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.

Morning After the Storm - Part 2.

“How’s the bund?” Chathan asked.

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

Fool, Chathan said to himself, he doesn’t realize that it is food that is growing in those fields. Did his grandson know that once the people nearly starved to death when the crops failed? That was during a great war in some far away land. They were saved because the granaries of the Big House were thrown open. Now Thampran was left with only this stretch of fields after the government had taken away most properties of the large landowners and distributed them among the landless. Many who were left with smaller areas had stopped growing paddy because it was no longer profitable. They either left the fields fallow or reclaimed them for other purposes. But Thampran continued cultivation to keep up the tradition.

Chathan started walking along the dyke ignoring the lightning and thunder. Of the ten coconut trees he had planted on it to mark the tenth birthday of the present Thampran, only six remained. For some reason he had been called to do that job. It was shortly after his marriage. Those days no body had trees on bunds of rice fields because the shade was considered to be bad for the crops. Later on it became a common practice because the price of coconuts increased steadily.

The young Thampran had come to watch the planting. He wore a white dhoti with a broad gold thread border. A gold chain with a cross, adorned his neck. Chathan felt that the boy was also the colour of gold. The supervisor escorting the young master had ensured that he didn’t go near the Pulaya. But after he grew up Thampran used to talk to Chathan about the trees that they had planted together. Those palms symbolised a bond between the two.

The old man carried on along the embankment looking for telltale signs. But his eyes were weak and the light was poor. He could not make out small details like bubbles on the water surface of the field or tiny waves spanning out from the bund or water seeping in. The only thing to do was to go home and tell his grandson to be prepared. Dykes didn't break every year, but one had to be on perpetual alert.

He stopped midway, at the sluice near the pump house. It was there that the bund had caved in for the first time in his memory. He had grown into a young man two years earlier. One night he had woken up to see people shouting and running to the dyke in heavy rain. He joined them.

Those who reached first jumped into the breach to form a human barrier against the gushing waters. Others that followed dived into the lake and came up with blocks of clay held against their chests and dumped them into the opening. The mud was reinforced with the fronds, hay and small branches of trees that the women had, pressed in by hand and pounded down by feet. The gap was filled layer upon layer and the crop was saved. Chathan had felt grown up and proud of having been part of the effort.

That was also the night of Neeli.

Before they left, the supervisors who had come to the spot had distributed some bottles of arrack. The crowd moved into the large thatched boathouse and the men drank. Women sat separately chewing tobacco and gossiping. A few of them had a sip of liquor occasionally. Chathan knew that it would go on well into the night. He didn’t fit in and wandered off aimlessly. By then the rain had almost subsided.

Minutes later he found himself in front of Neeli’s hut. They had practically grown up together. She was two years younger to him but had come of age. One call and she was with him as though she had been waiting all the while.

Chathan pulled out a plaited frond from a pile and they lay down together in the drizzle. Afterwards Neeli cried silently, curled up against him. But Chathan was looking at the sky, at a lone star that shone through a gap in the cloud cover. Many decades later, whenever he recalled Neeli’s face he would see that star as well. Sometimes he felt that she was of that celestial body and had returned to it.

Soon they were married with permission of the Big House. Thampran allowed them to put up a hut on a plot beside the rice field. The arrangement had no permanency. Like the other tenants they too could be evicted any time without notice or giving any reason.

The first child that Neeli bore was a girl. Chathan knew that he was not the father. The day after the wedding Mathappan supervisor, a young man at that time, had called Chathan out from the hut in the evening and sent him to buy two bottles of toddy. They were to be left at the supervisor’s home. When Chathan returned a couple of hours later, no lamp was lit in the hut and Neeli was sitting on the earthen floor staring into the darkness outside. Tears were rolling down her cheeks. Chathan realized what had happened. Neeli suppressed a sob when he tried to touch her, and moved away.

There was nothing that a Pulaya could do about such things. It was part of their life. Chathan went outside the hut and lay on the sand. There was no star in the sky that night.

Everybody called the baby ‘White Neeli’. The whole of Kadep knew who her father was. 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.

Continued at

Morning After the Storm - Part 3..

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.

A Tyreseller.

I reached Cochin determined to succeed where my predecessors had failed. Before boarding the taxi at the airport I had a good look at its tyres. That was a professional habit.

I dumped my baggage on the back seat and sat in front. “Chandra Mohan,” I Introduced myself to the well-groomed elderly driver, “General Sales Manager, Parat Tyre Company.”

“Krishnan.”

“Why don’t you use Parat tyres?” I asked.

“What’s the difference, sir? They’re all round, black and made of rubber.”

I had a good laugh and said, “Technology makes all the difference. You may not understand if I explain.”

“My company purchases the tyres,” the driver said. “Kovil Transports.”

“Well, I came here to talk to them. They don’t buy from us.”

The driver shrugged.

“I’m meeting one Mr. K.P. Nair around noon tomorrow.”

“That’s the MD’s son.”

“It appears,” I commented, “that Mr. K.K. Nair, your MD, is rather difficult to contact.”

“Not for his employees.”

I had a dossier on Mr. K.K. Nair. He was from an old family, which had lost its wealth. At the age of eighteen he joined a local businessman as driver. He educated himself during spare time and obtained a university degree. His boss offered him a desk job but he wanted to strike out on his own and bought a second-hand taxi cab and later went in for a new vehicle. The fleet grew with amazing speed. Trucks were added. Then he diversified into other fields.

“Tell me,” I said, shifting to a matter of personal interest. “Is there any restaurant here that serves genuine Kerala food?”

“I doubt,” Krishnan replied. “Most of them provide a blend.”

Next day, my meeting with Mr. K.P. Nair turned out to be reasonably successful. We obtained a trial order with a promise that if proved good we would be in the list of regular suppliers.

When the business part was over Mr. Nair said, “There’s a slight change in our lunch programme. I hope you won’t mind.”

I had no choice.

“Our cab drivers,” the host said, “file a report if they observe anything special about a client. Your driver yesterday noted that you like to try authentic Kerala cuisine.”

I was impressed.

“I’m inviting you home,” Mr. Nair continued, “for lunch.”

We reached the place in about twenty minutes. An elderly gentleman dressed in white kurtha and dhoti greeted me and introduced himself, “I’m K.K. Nair.” He was the image of the cab driver that had dropped me at the hotel the previous day.

After we sat down, Mr. Nair addressed me, “Can I ask a question?”

“Of course, sir.”

“The quality of commercial technology,” he said, “is in achieving optimum performance by using the cheapest raw materials. Agree?”

I was amazed by the near perfect definition. “Certainly, sir.”

“Mr. Chandra Mohan,” Mr. Nair continued, “every three months I’m a taxi driver for a day. Just to keep me reminded of my humble beginnings. Yesterday you happened to be my customer. I’m glad.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Ends.

[Note: This story won 3^rd prize in the Unisun-British Council Flash Fiction Contest, 2004 and was published in an anthology titled Winners 1.

I am publishing it again now in memory of Chandy Mathew Pallivathukkal who was the moving spirit behind Unisun Publications. He passed away at Bangalore, India on April 7. An MBA from IIM, Ahmedabad, he was the Chairman of Duroflex, and the Chief of Unisun Technologies Ltd., a company that has made great contributions in the field of solar energy. Chandy’s collection of short stories ‘Looking in, looking out’ was acclaimed by critics. Abraham Tharakan.]

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Songs of the sea - Part 2.

Paru suddenly burst out crying. The doctor knelt beside her on the beach and hugged her. After a while she asked, “Paru, what’s the matter?”

“Amma died,” the girl replied between sobs, “because of me.”

The doctor hugged her again, gave her a gentle kiss, and said, “I’m sure that you’re wrong.”

“No, it’s true.”

“Would you care to talk about it?”

The girl nodded.

On the day of the waves, Paru said, she was walking back from the local shop with Amma around noon, carrying Dolly, her plastic baby. She wanted to chase crabs. That was something they did together often. Amma told her that it was too hot for the crabs to be out. But the daughter ran to the shore anyway and was surprised to find several of the little creatures moving around frantically. She called her mother who was waiting by the shade of a coconut palm at the edge of the sands.

Amma came out to the beach. She looked concerned when she saw the frenzied crabs.

It was then that they heard the roar like a thousand motorboats racing together. Amma looked towards the sea once, lifted Paru and ran. She did not scream or shout for help but sprinted with all the speed she could muster, her blue and white checked dhoti flapping about.

But not fast enough.

When they reached the coconut grove the gushing waves overtook. The last thing Paru remembered before becoming unconscious was Amma trying desperately to reach her in the swirling waters and Dolly drifting away.

The girl told the doctor between sobs that if she hadn’t stopped for chasing crabs they would have been safely home.

“My dear child,” the doctor said gently, “you’re wrong. Your house too was washed away.”

That was true, Paru thought.

After months at the camp Paru and her father shifted to one of the few identical little houses that were newly built near the beach for the tsunami victims by some good people. Father said that it was theirs. Others who weren’t so lucky complained that Government wasn’t doing anything. There were protest marches and slogan shouting. The girl didn’t care. Now they had a home again.

Jasmine doctor had come to see them off to the new place. As they were leaving she had told the girl, “Paru, you’re a good girl. You are all right now. Look after yourself and your father.”

Shortly after they moved to their new abode, grandma joined them. The old lady told the little girl that she shouldn’t worry. Kadalamma wanted Amma at her palace and had called her. She was happy there and would come to see Paru one-day.

And the girl waited.

She would look towards the sea often during the day though the glare hurt the eyes, and went to the beach every evening. It was good that she hadn’t started school yet, she thought. Otherwise, when Amma came she might be away in class.

Her one great worry was whether Amma would get sick, being wet in the sea because Kadalamma’s palace was underwater. Grandma said no. Would Amma stay when she came? No, she would have to go back. That was the rule. In the end everybody returned to Kadalamma’s castle, which was the real home. It had different tiers. The sinners and the bad people would be at the lowest, in the muddy filth of the ocean floor. Forever. Slimy snakes and fearsome fishes and craggy crabs would keep on nibbling at them. They would freeze and thaw, freeze and thaw, as the water temperature changed. That was bad enough, but knowing that it was coming, the wait for it, made them even more miserable.

It was frightening. Clutching grandma, Paru resolved silently that she would always be good. She wanted to be on the upper levels of Kadalamma’s palace where Amma surely would be. That was the place for good people. Grandma wouldn’t describe those parts of the castle except saying that they were beautiful beyond words. That didn’t make a picture in the mind. May be that was one thing the old lady didn’t know.

That evening, after sitting up on the sands for some time, Paru lay down. The breeze had softened and caressed her hair gently. It felt nice and she drifted off to sleep.

Then her mother came.

Amma rose from the water suddenly and rushed to the shore where the daughter was. She looked more beautiful than she was when the waves took her. Paru ran forward. Amma lifted her, held her against the bosom and whirled around like a top. Amma’s clothes were dry even though she had just come out of the sea.

They sat on the sand and talked. There was so much to tell each other. The girl gave details of the camp and the problems they had to face. She described the new house. Even now they had no money because the fish catches were poor. Father was always sad and silent. The mother explained that one had to be patient and bear the difficulties. She said that the situation would improve. Kadalamma was rearing large schools of fishes to be sent out to the sea for her sons to catch. The beach would soon see days of plenty.

Paru wanted to hear the song, which Amma had sung to put her to sleep on the night before the tsunami. It was about men venturing out to the endless sea on catamarans and women waiting anxiously beside wick lamps in windswept huts praying for the safe return of their husbands. Amma’s beautiful voice rose once again over the murmur of the waves. It lingered in the air briefly and faded away.

The mother described Kadalamma’s palace. It was made of innumerable types of seashells and pearls of sizes that ranged from little beads to huge boulders. The garden around the building had corals of different colours and lovely plants that swayed with the currents. Pretty fishes of varying hues swam around like little angels all the time. There was continuous music that often changed in pitch and tune and tempo like wind on the palms, and the waves danced in rhythm. Certain types of sea life emitted light and kept darkness away. Everybody inside the castle was happy and cheerful and loved each other.

Now the palace made a picture in the mind – clear, like a photo. There couldn’t be a lovelier place, the girl thought.

“Amma, I want to come there,” Paru said.

“Of course you must.”

“Now. With you.”

“No Paru, only when Kadalamma calls.”

“When will she call?”

“When it’s time,” Amma explained. “After you grow up and have babies of your own.”

“You mean real babies? Not like Dolly?”

“Real babies.”

“But Amma, you’ll be very old by then, like grandma.”

“At Kadalamma’s place each one would be herself. Always.”

The girl thought for a while. “Okay,” she said. “But will you come again?”

“If Kadalamma permits. Now I have to go.”

By the time Paru awoke and scrambled up Amma was gone. After a moment of hesitation she raced to the water, thinking that she could follow her mother’s footprints, reach the palace and be with her. But there were no marks on the wet sand to guide her. May be, Paru thought, Kadalamma had the waves erase Amma’s trail because it wasn’t time yet. She had to stay back. She had to look after herself and her father. And, she had to grow up and have babies of her own. Real babies. Not like Dolly.

Paru looked at the last remnant of the sun for a moment and turned around to the long way home.

■

Songs of the sea - Part 1.

The little girl wearing a faded green dress sat alone on the deserted beach, a few feet away from the waterline, looking westward and waiting. She tried to flatten her hair that tossed about in the strong evening breeze with her hands but the strands wouldn’t stay back.

The sun was setting against a dull, cloudless sky. Waves rolled in with foam on their crests. Some new, colourful fishing boats along with the older ones were out in the distance on their way back home. Birds flew around looking for prey before returning to their nesting places. But the girl was not concerned with the details. She was watching the vast expanse of the Arabian Sea. Somewhere under that water mass was the palace of Kadalamma, the Mother Goddess of all oceans and fisher folk.

Occasionally there was talk about the waves striking again. But the girl was not afraid. After they shifted to a small new cottage beside the beach, she went to the seashore every evening all by herself. It had become a routine. Sometimes when she was tired of sitting up, she would lie on the sand. Often she dropped off to sleep and had dreams that were mostly pleasant.

She loved Kadalamma in spite of what had happened. Her grandmother had told her so many stories about the great ocean goddess who was kind, loving, and caring. It was only when her subjects broke the rules that Kadalamma became angry. And once that happened, the goddess was blind and raving mad. Someone somewhere would have breached the rules. That was why Kadalamma had sent the huge waves.

One of her grandma’s stories warned that if a fisher woman went astray Kadalamma would take her husband away. The old lady had a song for it. She had songs for most of her yarns. She would sing exposing the few teeth she still had, clapping her hands in rhythm and then give the narration.

The girl didn’t know what ‘astray’ meant and guessed that it was something not good. But she couldn’t understand why the innocent man was taken away? May be it was to save him from the shame of his wife turning bad and the troubles of the world. People were always talking about problems and difficulties. Many of granny’s other tales though, were of men who braved angry seas and fought giant sharks and returned victoriously to become heroes. And they lived on. Strange were the ways of the grown-ups, the girl thought. When she asked her grandmother about it, there was a ready answer – the actions of bad people sometimes caused loss and hurt to good people as well.

Granny was away at the girl’s uncle’s place when the sea attacked. She had not seen Kadalamma’s fury. But the girl had, and remembered every little detail till she become unconscious during the rage of the waves.

When she opened her eyes again that day, she was lying on a bench in the partially damaged schoolhouse near their hamlet and a tired-looking doctor was examining her. Her father stood nearby with tearful eyes, along with other people. Someone was describing how she was found trapped among the fronds of a fallen coconut palm.

She looked around and whispered, “Amma”.

Nobody answered. Father told her later that they were searching for Amma and other missing persons. Hope lingered for a few days and slowly turned to numb acceptance. The girl couldn’t even cry.

They were housed in a crowded temporary shed after the tragedy. The girl didn’t like the place or the people there and kept aloof even from children of her age group. Some called her dumb because she hardly talked. Initially, food was scarce. Fisher folk were used to that during times of poor catches or when the men were careless with money. Then supplies started coming in regularly. The first lot of old clothes distributed to them were the type the sahibs wore, thick and warm. They were taken back and lighter garments were brought. The girl got three dresses. One was slightly torn and another a bit too large, but they were all nice.

Everyone was talking about tsunami all the time. It sounded like a girl’s name. However the girl realized soon that the word referred to the disaster that had ravaged their hamlet and had left a strange impact on the victims. People were grumpy and very irritable. They fought amongst them even over small things and always blamed government. She too was angry.

Then, one day, she got to see government.

He came in a big, fat car accompanied by others in several vehicles, and Jeep-loads of policemen. Initially the girl was a little afraid but forced herself to look. Government was an elderly person with tousled hair and seemed like other men. His name was Chief Minister. He listened to complaints of the inmates, talked to important-looking people, and gave a speech.

The girl didn’t understand what was said. But after Government left, the grown-ups argued as usual. Some said that they would get new houses and boats soon. Others were doubtful. Many felt that people with Government would cheat the poor fishermen and make money for themselves. Her father kept out of such discussions. He was always sad and quiet. She felt sorry for him. She knew that he had loved Amma very much even though sometimes he used to fight with her. Men were like that.

One night the girl saw the waves again in her sleep and woke up crying. She couldn’t stop. Some of the people in the camp cursed loudly because they were angry at being disturbed in their sleep. That hurt more and she wailed louder. Father carried her outside and they spent the rest of the night on the moon-washed sands. By morning the girl had high fever and started vomiting. The doctor said that it was partially a delayed effect of the shock caused by the tsunami and needed expert treatment. He sent them to a large hospital run by nuns in the nearby town.

They were directed to a doctor who attended to tsunami related cases. The lady faintly resembled Amma. She wore a white coat over a pink sari, and smelt of jasmine. The girl secretly named her ‘Jasmine doctor’.

“What’s your name?” the doctor asked.

“Parvathy,” the girl answered. “Amma used to call me Paru.”

“Shall I also call you Paru?”

“Yes,” the girl said with a shy smile.

After examining the girl and asking questions, the doctor said, “You’re fine, Paru. Only a little frightened inside. We’ll remove that fear.”

The doctor went to the refugee camp frequently and took Paru for long walks along the beach. They talked a great deal, told stories, and played games.

One day the girl asked the doctor abruptly, “Have you ever played chasing crabs?”

“No. What sort of game is that?”

“You find little pinkish crabs on the seashore. Go near them and they start running. You run after them. It’s very exciting.”

“Well,” the doctor said, “I missed the fun. There were no crabs where I grew up. But why did you ask?”

Paru suddenly burst out crying. The doctor knelt beside her on the beach and hugged her. After a while she asked, “Paru, what’s the matter?”

“Amma died,” the girl replied between sobs, “because of me.”

To be continued.