Review
"Long-listed for the 2007 Man Asian Prize, this revealing, moving and well-written debut offers a dramatic, engaging lens through which to view an endlessly complex country." -- Kirkus
Product Description
Longlisted for the 2007 Man Asian Prize, a gripping debut novel about an Indian mining disaster as seen from the perspectives of the miners, their families, and the officials charged with rescuing them.
Written by a former director of the Indian Ministry of Coal, and loosely based on the disastrous flood at the Bagdihi colliery in 2001, which trapped and killed dozens of miners, The Sound of Water is written with both an insider’s authority and rare literary style. Its suspenseful narrative is presented from three perspectives: The old miner struggling to save himself and his coworkers hundreds of feet below the surface of the earth; the company and government officials charged with managing the rescue efforts, but who are seemingly far more concerned with managing their careers; and, finally, the miners’ families, who stand to gain life-changing sums as a consequence of their losses.
A searing fictional exposÉ of the appalling conditions that Indian miners endure and a moving story of the spiritual strength and conviction that enables one to survive against the odds, The Sound of Water dares to inaugurate “alternate realism,” a fresh genre very different from the soul-baring autobiographies and epic family sagas that have characterized so much of recent Indian fiction.
About the Author
Excerpt. © Reprinted by permission. All rights reserved.
Chapter 1
It is comfortable in the tombdark womb of the earth. Two hundred and fifty feet beneath the arid crust, it is quiet and cool -- the charcoal silence broken only by the faint rustle of water slithering down the flakywhite walls and pitchdark ceiling. Raimoti pauses to listen. Nothing. He has strayed a little distance away from his gang of six coal diggers enjoying their well-earned dinner break at the coal face. Raimoti strains his ears, craning his wrinkled neck to catch the faintest whisper. He is seeking the sound of water: not the harmless pearl-drop tinkle but the deathly murmur of little waves lapping against the lean barrier of rocks. Today there is just the dry stone, no water. Only shadow under the black rock.
For almost a century, his father and his father's father before that -- all miners -- had lived dreading the sound and died in peace. For close to forty years Raimoti has continued their quest, but the Beast still eludes him. He hopes only to die like his forefathers on the surface, in a dry bed. He fears the Beast and wants to hunt it down before it hunts him out. He fears death by water. He fears being immersed and immured for eternity, within the dark labyrinth beneath the earth where even his gods wouldn't look for him. But he is a brave man, and so he hunts.
He doesn't look like much of a hunter as he crouches, worried, on the mine floor. He has a face that is of indeterminate age but is of someone no longer young. A web of deep wrinkles trickles down from his bony forehead and runs as lost rivulets across his crusty skin and along the corners of his mouth, collecting in shadowy puddles around his protuberant eyes and the hollows of his cheeks. His thinning hair is more gray than black and stands in erratic spirals on an elongated head, giving him a slightly startled look. Reality surprises Raimoti. And his eyes carry a wonderment that comes from questioning the sun and accepting the moon. From doubting light and believing in shadows.
No one, not even his long-dead mother, has ever found Raimoti handsome, but his face has a certain charm that frankness and simplicity bestow on people with uncomplicated hearts. Crooked, tobacco-stained teeth jostling behind his lips add to his bemused expression and are often responsible for luring people into believing that he can be pushed. His crumpled, large ears are a prominent feature of his face. They jut out from the sides of his head as he swivels them in his surreptitious quest for sounds: flat sounds, sharp sounds, dry sounds, wet sounds, colored sounds, white sounds. Black sounds. Sounds within. And from the world outside. His ears soak them all up and interfere with his heartbeats.
Raimoti peers dimly through the shadows and leans closer to the walls of the mine. His long and rough hands grope at the bumpy surface of the tunnel, feeling its coolness. He wipes some dust off with the tips of his fingers and sniffs at it with quivering nostrils. Sometimes soul can hide inside the body, but uttered words can reveal its nature. Sometimes water can hide inside dull rocks but is betrayed by restless dirt that can carry scents. But today the coal dust is sullen and silent -- resisting questions, yielding no secrets. At times earth can be unresponsive like this.
He turns on his heels and squats on his haunches, leaning his tired back against the wall, his thin forearms resting on his knees. Working underground is hard on the body and harder on the mind. It rapidly eats away youth, drains energy, and corrodes thoughts. In some worlds, a man may reach his prime after half a century of existence, but in this one at that age, the only thing that remains is a man's spirit -- and often not even that. Raimoti sighs. He feels too old but has some fight left in him yet. All his life, winning hasn't mattered, because he has been saving himself up for the one confrontation that he knows he is destined to have. He knows it will happen. He just doesn't know how soon.
He turns his head to one side -- away from the light. For a moment he thinks that he caught a glimpse of a sudden movement. After a few seconds, he lets out his breath, realizing that he held it for too long. He stands up slowly and arches his back to get rid of the dull ache that never seems to leave him nowadays. It wasn't so in his youth. He turns to take a look at the far end of the tunnel and decides there is time for a little more exploration.
As he enters deeper darkness, Raimoti clicks on his headlamp. A pale wisp of light emerges and wafts ahead of him, creating shapes that need interpreting, and throws lifelessness into sharp relief: pilings, rivets, roof wedges, rusted rails, debris of abandoned implements, and of course, unpredictable boulders of coal. They grow wild in the mines.
None of these is going to talk to him. He has to find his own answers. The deeper he goes, the more solid the shadows around him become. Silence creeps in from all sides and screams around his ears, making him even more edgy. Only his nose unearths a new fact: a faint smell of death that wasn't there till yesterday. He has known for long that the rocks in this part of the mine are ailing. They do not have long to live. But he had not expected that the end would come so soon or so suddenly. In here there is too little hope to feed them, and almost no happiness, and coal is delicate and vulnerable to melancholia, which abounds in this mine.
Raimoti believes in exhausting all possibilities before giving up, so over the last few weeks, he tried to talk about it to the supervisor and warn him, but no one pays much attention to what he says these days. Dejected, he tried to get assigned to another mine, but the manager did not want to talk to him. This mine and the men working in it are different. Men are not assigned to this mine. They are condemned to work here.
Anyone entering this mine can sense a life-sapping shroud falling over his mind, sucking out positive thoughts and suffocating aspirations. The men working in here are all hand-picked by the company for special treatment. Every day these fading men wear their faded blues and reluctantly descend into the unrelenting depths of this mine -- running away from the despairing emptiness of their lives above and toward the anesthetic hardness of coal below. Inside, they drill, hammer, dig, scrape, heave, and haul. They do things to unresisting rocks that they cannot do to people they leave behind on the surface. They exhaust themselves so that when they return to the world above, they carry less weight on their minds. Over time, some start losing bits of their souls to the underground. They deal with this by drinking. They drink hard so they can go down the next day, and then they drink harder after surviving one more day underground. They drink because they are lost on the surface, and they drink because they cannot find peace underground. This is not a place to exist. And it is a worse place to die.
Mine Number 3 is the oldest operational mine in the Area, dug open about a decade ago. It is quiet down here because the mine has been nearly abandoned. The machines are all gone. The drills, the trolleys, the fancy side-dumping loaders have long been shifted to the newest coal seam opened by the company. Even most of the men have gone. Only a handful of miners and foremen remain to work in the remotest corners, the darkest alleys, and the least accessible crevices of the mine, to extract the last pound of flesh from the earth. The clever young engineers have fine-carved the pillars to the last possible millimeter of the statutory twenty meters, in the hopes of maximizing the corporate goal of optimum offtake or production volume. The face has been taken to the extremes, leaving just a few holes where they want to extract a few more tons of the mineral. For this, they have deployed the "least productive" miners and supervisors: those too old or too young to be useful in the newer mines. There are also some known troublemakers -- insubordinate men who have dared think of themselves as equals of the charmed executives, yet who have continued to stay unaffiliated with the labor unions. They are all dregs. Expendable.
Raimoti is aware of this. He has lived all his life in coal mines. He knows how things work here, below the surface, away from the prying eyes of humanity. In his life, he has replaced many a miner lost to age, injury, or death. He has learned to accept the inevitable. In this dark and remorseless world, there are no winners or losers. There are only survivors. At first the machines were to aid men; now men toil to serve the machines. He knows that in a few months, as soon as he attains the officially acknowledged age of fifty-five, he will quietly be asked by the company to opt for voluntary retirement. He is nearing the end of the tunnel. He doesn't mind that -- he knows that the company has been fooled, just as his father intended. At least he will see daylight for the rest of his days.
Raimoti stops walking when he reaches an intersection. He realizes that the light from his headlamp is adding nothing to his vision, so he turns it off and stands still with his eyes shut, trying to see what eyes cannot reveal. The veil of darkness first breaks into narrow strips and then disintegrates into strands, allowing concentric circles of radiance to wash over him in ripples. He abandons himself to the warmth of that glow and drifts through space, time, and memories. He does this often. It soothes him as his mind floats across the surrounding harshness of life toward the seductive sponginess of nostalgia. Slowly, the pervading stench of dying rocks gives way to a fertile fragrance of wishful thoughts.
He is a small child nestled against the comfort of his mother's breasts. He cannot make out her face, but he can feel the love behind her smile and hear the soft murmurings of affection in his big ears. She smells of moist earth after the first showers of the monsoon. When he is a little older and they walk on dewy grass while she holds his fingers, he can feel the hidden puls...
