I have seen it, between the lighting of a fire and the
cooking of a chupatty, grow from a runnel to a sister of the
When I left this bank there was a shoal a half mile down, and I made
shift to fetch it and draw breath there ere going forward; for I felt the
hands of the river heavy upon my heels. Yet what will a young man not do
for Love's sake? There was but little light from the stars, and midway to
the shoal a branch of the stinking deodar tree brushed my mouth as I swam.
That was a sign of heavy rain in the foot-hills and beyond, for the deodar
is a strong tree, not easily shaken from the hillsides. I made haste, the
river aiding me, but ere I had touched the shoal, the pulse of the stream
beat, as it were, within me and around, and, behold, the shoal was gone
and I rode high on the crest of a wave that ran from bank to bank. Has the
Sahib ever been cast into much water that fights and will not let a man
use his limbs? To me, my head upon the water, it seemed as though there
were naught but water to the world's end, and the river drave me with its
driftwood. A man is a very little thing in the belly of a flood. And
this flood, though I knew it not, was the Great Flood about which
men talk still. My liver was dissolved and I lay like a log upon my back
in the fear of Death. There were living things in the water, crying and
howling grievously—beasts of the forest and cattle, and once the
voice of a man asking for help. But the rain came and lashed the water
white, and I heard no more save the roar of the boulders below and the
roar of the rain above. Thus I was whirled down-stream, wrestling for the
breath in me. It is very hard to die when one is young. Can the Sahib,
standing here, see the railway bridge? Look, there are the lights of the
mail-train going to Peshawur! The bridge is now twenty feet above the
river, but upon that night the water was roaring against the lattice-work
and against the lattice came I feet first, But much driftwood was piled
there and upon the piers, and I took no great hurt. Only the river pressed
me as a strong man presses a weaker. Scarcely could I take hold of the
lattice-work and crawl to the upper boom. Sahib, the water was foaming
across the rails a foot deep! Judge therefore what manner of flood it must
have been. I could not hear, I could not see. I could but lie on the boom
and pant for breath.
After a while the rain ceased and there came out in the sky certain new
washed stars, and by their light I saw that there was no end to the black
water as far as the eye could travel, and the water had risen upon the
rails. There were dead beasts in the driftwood on the piers, and others
caught by the neck in the lattice-work, and others not yet drowned who
strove to find a foothold on the lattice-work—buffaloes and kine,
and wild pig, and deer one or two, and snakes and jackals past all
counting. Their bodies were black upon the left side of the bridge, but
the smaller of them were forced through the lattice-work and whirled
Thereafter the stars died and the rain came down afresh and the river
rose yet more, and I felt the bridge begin to stir under me as a man stirs
in his sleep ere he wakes. But I was not afraid, Sahib. I swear to you
that I was not afraid, though I had no power in my limbs. I knew that I
should not die till I had seen Her once more. But I was very cold, and I
felt that the bridge must go.
There was a trembling in the water, such a trembling as goes before the
coming of a great wave, and the bridge lifted its flank to the rush of
that coming so that the right lattice dipped under water and the left rose
clear. On my beard, Sahib, I am speaking God's truth! As a Mirzapore
stone-boat careens to the wind, so the Barhwi Bridge turned. Thus and in
no other manner.
I slid from the boom into deep water, and behind me came the wave of
the wrath of the river. I heard its voice and the scream of the middle
part of the bridge as it moved from the piers and sank, and I knew no more
till I rose in the middle of the great flood. I put forth my hand to swim,
and lo! it fell upon the knotted hair of the head of a man. He was dead,
for no one but I, the Strong One of Barhwi, could have lived in that race.
He had been dead full two days, for he rode high, wallowing, and was an
aid to me, I laughed then, knowing for a surety that I should yet see Her
and take no harm; and I twisted my fingers in the hair of the man, for I
was far spent, and together we went down the stream—he the dead and
I the living. Lacking that help I should have sunk: the cold was in my
marrow, and my flesh was ribbed and sodden on my bones. But he had
no fear who had known the uttermost of the power of the river; and I let
him go where he chose. At last we came into the power of a side-current
that set to the right bank, and I strove with my feet to draw with it. But
the dead man swung heavily in the whirl, and I feared that some branch had
struck him and that he would sink. The tops of the tamarisk brushed my
knees, so I knew we were come into flood-water above the crops, and,
after, I let down my legs and felt bottom—the ridge of a
field—and, after, the dead man stayed upon a knoll under a fig-tree,
and I drew my body from the water rejoicing.
Does the Sahib know whither the backwash of the flood had borne me? To
the knoll which is the eastern boundary-mark of the village of Pateera! No
other place. I drew the dead man up on the grass for the service that he
had done me, and also because I knew not whether I should need him again.
Then I went, crying thrice like a jackal, to the appointed place which was
near the byre of the headman's house. But my Love was already there,
weeping. She feared that the flood had swept my hut at the Barhwi Ford.
When I came softly through the ankle-deep water, She thought it was a
ghost and would have fled, but I put my arms round Her, and—I was no
ghost in those days, though I am an old man now. Ho! Ho! Dried corn, in
truth. Maize without juice. Ho! Ho! [Footnote: I grieve to say that the
Warden of Barhwi ford is responsible here for two very bad puns in the
I told Her the story of the breaking of the Barhwi Bridge, and She said
that I was greater than mortal man, for none may cross the Barhwi in full
flood, and I had seen what never man had seen before. Hand in hand we went
to the knoll where the dead lay, and I showed Her by what help I had made
the ford. She looked also upon the body under the stars, for the latter
end of the night was clear, and hid Her face in Her hands, crying: "It is
the body of Hirnam Singh!" I said: "The swine is of more use dead than
living, my Beloved," and She said: "Surely, for he has saved the dearest
life in the world to my love. None the less, he cannot stay here, for that
would bring shame upon me." The body was not a gunshot from her door.
Then said I, rolling the body with my hands: "God hath judged between
us, Hirnam Singh, that thy blood might not be upon my head. Now, whether I
have done thee a wrong in keeping thee from the burning-ghat, do thou and
the crows settle together." So I cast him adrift into the flood-water, and
he was drawn out to the open, ever wagging his thick black beard like a
priest under the pulpit-board. And I saw no more of Hirnam Singh.
Before the breaking of the day we two parted, and I moved toward such
of the jungle as was not flooded. With the full light I saw what I had
done in the darkness, and the bones of my body were loosened in my flesh,
for there ran two kos of raging water between the village of
Pateera and the trees of the far bank, and, in the middle, the piers of
the Barhwi Bridge showed like broken teeth in the jaw of an old man. Nor
was there any life upon the waters—neither birds nor boats, but only
an army of drowned things—bullocks and horses and men—and the
river was redder than blood from the clay of the foot-hills. Never had I
seen such a flood—never since that year have I seen the
like—and, O Sahib, no man living had done what I had done. There was
no return for me that day. Not for all the lands of the headman would I
venture a second time without the shield of darkness that cloaks danger. I
went a kos up the river to the house of a blacksmith, saying that
the flood had swept me from my hut, and they gave me food. Seven days I
stayed with the blacksmith, till a boat came and I returned to my house.
There was no trace of wall, or roof, or floor—naught but a patch of
slimy mud. Judge, therefore, Sahib, how far the river must have risen.
It was written that I should not die either in my house, or in the
heart of the Barhwi, or under the wreck of the Barhwi Bridge, for God sent
down Hirnam Singh two days dead, though I know not how the man died, to be
my buoy and support. Hirnam Singh has been in Hell these twenty years, and
the thought of that night must be the flower of his torment.
Listen, Sahib! The river has changed its voice. It is going to sleep
before the dawn, to which there is yet one hour. With the light it will
come down afresh. How do I know? Have I been here thirty years without
knowing the voice of the river as a father knows the voice of his son?
Every moment it is talking less angrily. I swear that there will be no
danger for one hour or, perhaps, two. I cannot answer for the morning. Be
quick, Sahib! I will call Ram Pershad, and he will not turn back this
time. Is the paulin tightly corded upon all the baggage? Ohè,
mahout with a mud head, the elephant for the Sahib, and tell them on
the far side that there will be no crossing after daylight.
Money? Nay, Sahib. I am not of that kind. No, not even to give
sweetmeats to the baby-folk. My house, look you, is empty, and I am an old
Dutt, Ram Pershad! Dutt! Dutt! Dutt! Good luck go with