During the monsoon in India, it rains and rains.  The wind that neither you nor I can see shakes the branches of the trees lining the muddy road, and the rain lashes them mercilessly.  You have been praying for the rain to fall, now it’s:  ‘Oh God, we have enough!  Now stop it, please!’  In spite of which, the downpour continues until the season is over.

My father screwed up his eyes to get a good view of the road ahead.  The beam produced by the headlights of the car powered by a six-volt battery was hungrily swallowed by the darkness, endless darkness.

My brother and I, sitting behind him, were looking at the frogs jumping all over the road.  Now this way, now that, they kept getting crushed under the wheels of the car.  ‘Ssssssshst…’  I closed my eyes every time I heard that sound.  It meant sudden death.

‘Why are they jumping and crossing the road like that?’ I asked my father.

‘They are looking for mates.’

‘Mates for what, Father?’

‘Mates to mate with, son.’

‘What’s “mate”?’

‘Now will you shut up and let me concentrate?’

He was doing perhaps ten miles an hour, not a great speed, maybe, but a sensible one.  The car was fitted with mechanical brakes – hydraulics were not so popular in those days – which meant that if you needed to stop, you had to press the brake pedal two miles in advance.

Thud…thud…suddenly, a different sound.

‘I think I have hit someone.’  My father turned and stared at us.

‘I though I saw someone trying to cross the road, Father,’ said my brother, trying to be smart.  He was always coming out with bright comments like that in those days.

My father pushed his foot down hard on the brake pedal and the car stopped.  But that was not owing to the brakes, the man underneath had stopped us.  We had been moving so slowly that he ended up underneath instead of being thrown over the bonnet.

My father got out of the car.

‘Give me a torch from the dashboard, one of you.’

My brother made a dive for it, and handed it out.

I heard my father ask the man what he was doing underneath the car.  The man, who was obviously in great pain, pleaded to be pulled out.  Our father got his arms around him and dragged him clear.

‘I think you have broken a leg.  Let me examine it,’ he said.  Then:  ‘Yes, I believe you have.’

The victim asked how the hell he knew that.

‘I am a doctor, that’s how.  Now hold on to me.  I am going to lay you down in the back of the car and take you to my hospital.’

A quick transfer was made.  My bother and I squeezed into the front seats while my father deposited the man in the back.  The car immediately reeked with the smell of sweat, toddy (a local booze) and beedis (a local cigarette).  Not that I was complaining; my main worry was that my father might get arrested for knocking down the man.  What was a little smell in comparison to that?

After a couple of weeks in hospital, the man emerged as fit as a fiddle.  Well, almost.  I noticed he had a slight limp when walking, but that was all.  The next day, he appeared near our kitchen door carrying a basket filled with all kinds of vegetables – okra, aubergines, red onions and small ripe bananas (my favourite).  From then on he turned up every month, come rain, come shine.

I couldn’t understand it.  Surely, by right, he should be suing my father for damages for his broken leg?  All right, so he was a decent fellow; and besides, he obviously didn’t have enough money to pay the lawyers and so on.  But to come bearing gifts for someone who had nearly killed him seemed to be taking forgiveness too far.

One day I plucked up enough courage to tackle my father on the subject.

‘Father,’ I said, ‘can I ask you something?’

‘Fire away, son.’

‘Sure you don’t mind?’

‘Look, don’t waste my time, shoot!’

‘Okay.  Why is that man bringing us presents all the time?’

‘Because I saved his life, son.’

‘But, Father, it was you who knocked him over and nearly killed him to start with.’

‘Well, he shouldn’t have crossed the road without looking.’

‘Still…’

‘Still what, son?’

‘Still…’ I repeated.

My father told me to be quiet. Then my mother, who had been listening, intervened on my behalf; after all, she said, I did have a point.

He asked her politely if she was enjoying all the free vegetables the man was bringing.  She replied that yes, they were very good vegetables.

Then he said that it would be wise for her to shut up.

Next he turned to my brother and told him to shut up too.  My brother protested, saying that he never opened his mouth.  My father said that it was a very wise thing to do and invited him for a drive in his car, as he was about to do his rounds.

© CR Krishnan 2005  First published in the UK by UKA Press, an imprint of KMS Ltd