The Bridge’s Swan Song: A short story by Smita Das Jain

The yellow ball of fire blazed in glory. Not a patch of white was to be seen in the blue sky. A white dog with black spots roamed back and forth,  its tongue hanging out. There was no human on the bridge. Except my brother and me.

The scorching sun ensured no bystander ventured outside. So, there was no audience to admire my brother’s songs and clap at my nimble moves, no loose change for us to gather and count for breakfast.

“I am hungry,” I confessed to Om. My brother was older than me, though neither of us was sure by how much.

“Any money left over from yesterday?” He asked, leaning over the bridge rails. My eyes followed his gaze. The river that fed most of the small town looked more like a pond.

“Fourteen rupees and fifty paise,” I replied.

“We will need to save that money for lunch.” As usual, Om decided for both of us. “I will go down and fill the bottle with some water. That should take care of our pangs.”

How’s the quenching of thirst related to quelling the hunger pangs? I didn’t ask my brother lest he abandoned me out of anger. He was the only person I had in the world.

I looked up at the sky. The unrelenting summer sun stared back.

“Don’t go,” I remark. “I am not hungry anymore.”

My brother raised an eyebrow, looking older than his fourteen years. A hint of a smile appeared on his face before he turned towards the river again. 

***

We combined the late breakfast with an early lunch and returned to the bridge for our customary afternoon siesta. Only a two-rupee coin remained in Om’s pocket, while my handkerchief was devoid of any money. If Om was worried about where our dinner would come from, he didn’t show it. It wouldn’t be the first day we would be restricted to one square meal. 

We stopped at the furthest end of the two-hundred-plus metre bridge. I opened our tattered brown bag to remove two pale yellow bedsheets and laid them down carefully against the bridge rails. 

We sprawled down on the sheets. The panting dog had abandoned the bridge for greener pastures, and we were the only living beings on the bridge. 

I covered my face with the handkerchief to avoid the sun’s glare. “Do you think the weather will improve in the evening?” Om suddenly asked. I peered out of the handkerchief. It was rare for him to seek my opinion.

“It always does,” I replied and slept off awaiting a response.

My prediction had come true when I woke up a few hours later. The fiery rays of the afternoon sun had yielded to a golden hue that cast its warm glow in the world. The breezy air carried a revitalising coolness. The sky was painted with burnt orange and soft pink streaks. The serene river rippled and sparkled in the evening. 

“Ready for the performance?” Om asked, yawning.

I looked around. The once solitary bridge had transformed into a bustling thoroughfare as people from all walks of life congregated on its structure. Some leaned against the railing, their eyes lost in contemplation, while others stood mesmerised by the water’s shimmering reflections. Once a silent observer, the river now held court as the centrepiece of attention.

Hawkers lined the bridge, their makeshift stalls bursting with an array of tantalising goods. Some performers had started their performances while we were sleeping — adding an extra layer of enchantment to the lively scene. 

Amidst the kaleidoscope of sights, sounds, and scents, the bridge had come alive as a vibrant mosaic of human interaction, where the city’s heartbeat resonated and thrived.

“Are you ready?” Om repeated, a tad impatient.

I came out of my reverie and hastily nodded. We started walking to the opposite end of the bridge.

Om started to sing before we reached halfway. A hush fell upon the crowd as his melodious voice soared with effortless grace. Each note hung in the air, resonating deep within the souls of those who listened.

He stopped his stride a few metres short of where the bridge made way for the road. That was my cue to begin. I arched and twisted, my limbs becoming an extension of my brother’s music. My lithe frame floated through the air with a breathtaking lightness.

The atmosphere crackled with an electric energy, an invisible thread connecting me to each observer. Gasps of amazement escaped their lips as they marvelled at the seamless harmony between music and dance. In that fleeting moment, the world seemed to fade away, providing a glimpse of the extraordinary beauty that can emerge when two artistic souls intertwine.

The impact of our collaboration rippled through the crowd as applause erupted like thunder. Gleaming coins and notes rained down from the onlookers, their clinking symphony transforming the ground into a collage of metallic glimmer. 

The thought of not sleeping with an empty stomach made me sway my body some more. It was the day I didn’t want to stop.

But I had to when Om’s lyrics ceased. 

I looked across. Beads of sweat covered my brother’s forehead, and he was holding his throat. 

We paused. The crowd stood for some time before moving on to other interests. I started gathering the currency from the ground.

“You look tired,” I remarked when Om joined me.

“We performed for one hour at a stretch! Aren’t you tired?”

I kept mum. There was no need for me to make my big brother feel small.

“How much is it?” Om asked after a while, his eyes on my ragged tied-up handkerchief.

“One hundred and seventy-four rupees,” I replied. “How much do you have there?”

“Seventy-Eight,” he said, his eyes shining. He put them into his pocket.

My heartbeats raced. It was the best ever we had collected in a day. 

“Ready for an encore?” Om asked.

I was about to say yes when my eyes strayed to the gola vendor standing at the road on the bridge’s edge, his hand teeming with a colourful array of icy delights. Each gola stood like a pillar of temptation in the fading light. 

Om followed my gaze as the vendor turned and started to walk away.

“Run for it before he disappears,” he said.

“Aren’t you coming with me?”

Om shook his head. “Bad for my vocal cords,” he explained, touching his throat, sounding important. “Don’t take too long, though. I have never seen the bridge this crowded before, and we do have time for one more performance.”

I dashed away.

 

“I will wait for you here,” Om called behind me. 

***

Two minutes later, I was tapping the vendor’s back. “Bhaiya, how much is the gola for?” I asked, huffing and puffing.

He turned. “Five rupees each. Which one will you take?”

I looked at the assorted offerings. Should I take the green one? No, the orange one appeared more enticing. But then the blue one seemed more attractive.

“What the hell,” he yelled. I was about to assure him of my buying intent when the cries and shrieks reached my ears.

I turned around, and my heart skipped at the sight of chaos before me. 

The bridge was hanging over the river like a precarious thread, its quivering metallic structure casting long, ominous shadows in the fading light of the day, its joints protesting with each sway and tremor.

People filled with joy and laughter moments ago now wore expressions of sheer panic and desperation. They stumbled and jostled, clinging to each other in a desperate attempt to find support. Their frightened screams blended with the creaks and groans of the bridge as it strained further under the movement of the crowd.

My brother was somewhere on the bridge, among the contorted faces. 

I will wait for you here. His words echoed in my ears. I ran again, this time towards the direction I had come from.

But it was too late.

With a deafening crash, the bridge began its descent. A chorus of shock and disbelief resonated through the air. A cacophony of panic and desperation pierced the atmosphere as the collapsing bridge’s roar drowned people’s haunting cries for help.

 

In an instant, the majestic bridge had disappeared from my sight. Thunderous vibrations coursed through the ground and resonated in my heart as the earth trembled in sympathy.

I stood transfixed. This has to be a nightmare. I closed my eyes, hoping to wake up at our regular spot on the bridge with Om by my side. The anguished shrieks compelled me to see the world earlier than I would have wished. The centuries-old structure didn’t reappear. 

Ambling in a trance to where the road abruptly ended, I leaned over the edge to look at the river. The once-sturdy pillars that supported the bridge now stood as remnants of shattered connections, jutting out from the water like broken bones. The sound of rushing water filled the air, intermingling with the distant cries of those trying to stay alive.

“Om.” I let out a piercing scream, tears coursing down my cheeks. “Are you there?”

The only sound I heard was the wind howling with a ferocity that tore through the air.

My legs gave away, and my mind went blank as I fainted on the road leading to nowhere.

***

The sky is adorned with fluffy clouds painted in shades of grey. The rhythmic patter of raindrops blends harmoniously with the distant chirping of birds. The river beneath glistens under the soft rays of sunlight that occasionally peeks through the parting clouds. A gentle breeze, carrying the scent of rain-soaked earth, caresses my face.

I close my eyes. It is all futile. All I can see squatting on the new bridge that has replaced the old is the scene of death and devastation from two years ago. And my brother’s face. I will wait for you here. I put my hands to my ears to drown out the words, only for the phrase to hammer my mind.

I never saw my brother’s body. More than five hundred people met their deaths that day, and the authorities were unable to recover the mortal remains of forty-odd people. Om was mentioned in the latter statistic.

Clank. The sound makes me look away from the river. Someone has dropped a coin on the handkerchief in front of me. There are a handful of them already. Perhaps I will have some lunch today. Or perhaps not. The hunger pangs are gone with my brother.

“Hey.” The greeting makes me look up. A lanky boy looks expectantly at me. He and his sister were our rival performers two years ago. Both of them survived the bridge collapse.

“Care to join us for the evening performance? You and my sister could perform together.” He has been asking the same question for the last two months since the bridge opened.

I haven’t danced since my brother’s death.

I shake my head and turn my back on humanity. A sense of emptiness washes over me as I gaze at the tranquil river, its water reflecting the sombre hues of the overcast sky. The gentle breeze whispers through the trees, carrying fragments of memories that dance in the air. The once vibrant surroundings now appear muted, mirroring the void that consumes me. The world seems to stand still. 

Except that it isn’t still. It has moved on from the tragic and painful memories of the past. I am alone in my grief. 

“Why didn’t you wait for me?” I silently ask the air. There is no answer.