Story postings

The following stories are also posted in Song of the waves - Parayil A. Tharakan Blog

Morning After The Storm - Part 1.

A Tyreseller.

Songs of the sea - Part 1.

A Crow in the Bonnet

A VODKA STORY

Flash Fiction: Medicine Specialist.

Short Story: A Bend in the Lake.

Short Story: JESUS BY THE ROADSIDE.

The story of a story.

Fiction (Flash): The Wait.

The Bulldozer - concluding part

“Wait for my signal,” Gopan instructed the sergeant and approached the chief. He met the old man’s gaze, and said commandingly, “The machine will start now. Vacate immediately.”

Village boss looked at him with dignity. He seemed calm and self-assured. “This is our home,” he said. “We are staying.”

“Do you see those men in uniform?” Gopan asked.

“Yes. Why did you bring them? Are you afraid?”

Gopan ignored the slight and said, “They have orders to throw you out.”

The headman silently turned to the villagers and made a sign. In a minute people vanished into their huts. All except one young woman. She stood alone in the morning sun.

Element of surprise was gone. The sergeant wouldn’t like that, Gopan thought.

Suddenly the young man with the chief spoke. “Don’t think we are fools,” he said abrasively. “We know that you want to sacrifice my wife and baby to strengthen your buildings. Kill me instead. But of course, blood of a first time pregnant girl is more effective for your purpose.”

Gopan shook his head. “We don’t require,” he said gently, “any sacrificial blood to stabilize our structures. No body makes such offerings. It’s an old myth without any basis.” After a pause he added, “Get your wife inside the van. We will take her to the hospital.”

The husband laughed, brittle, high pitched. “To all those strangers?” he asked heatedly. “That would make killing easier. And put us to shame as well. In front of all those men and women!” He laughed again.

The sergeant moved near the group quietly.

Exasperated, Gopan continued, aware that he was exceeding his authority, “I’ll arrange temporary accommodation for all of you in an empty storage shed. Even free food.”

“What?” the young villager shouted. “And have my son born in public? Without the presence of our gods and the spirits of ancestors they will surely die, exposed.” He cursed profanely and spat.

The sergeant tugged at Gopan’s sleeve. They walked back together to the bulldozer. The engineer leaned against the machine. “What do we do now?” he asked. “Call it off?”

“That’s for you to decide, Mr. Nair,” the security man replied. “The job has to be done either today, or tomorrow. We could change tactics and proceed.”

Gopan looked at him questioningly.

“Handle chief as before,” sergeant explained. “First two huts have only one male each. A combined total of seven including children. Six of my men will form two teams. Twelve will cordon off the huts in question. Squads dash in, do the flushing, and the dozer moves.”

Gopan had to make a decision. The determination and confidence he had felt when he woke up that morning were fast eroding.

“Others,” sergeant was saying, “are inside their huts with doors closed. Reaction time will be long. Concentrate on first two huts.”

Gopan noticed the headman giving another signal. As he and the sergeant watched, the woman started moving. She was full with swelling of new life within her and walked unsteadily. She stopped at the first hut and leaned against its sidewall, facing the bulldozer.

Gopan was perplexed. “What do we have now?” he asked. “Sacrificial lamb? Or bluff?”

“Could be either,” sergeant replied.

“What do you mean?”

“They know they can’t win. Therefore they want a human sacrifice in atonement for abandoning their ancestors or whatever. In fact, they had special rituals earlier this morning. That’s why those flowers around the idols.”

In the distance, Gopan could see the steel plant rising over the shrubs and trees. When completed, it would be one of the most modern. “Rubbish,” he said. “Then why don’t they attack us?”

“Because many of them could get hurt. Women are expendable, not men. One offering and they can leave their gods and forefathers satisfied and go away with peace.”

Gopan was thoughtful.

“We had,” the sergeant continued, “reported this possibility to DE sometime back.”

In that case I am the sacrificial lamb, Gopan thought.

“It’s also possible,” the sergeant went on, “that our intelligence is wrong. As you said, it could be a gamble. But this situation is better for us. I’ll remove her as well to the van. Other details remain unchanged.”

Gopan wanted time to think. “Very well,” he said. “Brief your men.”

Sergeant quickly moved to the guards and started explaining, drawing diagrams on sand with a stick. The chief, the young man and the woman were observing with rapt attention. There was apprehension on their faces.

Gopan knew that the sergeant’s new plan was good, like the earlier ones. But somebody could get injured. And the old man might have more tricks up his sleeve.

The sergeant was back.

“It’s a bluff,” Gopan said. “I’m going to call it.”

“Well, you’re in charge,” the security man’s response was lukewarm. As an afterthought he added, “But I don’t feel comfortable about that husband guy.”

Ignoring him, Gopan turned to the woman. “Get out of there fast,” he shouted, “or you will kill yourself and your baby. No body will bother much about an accident at construction.”

The woman hesitated and looked towards her husband.

Gopan addressed the driver loud enough for everyone to hear. “Get going. Stop only if I tell you to, no matter what happens.”

The Sikh grinned. Motor was started and the machine came to life. Gopan followed on a side, keeping the woman in sight. The sergeant also went along.

When the bulldozer had gone forward ten feet, inmates of the first hut rushed out.

The gap was closing.

“Don’t cut it too fine,” the sergeant whispered to Gopan.

Time ticked away. The bulldozer was only about ten feet from the woman. The driver was not grinning any more.

“Stop it,” the security man hissed.

Gopan realized with a sickening feeling that the woman was in shock. She could not have moved even if she wanted to. He was about to call it off when someone, perhaps a guard yelled, “Watch out.”

For a moment there was confusion. Gopan heard running footsteps and saw the Sikh driver jolt violently. A thick streak of blood appeared below his right eye. The man pitched forward covering his face with both hands. A sharp, fist-sized stone bounced off to the sand.

Bulldozer seemed to move faster.

Gopan rushed to the machine. He was vaguely aware of the sergeant sprinting past him to the woman. He jumped on to the bulldozer. It was difficult to reach in over the slumped driver. Finally he managed to, and cut off the engine. The vehicle came to a jerking halt with a light thud.

People were shouting. Villagers started streaming out of their huts. Security men immediately cordoned off the area near the bulldozer.

Gopan slid back to the ground in a daze. He walked away, aimless and disoriented. After a few steps he felt dizzy and sat down on the sand. Some guards quickly moved near him to provide close proximity cover. He managed to wrap his hands around the knees and rested his face on them.

There were many noises in the air – shouting, wailing, people talking loudly. They seemed to come from a great distance. Did he hear the word ‘sacrifice’? Gopan was not sure. He thought there was the sound of a vehicle being driven away.

Later, from the haziness, the sergeant’s voice came in clearly, “This man will take you to the Club House. Get a room. Have some sedatives sent over from the hospital and try to rest. I’ll wind up here and meet you.”

Helping Gopan to the Jeep, the security man added, “Couple of sentries will be posted outside your room. That’s the procedure.”

There was no reaction from the engineer.

Late at night, while driving Gopan home after formalities were completed, the sergeant said, “The driver should be hopefully all right. A nasty cut and a broken nose. Lucky he didn’t lose an eye.”

Gopan nodded.

“The villagers,” The security man went on, “moved to Shed 7. GM has sanctioned free rations for them. They’ll be gone in a couple of days.”

Servant maid opened the door for Gopan when he reached home. She looked terrified.

Gopan went straight to the bedroom and switched on the light. Malini was lying awake, staring at the ceiling. He sat on his side of the bed and started removing his field shoes.

Minutes passed. The silence was becoming unbearable.

“It was an accident,” Gopan said all of a sudden. That was the conclusion local police had reached at the inquest. There were no charges against anyone.

“It was an accident,” Gopan repeated, louder.

Malini took a long time to respond. When she finally did, it was as though she was talking to herself. “Nobody,” she said, “will bother much about an accident at construction,”

Gopan knew that she had not repeated his statement sarcastically or with malice. He lay down heavily without bothering to change clothes.

Again, there was Malini’s voice, far away and sad, yet with a tenderness that hurt. “Sorry, I can’t help it. Can’t forget as much as I try. Way that man was crying against her body at the hospital. If only they could have saved the baby.”

Her voice cracked. Gopan knew that her eyes were full. She was like that. Too soft. Too delicate. That man killed them, he wanted to say. But it would not have helped.

Malini turned on her side, facing the wall.

It had been like that ever since – two and a half years!

Standing near the jeep waiting for Malini, Gopan sighed. The steel plant looked solid, massive. They did complete the job on schedule. He was a DE now.

Gopan checked his watch. If Malini did not hurry, they would be late for the flight. There were other plants to build and more schedules to keep. ‘The Bulldozer’ had to carry on.

He took a deep breath and held it for a few seconds. As he exhaled, there was a touch on his arm. It was so gentle, so light that it could have been his imagination. He was afraid though to turn around and make sure. He kept staring ahead, wanting that moment and the emerging hope to linger.

“Gopan, the plant looks magnificent,” Malini’s childlike voice filled his ears.

Gopan Nair did not reply. He was thinking how fascinating, like a string of diamonds, distant lights appear when one saw them through misty eyes.

Ends.

The Bulldozer.

Gopan Nair came out from the house into the pre-dawn chill carrying a blue fibre suitcase. He placed it carefully at the back of the Jeep and took a deep breath. That almost completes it, he said to himself with a sense of relief. The heavy luggage had been dispatched by truck the day before. Only Malini’s leather travel bag remained. That would have to wait till she finished changing.

For a moment Gopan wished that he could go in and chat with his wife while she dressed. He used to do that three years back, during the first few months of their marriage. It was different those days.

Gopan walked to the front of the Jeep where the young driver sat wrapped in a blanket. The man gave him a quick glance and looked away.

Gopan moved off with a faint shrug. That was how they treated him. Never friendly. It would be same at the new place too, he was sure. His nickname ‘The Bulldozer’ would have reached there already. He did not care about that, did not bother with those who said things behind his back. They were not aware of the truth. But Malini was different. She should have understood.

He turned around and looked at the steel plant some distance away, silhouetted against the gentle glow in the eastern sky. It was an awe-inspiring sight. The gigantic structure towered over houses of the township around it, glowing with thousands of lights. Half a dozen chimneys emitted gases of different hues that curled up softly in the air, making the picture alive. ‘The Site’, Gopan thought proudly.

He had come there when ‘The Site’ was a large, almost barren tract of land in central India. There was one isolated village on it. Gopan could remember clearly the morning he stepped down at the improvised railway station. There were other engineers like him as well, and several workmen from different parts of the country. Most of them were young.

They had formed themselves into a dedicated team, toiling to meet deadlines, sometimes working up to sixteen hours a day. Life was tough initially, living in tents and eating from a makeshift canteen. But ‘The Site’ transformed rapidly. Roads were laid, water and power supply systems were established and a hospital, clubhouse and canteen were completed with record speed. In one year’s time the steel plant was taking shape, changing the skyline each day as construction progressed. Township also started to grow. Tents gave way to little houses of uniform pattern.

Gopan Nair married towards the end of his second year there. Malini had been his junior in school. She was a quiet, kind - hearted girl, rather thin with long curly hair and dark eyes. He took her with him to ‘The Site’ two weeks after the wedding. Leave was scarce because work had to proceed according to schedule. All that the big bosses were concerned about was to complete the project within the stipulated time.

It was in trying to keep to the time frame that Gopan ran into problem. He had sensed trouble even as he stopped his Jeep in a cloud of dust at the village where work on a new sector of township was to commence.

From his vehicle Gopan saw the elderly villager standing a few feet ahead of the path that lay between two rows of mud huts, holding a long staff firmly planted on the ground. The man wore a turban and a shawl was wrapped around his torso. His thick, white moustache drooped slightly at the ends. The man was in the shade of an old Banyan tree. On a square earthen platform at its base were statutes of gods and goddesses.

There were men, women and children in the background watching silently.

“What do you want?” The villager asked harshly as the engineer approached. His eyes were hostile.

“You see,” Gopan spoke mildly, trying to explain. “We –”

The old man interrupted him stating, “You want us to leave.”

“Yes.”

“And go where?”

Gopan did not answer. The villagers were offered good compensation for their land months back. It should not have been difficult for them to find another location to settle down.

“Go where?” the headman repeated bitterly. “Where am I to take those people, leaving behind ashes of our forefathers? We have been staying here for generations. This place is ours.”

“Your land,” Gopan said calmly, “is required for our project. That is why I am here.”

“Project,” village chief said with sarcasm. “My project is my people. Do you know that one of those women is expecting any time? Her first baby. She will not survive a shift from here.”

“Take her to the site hospital,” Gopan suggested. “They won’t charge you anything.”

“Your hospital?” The tone was abrasive. “They will kill her. And the baby as well. We have our own methods and rituals.”

Controlling his frustration, Gopan said firmly, “You had plenty of time. Even last week I sent you a message that you should quit at least by today. This land now belongs to us. You have to go. At once.”

The chief spat. “We shall not go,” he stated.

This was contrary to what the Divisional Engineer had told Gopan. Now the only solution seemed to be removing them by force.

“Well then,” Gopan said, “you will be evicted physically. I’ll be back with men and machines early tomorrow.” He turned abruptly and headed for the Jeep.

“We shall be here,” old man shouted after him.

They were there too, when the engineer returned with a support team next morning. The previous afternoon he had informed his boss about the situation. The Divisional Engineer was appalled.

“Listen,” DE had said, “take all the men you need. I’ll talk to the security chief. Work must proceed according to schedule. Don’t create any problem though. Handle it smoothly.” He paused momentarily, and whispered, “Confidential reports are going out next month.”

“Shall I,” Gopan asked, “put up a note saying that there is resistance?”

“No, no,” DE protested. “It may go right up to the GM. That would take time and our program would be upset. As I told you, confidential reports –”

“Are due next month,” Gopan completed the sentence and got up.

“Actually,” DE went on, “it was the fault of revenue department. They should have given us vacant possession.”

Why did you take non-vacant possession? Gopan suppressed the question and walked out.

In the morning, as Gopan was about to leave for the village, something else happened that disturbed him further. Strangely, it had come from Malini. As he stepped out of the house, she called him from behind. His grandmother used to say, he remembered, that calling back a person leaving on a mission, was a bad omen.

Malini went forward, touched her husband’s arm and asked, “Can’t you let them stay till the child is born?”

“I’ll see that she is shifted to the hospital.”

“But Gopan,” the wife protested, “these people are superstitious. They have their own taboos and customs and beliefs.”

“And half their babies die at birth.”

“That’s in the hands of God.”

Gopan left without another word.

He was still angry when he reached the village ahead of a van load of security personnel and a bulldozer. The village chief was at the same spot where he had stood the previous day. He seemed glued to earth, a part of it, and so immovable. A young man was beside him. Gopan could see other villagers in huddles further away. Their faces were not clear in the morning mist.

Smell of jasmine hung heavily in the windless atmosphere. Gopan noticed white flowers scattered around the deities under the tree.

Security guards in khaki uniforms had scrambled out of their vehicle with batons and shields. Their sergeant, a big-made Anglo-Indian, started a drill. Commands shot out from him and his men followed them to near perfection. It was impressive.

Gopan ignored the village chief who was watching with narrow eyes, and walked over to the bulldozer. The tough looking Sikh driver grinned.

“Move her into position,” he ordered.

Still grinning, the Sikh manoeuvred the machine in line with a row of huts and stopped about twenty-five feet away.

The sergeant had finished the exercise. He went to Gopan and reported, “We’re ready.”

“What do you suggest?”

“A swift action. Four men will block entry into first two huts. Twelve will push the crowd back if necessary. Simultaneously, four guards remove chief and his lackey into the van. That leaves four men in reserve. Plus the driver and me.”

“And we send in the bulldozer,” Gopan said.

“Yes. But demolish only two huts and stop. Give them a chance to gather their belongings and leave.”

“Suppose they fight back?”

“Unlikely. Morale is low. They’re not armed. There may be some weapons hidden inside clothes. We can handle that.”

Gopan hesitated.

“It has to be done now,” sergeant stated with emphasis. “Delay might cause problems.”

“Wait for my signal,” Gopan instructed the sergeant and approached the chief. He met the old man’s gaze, and said commandingly, “The machine will start now. Vacate immediately.”

Village boss looked at him with dignity. He seemed calm and self-assured. “This is our home,” he said. “We are staying.”

To be continued.

Morning After the Storm - concluding part.

The fellow slumped to the floor as round nine started. Chathan finished his bottle to the applause of the onlookers. Two of them had to help him home later. Chathan laughed aloud thinking of that scene and how angry Neeli had been.

When Maran’s wife brought dinner, Chathan asked her to call her husband. After the eighty-fourth birthday celebration Thampran had given him a bottle of brandy with a warning that it should be drank only a little at a time and slowly. Chathan had buried it near the front steps. When his grandson came, the old man asked him to dig out the bottle.

“I’ve rum,” Maran said, “which my son gave. Shall I get some of that?”

“No, I want Thampran’s.”

Maran brought the bottle. “Don’t drink too much, grandfather,” he cautioned.

Chathan laughed loudly. “During my coffin days,” he said, “I used to down a bottle of arrack a day.”

‘You were young then,” the grandson reminded him.

I was young of course, Chathan said to himself. He clearly remembered being summoned to the Big House one night during the tenure of the first Communist government in Kerala State. Thampran had received news that Party activists planned to take over a hundred-acre paddy field of his the next day claiming that he had no proper title.

The area was enclosed by a bund that had been raised from the lake decades earlier. A causeway connected it a piece of the mainland, which was also owned by the Big House. Chathan remembered hearing at that time the Maharaja had complimented the then Thampran on his endeavour and exhorted people to emulate him to increase rice production.

The supervisor who was responsible for protecting the field took only four people including Chathan with him. They reached the place before sunrise and took their positions where the land-bridge joined.

By mid-day the aggressive, slogan shouting procession by the Leftists over the causeway began. Women had sickles in their hands. Several of the men carried red flags tied to short clubs. When the demonstration passed the halfway mark, the defenders released their surprise weapon – mouse rockets, the type that was hand launched during festival processions as part of fireworks.

The first salvo, which was aimed just above the heads of the marchers burst about the middle of the column. Slogans turned to screams. The second round was directed at the leaders. In a matter of minutes the attack was in shambles. No one was seriously injured.

Megaphones blared from the mainland, “Victory to the revolution. We shall take revenge.”

Chathan happened to be their first target.

Three men attacked him one night while he was returning from a temple feast. Chathan stabbed one of them to death and escaped, running straight to the supervisor’s house. He was immediately taken to the vicarage where the supervisor’s brother was the cook.

The siblings decided to hide Chathan in an unused broken coffin on the mezzanine floor of the large cemetery chapel, which was some distance away from the church. Every night the high caste cook carried food, water and arrack to the Pulaya.

Chathan had no idea how long it lasted but one day he was brought out of hiding. He was told that the President in Delhi had dismissed the Communist government and the Big House had taken care of the police.

The thunder was back suddenly. Chathan had a gulp of brandy and started his dinner of boiled rice and fish curry made the way he loved. He late slowly, relishing every mouthful, and drank more.

His mind began wandering. What would happen to the Big House after Thampran died? Both his sons were in America. They were unlikely to return permanently. Anyway, the relevance of the Big House was fading. New moneyed classes and power centres had emerged, but no Pulaya was among them. Would his people ever become rich and powerful? Pulaya Christians were still without any real position in the Church though decades had passed since their conversion. Even the Communist Party was dominated by the high castes.

Suddenly the skies opened up. Rain came pouring down, lashed by strong winds. Repeated thunder and lightning rocked the earth. Chathan pulled around him an old blanket that the lady of the Big House had given, and took another swig from the bottle.

He saw a figure approaching, flashing a torch. It was Maran. Standing at the door wearing a plastic raincoat with the hood pulled over his head. He shouted to be heard over the din, “Water is only about nine inches below the top of the bund.”

“That’s bad,” Chathan said. “There’s risk till the tide turns.”

“Yes,” Maran agreed. “I’ll check again after some time.”

“Raise alarm if the level goes up by another three inches.”

Maran was silent for a while. “Who will come, grandfather?” he asked as he was leaving.

The realisation sank in brutally. The boy is right, Chathan thought. Nobody would come. No one was bothered. The bund and the crop were at the mercy of the elements. There was nothing that the old man or his grandson could do about it.

Chathan drank more. Does it matter now, he asked himself. Even if the crop were wiped out, Maran would ensure that the old man had enough food to eat. Or he could always go to the Big House as long as Thampran or the Lady was there. He had spent his life for them.

Many events of the past came to his mind – Mathappan’s tyranny, squaring off with the police officer, defence of reclaimed field, the man who fell dead from the tip of his knife, his days in the coffin. Did all that have any meaning? Or, was his too a dog’s life to be lived through?

The storm raged on.

Where was Thampran? Chathan had a sudden urge to see him. But Thampran would be asleep in the comfort of the Big House. He wouldn’t come to check the bund. He was not expected to. That was the job for a Pulaya.

Nothing mattered now. It was the end of the world, the deluge. Drink and get knocked out. The floods would come and take him away.

He lay down with the bottle in one hand. After a while he heard the harvest song. It came from a distance but with great clarity. The music was back, carrying the pulse of nature with it. People cared after all. The granaries would fill. Haystacks would rise towards the sky. There would be dancing and games and merrymaking. “Hurry, Neeli, we’re late,” he called out and sat up.

There was no response. A gust of wind rushed through the room.

Where was Neeli? The curly haired, big-eyed girl that he had loved for so long? Oh, yes, she had died, Chathan remembered. He tried hard to recall her face but could only see the star, bright and shining – the star that gave life, the star that took it back. Yes, it was all in the stars. Written down. Fate.

The harvest song still kept playing in Chathan’s mind above the unabated fury outside.

The storm blew over some time in the night and the morning was clear without any trace of clouds. The rice fields looked like an extension of the lake. Two of the palms on the dyke were uprooted and their heads that once swayed proudly against the sky were now under water.

Chathan was found on the bund, lying near the breach. His lips were touching the wet clay as though kissing the earth goodbye.

A crow perched close by staring curiously at the body.

Ends.

Morning After the Storm - Part 4.

When Mathappan died a few months later, neither Chathan nor Neeli attended the funeral. That was against convention, an offence in fact, but Thampran took no notice.

Thunder had stopped, but the clouds remained. Chathan reached the end of the embankment and turned towards his house. It was no longer a hut. There were four small tile roofed brick buildings on that plot. The first one was his. It had a tiny outhouse in which he stayed. Maran occupied the main portion. Two belonged to his older sons who were both dead. There was another son, the youngest, who had left home in his teens and was never herd of again. Chathan kept hoping that the boy was still alive and would return some day perhaps as a rich man.

Looking at the last building, the old man thought of his third daughter, a simple and loving person who was the prettiest among all his girls. Many young men were keen on marrying her. Then a middle-aged person from the south, who was said to be an expert in building bunds, came to visit an ailing relative in Kadep. He stayed on. Everybody liked the polite and well-behaved Pulaya convert who went to church regularly. Thampran deputed him to check all the bunds in the fields of the Big House and give a report.

Those were the days when the Communist Party’s theatre group was performing to packed houses all over the State. Their dramas and songs were very popular. The themes, the tunes and the lyrics focused on the travails of agricultural workers. They appealed to the masses.

After a month at Kadep the bund builder took permission from Thampran and started an amateur troupe to perform a different type of play at the next Onam, the harvest festival. Chathan’s third daughter was chosen as the heroine. The artists met at nights and rehearsed at the house of visitor’s relative.

The play was never staged. Two months into the practice, the hero who had a real life interest in the heroine leaked out information that the drama master was actually conducting study classes for the Communist party. The visitor disappeared as soon as the news was out, leaving behind Chathan’s daughter pregnant.

In due course she was delivered of a baby boy.

One afternoon she dropped the infant while feeding, stripped off her clothes and ran out. Thampran arranged treatment for her at Cochin by a specialist. With medication she seemed to be normal but a new trend developed. She started sleeping with every man who was interested. One day she was found hanging from a mango tree. It was rumoured that she had contacted some horrible disease. Chathan and Neeli brought up her son and it was for him that the fourth house was built.

Those buildings were their own homes on land that now belonged to them. A new law stipulated that landowners had to sell homesteads to the tenants at prices stipulated by the government. Chathan and his two elder sons were entitled to ten cents each, but Thampran had given the entire fifty-one cent plot. People said that Thampran was en-cashing what would have been a useless twenty-one cents bit of land. They didn’t know that it had been a free grant.

The houses were built with government subsidy and loans. Thampran also helped. Before the construction was over, Neeli passed away in her sleep. How many full moons had she seen? Chathan had no idea. Not that it mattered. She had come when he called, and they had been happy together. And suddenly she was gone. Birds died, dogs died, Pulayas too died. That was the end. There was nothing beyond. Chathan felt no emotion as he watched Neeli’s body being engulfed by flames. There was only numbness inside.

It was different later, in the darkness of the night. Lying sleepless on a single mat spread on the floor, he remembered Neeli saying the previous night that her major regret in life was that she could bear him only three sons out of the twelve children they had. Those words turned out to be her last. He felt sad and lonely. He had never stayed away from his wife for more than a couple of days at a stretch except when he had to live in a coffin for months together.

Electric lights were burning bright in all the buildings. Power was free for the Pulayas. The big TV of Maran’s son blared out loud music. Maran’s grandson sat on the front steps with a book. Chathan wondered how many direct descendants he had. He couldn’t recall. But he knew that the land in his name would be partitioned into tiny bits after he died. Now even a Pulaya had to worry about such matters. One good thing was that the newer generations had fewer children.

Chathan approached his great-great grandson and asked, “What are you reading?”

“English,” the boy said without looking up.

The old man felt proud. Pulayas too were learning the sahibs’ language. They enjoyed concessions and job reservations. But what was the use? Apart from a few exceptions like Maran’s son, most of them dropped out half way through school. They neither knew the work on land, nor were they qualified for any other job, and often ended up as trouble makers.

Chathan went to the outhouse and sat on the bed Maran had bought him. Initially he was frightened of falling off, but soon got used to the comfort. A bottle of toddy and a glass were kept in a corner of the room. In the olden days the opaque juice tapped from coconut trees and naturally fermented, was served in earthen pots and drank from coconut shells.

Maran’s wife came in. She looked younger than her age. “Here’s some hot shrimp and coconut chutney,” she said. “It’s nice.”

“Good,” Chathan said.

“I’ll bring dinner after some time,” the woman said and withdrew.

Chathan turned to the toddy. He drank slowly, savouring the flavour. It was good, not the adulterated version that was widely sold.

For decades Chathan used to visit the local toddy shop every evening. His usual quota was two bottles. But once he drank nine at a sitting. That was at an unplanned competition with a visiting Pulaya who bragged about his drinking prowess. The fellow slumped to the floor as round nine started. Chathan finished his bottle to the applause of the onlookers. Two of them had to help him home later. Chathan laughed aloud thinking of that scene and how angry Neeli had been.

Continued at:

Morning After the Storm - concluding part.

Morning After the Storm - Part 3..

White Neeli too grew up with the children Chathan and his wife subsequently had, and was married off in course of time. Mathappan secretly offered some money for the wedding, but Chathan refused to accept it.

Shortly after White Neeli’s birth, Chathan’s name was almost changed. A senior priest from Cochin came to the Big House with the local vicar. The present Thampran’s father summoned all his non – Christian low caste tenants and workers to assemble on the courtyard of the Big House. The senior priest preached that they were all headed for eternal damnation and could be saved only if they became followers of the true God, Yesu Christhu. No one understood the sermon except the parts relating to what they would gain materially by becoming Christians and that interested many.

When the padre had finished, Thampran got up and made a brief statement to the gathering: “There’s no compulsion to convert. Each one can decide for himself.” He went inside without even looking at the cassocked men.

The priest from Cochin was furious but went around pouring water on the heads of those who came forward, chanting Syriac mantras and gave them new names – Pathrose, Paulose, Mathai, Yohanan, Lukose and so on. Chathan remained Chathan and Neeli was glad of it.

After that came the much-publicised Temple Entry Proclamation by the Maharajah of Travancore permitting lower castes to enter temples and worship. Till then, they could not even walk past a temple though cats and dogs could. It hardly made any difference to Chathan who knew no gods except the elements. Neeli was happy however and began visiting the nearby temple often. But she always had to stand far behind the upper classes and wait till they finished their prayers.

Chathan’s reverie was suddenly broken by the question, “Why are you sitting here?”

He looked up. It was his grandson, the watchman of the fields.

“Bad storm’s coming,” Chathan said, “and it’s new moon tonight. The tide will be stronger too.”

“Don’t worry grandfather,” Maran reassured him. “The bund is solid. I’ve been checking regularly.”

Chathan gave him a sceptical look.

“Come, I’ve brought you some toddy,” Maran said showing the bag in his hand and walking ahead.

The old man followed slowly. His eyes roved over the field and the lake and the sky. He kept on scratching his left forearm. Paddy cultivation was still a labour of love for him. In the bygone days everyone was concerned and involved. Rice was sustenance. Growing it was a noble endeavour.

They used to have songs for every step of paddy cultivation – for sowing, for harvesting, for threshing, for winnowing and so on. There was a rhythm in the growth o a plant and a tune to the counting of the measures of grain. Those were simpler times when people lived in harmony with nature.

The music faded with the changes that took place after the big war, in more ways and forms than Chathan could understand.

The first indication came with the visit of a distant cousin who claimed that the King Emperor won the war because the workers of the world supported him. He also said that India would be a free country soon. According to him all land should belong to the tillers. He wanted to unionise labour and fight for their rights.

Chathan couldn’t fathom why anyone should be against a benevolent person like Thampran. The guest explained that Chathan’s lord could be an exception but most land owners and their people were exploiters and oppressors.

Chathan drank heavily that night. Neeli tried to sooth him when they lay down but he pushed her away.

“What’s the matter?” she asked.

There was no answer.

“Are you angry with me for some reason?”

“Not with you.”

They were silent in the darkness for a long time. Then Neeli spoke, “There is some truth in what that man said.”

“Yes.”

“Our Thampran’s good though.”

“Yes,” Chathan agreed. But Thampran wasn’t aware of all the details. Most of the supervisors took advantage o their position and made money on the side. Mathappan was mean. He took sadistic pleasure in tormenting workers in several ways. And Chathan heard again Neeli’s sobs in the darkness of a night long ago.

“I’ll kill him,” Chathan said to himself.

Within a year there were Communist led uprisings at two places south of Kadep by agrarian workers wielding crude weapons. The army cracked down on them with machine guns. No one knew how many died. Most of the victims were low caste workmen who were later hailed as martyrs of India's freedom struggle. The bodies were bulldozed into several ponds in those areas and sand was dumped over them. People fled form the trouble spots. Leaders went underground. Chathan was an active member of the squad organized by the Big House to prevent runaways and Communists from entering Kadep.

The same year Thampran had a major problem. A large coconut grove belonging to him on a nearby island was involved in an ownership dispute. The contender was also a powerful person who claimed to be connected to the Maharaja. He came with the police to forcibly take possession. Mathappan who led the defenders was arrested. On hearing that Thampran went to the spot.

He asked Chathan to stand right in front of the police officer in charge and told him, “You knock down the person I tell you to.”

Then he turned to the law keeper and ordered, “Take off the handcuffs.”

The policeman looked at the commanding face of the six feet tall Thampran, the broad-shouldered Chathan ready to strike, and the crowd. He released the supervisor.

That night too, Chathan hit the bottle. Neeli sat opposite him quietly for some time. Finally she asked, “Would you have really hit the police boss?”

“I would’ve killed him if Thampran ordered.”

As the drinking continued, Neeli asked, “What’s the problem?”

Chathan didn’t answer.

"Is it about Mathappan supervisor?”

“Yes,” the man grunted. “Thampran could have used someone else instead of me.”

Neeli put her arm on her husband’s shoulder. “You don’t understand,” she said. “Thampran purposely humiliated that leech Mathappan. You were made his saviour.”

When Mathappan died a few months later, neither Chathan nor Neeli attended the funeral. That was against convention, an offence in fact, but Thampran took no notice.

Continued at. Morning After the Storm - Part 4.