Read Online That Savage Water by Matthew R. Loney - Free Book Online

might be lying.
    ï£§That man in the blue shirt and white dhoti, do you see him?
    ï£§Yes.
    ï£§That one over there.
    ï£§Yes, sir.
    The man stood wailing in the shade of a tree, his hands pressed to his face. He had a moustache and was shaking his head distraughtly at something being said to him.
    ï£§That man claims there were rumours of landslides…
    ï£§Landslides?
    ï£§Because of the rain. Write that – Carter said – Incessant rains had loosened the soil and rumours of landslides startled the crowd…
    ï£§With all due respect, sir, startled sounds like cattle too.
    ï£§Does it? Maybe if I had said spooked I could see that, but startled seems appropriate. Hard work getting this right, isn’t it, Prakash? Are you sure you want to be a journalist?
    Om Prakash looked at him – Yes, sir.
    ï£§There will always be difficult things in life. A journalist must try to portray them all correctly to the world. Passionately, but correctly. That’s the job. You think you can do that?
    ï£§Yes, sir. I’d like to interview a family member, if you wouldn’t mind.
    ï£§Fine, Prakash, but make sure they’re upset. You’ll need a strong headline.
    Om Prakash walked over to the group of mourners and began speaking with an old woman. Carter watched her as she wailed and thought – What should I believe? That she was only threatening to leave me? That she said so as a last resort? Goddammit. Prakash should hurry up. I could get back to Delhi and be in London by tomorrow.
    Carter knew he deserved it if she left, but the pain in his stomach didn’t seem fair. All this churning inside him didn’t seem fair at all. He looked out over the valley, and in the distance he could barely make out a tiny hut sitting on the edge of a green rice field. A thread of grey smoke spiraled into the air from some sort of rubbish fire and for a moment he deeply envied whoever lived there – Why does everything have to be so complicated?
    Carter watched Om Prakash write furiously in his notebook as the crowd of mourners gathered around him, each eager to cry out their version of the events. Prakash took tiny steps back on the gravel and every time the crowd inched forward. He could understand the disgust of the British but he wasn’t allowed to say it. His job was to report the news and to keep personal opinions to himself. India was becoming too difficult to write about these days. One had to be so careful.
    The police carried the dead bodies down from the temple and were lining them up at the guardrail near the edge of the cliff. Carter looked at his watch – Dammit, Prakash. Hurry up.
    Om Prakash turned his back to the mourners and wiped his forehead with the sleeve of his shirt. He walked over to Carter and said – They say the guardrail broke. Many people fell to their deaths, it seems.
    ï£§So they weren’t trampled after all?
    ï£§Some were. Others fell, sir. One woman said she saw her children… – Prakash read from his notebook – …tumbling down the hillside.
    ï£§Terrible – Carter said – But make sure you mention those children.
    ï£§One man lost all three. He said to me, ‘I fail to see why God was so cruel.’
    Cruelty is relative – Carter thought – There are many ways for the gods to be cruel. He looked at Om Prakash and said – You see there, a fine headline.
    ï£§Such a tragedy – Om Prakash said, looking out at the valley – to be trampled under human feet. There are too many horrible things in the world. Aren’t there, sir? Does a journalist ever grow tired of seeing them all?
    Carter looked at the tiny hut in the distance. The sun had begun to tilt the shadow of the mountains towards where Carter and Prakash were standing, but a gap of silver light remained between them. Carter mentally marked the sun’s boundary with a boulder resting at its edge. He forced himself to