Save Us Mary, Full Of Grace
| By : Ajit Hari Sahu ( Posted on :28 Aug, 2005 ) | Total Views : 285 | Previous | Next |
I will never forget that day, Saturday, February 22, 1965. Never. Even today, after fifteen years I can still hear the desperate cries of the dying, the helpless shrieks of children and the roar of the wind tearing the last prayer from their lips, "Mary, mother of god, have mercy on us."
I’ll always remember the look in my mother’s terrified eyes, as she pulled me into her arms and rocked me like a child. " Felicitas, daughter, blessed art the lord, who has given you back to me. Hail, Mary, full of grace, you have heard my prayers." Then I did what I had wanted to do all those harrowing hours: I buried my face in my mother’s shoulder and cried. My mother knelt and bathed my legs with oil, as was the custom in Jhunmeer, in Orissa when someone had been saved from death.
"Run Felicitas," said Mother and pressed a kiss on my forehead. "You know I’d love to come, but I can’t leave the little ones. And father needs my help in the fields. Go, child, God bless you and protect you with his shield of love."
"Good-bye, Mother." I wished then that she could have come with us to the village Keseral, five miles down the river, but today I thank god that she didn’t....
"Hi, Felici !" I heard a familiar voice behind me, "why are you all dressed up?"
It could be no other than Philomina. I tried to ignore her. But to ignore Philo, my best friend is difficult, in fact, it is impossible. "Hi, Felici !" she cried and spun me around. " You do look beautiful in that orange saree. And matching blouse too! Hey! new earrings ! Are they really silver?" She tugged at them playfully, giggling with delight. I hit her fingertips with mock anger. "Behave yourself, Philo, you are sixteen, no more a child." But then we shrieked very unlike young ladies of sixteen, " The boat, we are going to miss it. Run!"
Pulling our sarees up, we ran down the shore, our plaits bouncing up and down our backs, our glass bangles jingling gaily. We jumped into the long rowing boat just as it pulled away from the shore. "Goodbye, till Monday," we cried and waved out to our people till they and the village vanished from our sight. We were finally on our way to Keseral to join the procession in honour of our beloved Lady, Mary, Mother of God.
The boat shot smoothly through the green water while the setting sun painted the horizon orange. The wind brushed the palm trees with gentle hands and swayed the lush paddy, on both sides of the river. The ninety men, women and children in the boat folded their hands, prayed and sang to the glory of the Lord. Philo and I sang along with them. Across the river the night crept in from behind the mass of dark trees. But was it the night? I looked questioningly at the tough old boatman at the rudder who was scanning the sky with knitted brows. Suddenly a chilly gust of wind swept over the water, making chains of ripples before it. The boat rocked.
The children shrieked.
"It is nothing, it is nothing! Be calm!" shouted the other oarsmen, but the black threatening clouds that crawled up the sky from behind the jungle belied their words.
The river had changed. Waves rocked the boat and lashed the planks. The children flung themselves to their mother’s laps and the men gazed at the distant shore with worried eyes. We were right in the middle of the river.
I turned to Philomina. "I can’t swim," she whispered, her face ashen. I knew how to swim but many of the others in the boat didn’t. A shiver of fear ran down my spine. Automatically we began to pray, "Oh Lord, our Father...." Our prayer rang out into the rapidly darkening sky and was drowned by the howl of the wind.
" Faster boy, faster!" cried the old man at the rear. "A storm is building up. We must reach the other side before we get caught in it."
The young men bent over their oars with taut and grim faces. They put all the strength they possessed into each pull, into every stroke.
Water leaked into the boat.
"Mary, Mother of God, pray for us."
A sudden white flash lit the now turbulent waters.
"Mary, Mother of Jesus, Mother of men...."
"Keep on rowing, keep on rowing!" roared the boatman, "keep on." Clinging to each other we continued to pray.
The storm raged, the river moaned, the boat began to pitch and toss helplessly in the whirling current. Suddenly the wind hit the boat’s broadside with such force that we were thrown out of our seats. Shrieking, we fell over each other, burying kicking children under us. An elbow hit my face, a knee punched my side.
"Felici, Felici." I reached out for Philo, but our hands didn’t meet. With a dull crack the boat toppled sideways, tossing us into the agitated river. The cold water closed over me, turned me over and pulled me down. I tried to break the forceful downward pull, tried to escape the confusion of arms and legs. A hand touched mine, slipped away and was gone.
Philo, Philo.
My lungs about to burst I came to the surface, gasping. The terrified screams of men, women and children, fighting for their lives filled the air. Hands clutched and clawed at the planks of the boat, slipping, falling, pushing each other aside ruthlessly, and desperately hanging on, till finally with a low plop the boat was lifted by a wave and sank.
Couldn’t I help? Could I do nothing but watch them drown?
I saw a tree-trunk offering safety not more than thirty feet away and surged forward, closing my eyes against the wind.
"Felicitas, Felicitas." I grabbed the helping hands that reached down from the trunk. "Come on!" cried Marcus, Push, push."
Panting, I collapsed near the shivering group - Raimond, David, Marcus and Mary. They were all alive, like me. But what had happened to the others? To Philo, My best friend?
"Philo, " I cried frantically into the wind, "Philoooo"
I had to search for her, help her, save her!
"No, Felicitas, no. There is nothing we can do right now. Wait till the storm is over."
I shivered, water ran down my face -- or was it tears?
"Listen!" cried Mary suddenly, "someone is calling."
We strained our ears. Yes, a feeble voice reached us faintly, "Help, help!"
"Why it’s Samuel Dungdung, Jesus"
"He’s drowning!" cried Mary. "He can’t make it! He doesn’t know how to swim! Oh God, he’s gone under!"
Nothing could be heard but the hissing of the wind and the roar of the water.
I looked into Mary’s eyes, wide with fear, then at Raimond, David and Marcus. No one moved.
"Help!"
He was calling again! He was drowning, right in front of our eyes, Samuel Dungdung, our brother.
Suddenly a strange calmness swept over me. I sat up, pulled off my saree, folded it into a tight bundle, and tucked it into my petticoat. Then I rose, and cried over the agitated dark water, "Samuel, Samuel Dungdung, hold on. I am coming!" and dived into the river.
I struck out urgently, fighting against the wind. My petticoat and the saree, soaked with water, weighed me down. "Samuel!" I shouted, "Here, here".
Something bobbed up, a hand and then a head, Samuel’s head. He was so close that I could see his terrified eyes. "Help!" he cried, "Help!"
"Catch the saree," I called out to him, "I’ll pull you out. Here catch." I tore the saree from my waist, and holding one end between my teeth, I flung the heavy bundle towards him. But the wind carried it out of his reach.
"Get it, Dungdung"
Treading water, my heart in my mouth, I watched Samuel struggle forward, clawing at the water with rapid movements.
"Grab it, Dungdung, grab it!" The voices came from behind me.
"Holy Jesus, he can’t make it! He is drowning!"
From somewhere in the dark Marcus’ voice reached me, "Felicitas, Felicitas, come back."
I would - I wanted to but not without Samuel, never!
Suddenly the saree was pulled tight and was nearly torn from the grip of my teeth. I bit hard into the cloth, turned around and began to labour back to the log - kicking the water with my legs - kicking, kicking and kicking, hammering with my arms, stroke after stroke, lips pressed tightly together. And when I thought I wouldn’t make it, I opened my eyes to take one last look at the world I was about to leave and there in front of me were four pairs of frightened eyes.
"Felicitas, come, come!" With whatever strength I could muster, I pushed forward and grabbed Marcus’ hands. I had reached, I was safe. Together we pulled up Samuel who coughed and retched, then threw mouthful after mouthful of water.
Shivering, nearly crying with exhaustion we clung to each other and prayed, " Oh Lord, our Father!"
"Help!" the wind carried just this one word towards us.
"Hellllp."
Slowly Samuel Dungdung turned his head and looked at me. "It’s Kindo," he whispered, "he is drowning."
Silence - none of us spoke. Even the wind seemed to hold its breath.
I shuddered and slowly almost involuntarily rose to my feet and jumped once more into the raging water.
On that ill-fated evening in February,1965, nearly fifty of us died. Leo and his entire family, Margaret and her baby, and Philo, my best friend.
After the storm had spent its fury, we left the tree and swam ashore. There those of us that had been spared gathered near the water, waited for others that might reach the shore. We waited - but waited in vain.
