Morning After the Storm - Part 1.

Chathan sensed danger the moment a clap of thunder woke him.

Clouds had been gathering from early afternoon but the old man hadn’t noticed. He had dozed off leaning against a coconut palm on the bund that protected the rice fields from waters of the Vembanad Lake. He held a fishing rod made of bamboo stick in his right hand but the bait had long been nibbled away by unseen fishes. He had not felt any tug.

It had been bright and sunny when he had come there. That was after eating noon meal at the Big House. The lady of the house had told him that he could have food there every day. She was a kind-hearted person. But he went only some times, when there was real need. Till a few decades back a low caste Pulaya like him could not even enter the compound of the Big House, but times had changed. Now he was allowed to sit on the open veranda outside the kitchen and have a meal. He had a separate plate, which he washed himself and kept apart.

Today had been a particularly happy one for Chathan. As he was nearing the Eastern Gatehouse on his way out, Thampran who was standing on the front veranda had called him. He stopped and bowed. Usually Thampran would be inside the house at that hour, reading or watching TV. It was as though he was waiting for the Pulaya.

“Chathan how are you?” Thampran asked.

“I am well, Thampran,” Chathan replied.

“Why do you walk in this hot sun? Wait at the gatehouse till it cools down.”

Chathan did not respond but he was touched.

“You know,” Thampran went on, “you are older than me. Take care.”

That was true. Thampran had celebrated his eighty-fourth birthday the previous month. They said it meant witnessing one thousand full moons. One of Chathan’s earliest memories was of watching from a distance along with other untouchables Thampran’s mother bringing the baby to the Big House after confinement at her father’s place. She had come in a boat that had a cabin. It was rowed by twenty-two oarsmen. A bigger craft carrying many boxes, baskets and bags had arrived earlier. Some of the baggage contained cakes, sweets, fruits and other delicacies. Most of it was later distributed among the tenants of the Big House.

Chathan waited on the outside steps of the gatehouse for a while because that was Thampran’s wish. He did not like to be there for long because he would have to get up every time a supervisor came by. Now there were only three of them compared to more than a dozen during his younger days. Mathappan supervisor was the only one to whom he had not shown that curtsy. He had no respect for the man. But that was long ago.

A woman who passed by smiled at him. He knew that she was a relative but could not place her. She was wearing sari and blouse. Chathan felt amused. He could remember a young low caste woman being tied to a coconut tree outside the gatehouse and caned for covering her breasts in public. Only high caste ladies had the privilege of wearing a jacket or wrapping the torso with a shawl those days.

Mathappan supervisor was the one who had taken the initiative in punishing the woman. After that incident the then Thampran, the present one’s father, had ordered that all women of Kadep Island who wished to do so could wear upper garments. The high caste Hindus and Christians did not like it but none dared to question Thampran’s decision.

Chathan got up from the steps of the gatehouse and picked up the fishing rod and the coconut shell containing the bait of earthworms that he had left outside when he went in for food. Ants had got inside the shell. He threw out the worms and walked on. The sand was hot under his bare feet. A cool breeze blew from the west, carrying the smell of rain.

At a respectful distance from the Big House, Chathan stepped into a canal, took the sheathed knife from his hip and held it between his teeth. Then he trapped some small shrimp by removing his loincloth and using it as a net. With sufficient stock of bait he went to the bund, cast the line and promptly dozed off.

Now, with the thunder he was fully awake and alert. He unconsciously scratched his left forearm. That was something he invariably did when tense. His eyes were on the two-week-old rice saplings in the field where the water level was much lower than that of the lake.

If the mud embankment breached and outside water entered, the plants would be wiped out. Many of them would get uprooted, die and float around. Others, which had rooted would decay underwater. There would be no harvest, no celebration, and not enough to eat till the next season unless one had money or the patronage of the Big House.

Chathan looked at up at the sky. Clouds covered it like a dark blanket. The breeze had ceased. The southwest monsoon had started with a couple of rainy days earlier in the week. But this time a severe storm was definitely in the offing. Chathan could sense from decades of experience that it would strike an hour or two before midnight. Now it was the ebb. High tide would begin around sunset and peak out during the gale. That would raise the water in the lake to a dangerous level bringing tremendous pressure on the dyke. The vulnerable areas of the embankment might snap.

Actually, crabs were the major culprits. However well a dyke was made and maintained, the crustaceans bore through it, creating small channels that would keep on enlarging as water trickled through them. One had to be on constant watch and repair such inlets promptly.

Someone was approaching over the bund. For a moment Chathan thought it was his grandson Maran whom Thampran had put in charge of paddy cultivation. But it was Maran’s eldest son. The old man felt a surge of pride and satisfaction. The boy worked in the port office at Cochin. It was Sunday, the only day in a week that he could be home with his family. Still he had come out to check the fields.

“How’s the bund?” Chathan asked.

“It’s still there,” the young man said and walked away.

Read on at

Morning After the Storm - Part 2.