BIG ONE and 'BELT' Chacko - 2

He did not panic. An attack on the bridge by Big One was unlikely. The creature could not know whether the man was ready for another shot. Instinct warned Chacko against trying to flee. Crocodiles could run on land with a burst of speed and it was doubtful whether in his given condition he could out pace Big One. He stayed where he was, holding the empty gun and scanning the canal.

The vigil continued till first rays of morning.

When Chacko finally reached home his black and white fox terrier, Nero, rushed out to greet him. His wife, Mariam, was standing on the front steps carrying their two-year old son. The baby was whimpering. She shifted him from one hip to the other and back again.

"Where were you?" she asked sharply.

That was unlike her. Usually she never questioned her husband’s activities. “I tried to shoot a crocodile,” Chacko answered.

"Big One?"

The hunter nodded, wondering how she had guessed.

Mariam's face turned pale and she started breathing heavily. "He escaped?"

"Yes."

"I knew it," the wife went on. "The novena was interrupted for the first time yesterday. The priest's mother died. He went home and didn't return in time."

Chacko did not respond. To him it was a mere coincidence.

"Now we are doomed," Mariam continued hysterically. "Big One is a demon."

"Shut up, woman," the husband said, but not harshly.

After a bath and breakfast Chacko took stock of the situation. He was certain that Big One would strike back. The beast had seen him clearly and would have picked up his scent. It could track him down without much difficulty. But he had no clue to the crocodile's whereabouts. The creature lived in some unknown, untraceable burrow. The conclusion was obvious. The field of battle and the timing of the attack would be decided by the enemy.

Chacko inspected his hunting equipment. There was the old muzzle loader. To hunt crocodiles, one spherical ball was loaded at a time with extra gunpowder to enhance range and power. Then he looked at the harpoons with specially made coir rope attached to them. Chacko could score a perfect hit from fifty feet. As soon as the weapon found its target the line would be secured to the nearest tree. The armory also included thettali, a heavy wooden bow on which metal tipped arrows were used. Another gadget was a piece of iron with anchor-like hooks at both ends. This would be concealed in the carcass of a small animal in the hope that if a crocodile took the bait the metal contraption would get stuck in its throat.

Chacko knew that for Big One it had to be the gun.

Kadep's population became agitated when the news about the confrontation between Chacko and Big One spread. The hunter had concealed the fact that he had provoked the crocodile. The locals believed that Big One was on warpath again because the novena was interrupted, and that Chacko was picked for the attack since the beast's anger against Mathai had not subsided even after three decades. They feared that the wrath of the beast would turn to others as well. The priest was blamed for exposing them to the danger. Some parishioners petitioned the bishop for his transfer.

People were alert and on the look out for Big One. But weeks passed without any sign of the beast. Chacko began speculating whether he had seriously wounded the crocodile. That was unlikely. The pellets could not have penetrated the protective armor on the enemy’s back. One possibility was that both eyes were hit, blinding the beast. That too was doubtful. A more likely explanation was that the creature had gone into hibernation. That was common among crocodiles

Then came the night of the new moon.

Chacko had a habit of going out in the open to urinate before retiring. He normally did this at the base of a slanting coconut palm in a corner of the yard around his house. When he came out as usual on to the veranda that night Nero who had been barking for some time was near the steps, moaning now and blocking the way. That was not unusual. The terrier was prone to get agitated at the slightest provocation. Looking towards the leaning coconut tree that was barely visible in the dim light, the dog started barking again. Chacko ignored him and descended the steps.

Nero jumped out and ran ahead of his master in the direction of the tree, baying frantically. The hunter sensed danger. He stopped instantly, calling back the dog. Moments later he could vaguely see the crocodile detach itself from the lower portion of the leaning palm and fall upon the terrier. There was a pitiful howl from Nero as the jaws of Big One clamped down on him.

Chacko was stunned. The attack had boldness, speed and precision. It had been planned and executed almost to perfection. The hunter had overlooked that crocodiles could recognize and remember the pattern of activity of other creatures.

Recovering quickly Chacko ran inside for the gun. After the encounter at the bridge it was always kept loaded with spherical ball. He came out, lit a torch made of dry palm leaves and searched the courtyard. All that he could see were some marks and a few drops of blood on the sand.

Chacko returned to the house and sat on the front steps, glad that Mariam had gone to sleep. He wanted to be alone. Nero had been like a member of the family. Mariam's brother Luka, who was a clerk at a tea garden in the hills, had given him as a pup five years previously.

Two days later, a middle-aged stranger came to see Chacko. "I'm Ali," the visitor introduced himself, "from across the lake."

"I've heard of you," Chacko said. The Muslim too was a reputed crocodile hunter.

Mariam brought a mat and spread it on the floor. Ali sat down.

“I hunted with your father for a while,” the visitor said. “He was a fine man. Learned many things from him.”

Chacko smiled faintly, but did not respond.

“I heard the news,” Ali went on. “It’s a bad situation.”

“Yes.”

“I can assist you to hunt Big One.”

Chacko looked at the man sharply. It was surprising that someone would volunteer to fight the beast. That took immense courage. But he was piqued as well by the suggestion of help. Did the man think that he, Chacko, son of Mathai, was incapable of handling Big One by himself?

"Send your family away," Ali advised. "I can move in here and we take on the crocodile together."

Chacko remained silent.

“There is,” Ali continued, “no other beast like Big One. At times I wonder whether he is something more than just an animal. I wouldn’t go after him alone. With you, yes. But not with anyone else.”

“Let me think it over,” Chacko replied after a while.

“You are the best hunter in the land. But even you may not be able to tackle Big One by yourself. A back-up shot would be safer. I’m good with guns.”

Chacko did not answer.

The visitor was thoughtful for a moment. Then he said, “Look, I don’t want any money or the credit. Big One has to be killed.”

“Yes. I’ll finish him.”

Ali gave the younger man an appraising look. “I understand,” he said smiling, and left.

Mariam rushed out to the veranda after the visitor was gone. “You should have listened to him,” she said. “Let me take our little Mathai and go to my father’s house for a while. Ask Ali to stay here and help.”

Chacko shook his head. Seeking assistance would mean loss of face. There was no point in explaining that to Mariam. She wouldn’t understand.

Big One returned days later.

He came quietly in the night while Chacko was asleep. The hunter knew about the visit only the next morning when he opened the front door and peered through the soft haze outside.

Nero's skeleton was on the sand near the steps.

Thirty years back it had been Mathai’s remains. That at least had some finality about it. The man was dead, an encounter was over. But the death of Nero was only the beginning of a fight.

For a long time Chacko stood staring at what was left of the dog. Finally he decided to leave the bones to rest where they lay. After making a square brick border with Nero's remains in the center, he fixed bamboo poles in the four corners, tied coir strings connecting them and hung cream colored tender palm leaves all around. Then he drove an old harpoon into the ground, near the skeleton.

Mariam watched from the veranda. "Please," she pleaded, "let's go away."

"No."

“At least,” Mariam kept on, “for the sake of our son.”

“He’ll be all right.”

The woman shook her head. "You're fighting a demon," she said tearfully. "You can't win."

"Keep quiet," the husband said angrily. "No crocodile can defeat me."

Mariam ran inside sobbing.

Chacko could see the well-defined trail of Big One, which was lost in the undergrowth beyond the yard. He knew that the track would lead to one of the nearby canals. There was no purpose in locating the exact spot.

A couple of days later Chacko went to a teashop in the bazaar. It was a thatched structure with two wooden benches on the sand floor and a samovar in a corner. A bunch of ripe, yellow bananas hung from a rafter. The moment Chacko entered, conversation ceased and people stared at him. One of them made the sign of the Cross.

The uneasy silence continued till the hunter was served the strong black tea that he had ordered. Then a customers asked, “Why don’t you go away from Kadep and leave us in peace?”

“If you have no guts,” Chacko retorted coldly, “why don’t you get out?”

There was no response.

“Nothing will help,” and old man stated. “We’ll have problems till next year’s novena is concluded. St. Anthony is angry with us.”

“All of you,” Chacko said, “are being foolish. Big One is after me. No one else is at risk.”

“You can say what you like. The beast is evil. He’ll attack others as well.”

“No,” Chacko said. “Before that I’ll kill him.”

The customers looked away from him. He drank the tea and walked out.

Big One returned again, on Christmas night.

After the festivities, Chacko had gone to bed late. He was awakened from a disturbed sleep by strange noises outside and knew intuitively what was happening. He scrambled up from the mat he was sleeping on and grabbed the gun that was in a corner. Suddenly realizing that the beast could not be seen from his room, he moved to the front door wondering whether Big One was aware of his tactical disadvantage.

He paused. It was quiet outside now. A sixth sense warned him that the crocodile was still there, waiting for him to step out. Going around the back way through the door near the kitchen, was also risky. The hunter didn’t know which way Big One was facing. He could cut through the thatching and get on to the roof, but if the beast were lying close to the outer wall of the house it would be impossible to see him.

The child screamed.

To be continued.

BIG ONE and "BELT' CHACKO

[This is from the special collection of short stories that I have written, but not published yet. The critics, editors and other writers who have read the piece have rated it high. Some have suggested that it is excellent material for a good movie but I have not pursued that angle.

Any way, I thought of sharing it with my readers. Hope you like it.]

It was a fight to the finish between a man and a beast. In a way, it began because of a woman, and birds that came all the way from Siberia to South India. The entire population of the sandy, palm-studded Kadep Island in the Vembanad Lake watched the conflict that lasted six suspenseful months with trepidation. It was clear from the outset that the duel would end only with the death of either or both combatants.

The man was Chacko, son of Mathai. The beast was a crocodile called Big One. A male. He was said to be thirty feet long and weigh about a ton. Chacko was six feet tall and powerfully built. He was thirty-one years old. No one knew the crocodile's age. The creature had been around for as far back as anybody could remember. The man was a famous crocodile hunter as his father Mathai had been before him. Big One had defied many great hunters for decades.

Large saltwater crocodiles and smaller muggers infested the backwaters around Kadep. At night they moved freely from the lake to the extensive rice fields and the several canals and ponds on the island. Apart from fishes and crabs they fed on birds, dogs and calves. Sometimes they killed humans too. The island folk lived with the awareness of danger and were careful particularly after sunset. Many believed that Big One was invested with supernatural powers and was unconquerable.

Once a schoolteacher from the port town of Cochin, who was on a visit to his wife’s house in Kadep, narrated a story about crocodiles. According to him, in the ancient times there was a king in the north by the name of Golden Star. He had only one child, a son who was born with the head of a crocodile and the body of a man. Crocodiles all over the world were descendants of that creature. Bitter that his offspring was an object of ridicule, Golden Star decreed that crocodiles and men would forever be enemies and that there would always be one of those beasts with supernatural powers, which would be invincible.

Many of the villagers, who were unaware that the extremely intelligent reptiles were descendants of dinosaurs, believed the story. Big One was immediately identified as the unconquerable beast that Golden Star had predicted.

But crocodile hunters were tougher and unconcerned about myths. Skin trade offered big money. Dealers in Cochin were willing to buy any quantity. Expert taxidermists processed the hides to manufacture shoes, handbags and other expensive items, which were in great demand in Europe and America.

Big One was the most sought after catch. His skin would fetch a fortune because of the enormous size and the merchants were prepared to out bid each other for it. Even Samson’s, the leading trading house at Cochin was interested in procuring the hide. Their plan, according to market rumor, was to bill the skin as the biggest in the world and to exhibit it in London, Paris and New York where they had business connections.

Then came the death of Mathai.

The man went hunting one evening, and never returned. By next afternoon search parties were organized. They combed every inch of Kadep and the lake, but found no trace of the hunter.

Chacko was one year old at the time.

Four days after Mathai’s disappearance Big One surfaced in the lake. He held a decaying human body in his mouth just above the waterline and paraded up and down the lagoon. Men, women and children watched in horror from the shores. No one dared to interfere. Experienced hunters knew that there would be several crocodiles moving underwater. Because Big One was the dominant male, the other crocodiles had to swim at a lower level.

The macabre exposition continued for three days. On the fourth morning the remains of Mathai were found near the front steps of his house, dumped like garbage. The funeral posed a problem. The vicar of the local St. Anthony’s Church was reluctant to bury the bones in the church cemetery because no one was certain that the skeleton was that of Mathai. Finally he relented.

Thirty years later, another skeleton was to be discarded at the same place.

Even the hunters avoided Big One after that eerie event. The story about Golden Star made the rounds again and yet more people began attributing supernatural powers to the crocodile. In order to protect the islanders, the local parish priest began a nine-day annual novena to St. Anthony the Miracle Worker. It ended on the last Sunday before Advent, when Kadep celebrated the feast of the saint with pomp and pageantry. Apart from Christians, members of other communities also attended the novena.

Crocodile attacks on humans stopped.

Chacko took to crocodile hunting when he grew up. It was not out of any conscious intention to avenge the death of Mathai. The spirit of adventure was in his blood. He liked the thrill and the danger involved, and the money. Besides, crocodiles were the only interesting game left in Kadep.

There had been jackals years back, hordes of them, but they had left the island en masse suddenly. That was a mystery. On a full moon night the entire lot marched to the lake howling continuously, almost in a procession, and swam away never to return. Some people said that the exodus was because crocodiles had killed so many of the animals that their survival on the island was in jeopardy. Others believed that the divine snakes banished them in anger for desecrating the several sacred groves on the island. The woods were hallowed ground for the Hindus who lighted lamps at twilight before the stone idols located inside them and prayed to the serpent gods.

Even as a child Chacko had shown some inherent skills. He was very good with catapult and sling. His aim was near perfect. With one throw he could bring down mangoes from a high branch.

At the age of eleven, while returning home after collecting cashew nuts from trees that grew sporadically, he caught a smell, like tapioca being boiled, and knew that a cobra was in the vicinity. Armed with a forked stick he moved around, alert for the hissing. He located the venomous snake and pinned down its hood with his weapon as it was about to strike. He pulled the reptile by the tail and banged it dead against a coconut tree.

Shortly after that event, which was much talked about on the island, a senior crocodile hunter took Chacko on as an apprentice. Under the man’s tutelage, the boy learned the importance of patience and total alertness. He developed the capacity to wait still and silent for long periods. His power of observation was heightened and his senses sharpened. In hunting, things like a slight rustling sound or a faint odor could be crucial. One had to correctly judge wind velocity and direction, tidal currents, and take into consideration factors like moon phases and their effects on animals, mating seasons and habits, and the vulnerable spots in the prey’s anatomy. A hunter was never to commit himself unless he was certain to score an effective hit. He always had to position himself downwind from the target. Chacko’s intuition, instinct and anticipation improved with training and experience.

By the age of twenty-five, he was acknowledged as the best hunter in the area. He had killed several crocodiles and had earned a great deal of money, which was spent lavishly. But he did not go after Big One. People who were jealous of him said that he was afraid of the beast. That was not true. He simply had no score to settle with Big One. His father apparently had made some mistake and had paid the penalty. In crocodile hunting errors were invariably fatal. Chacko was confident that if he were to ever encounter the beast, there wouldn’t be any slip ups. He was convinced that he was a better hunter than his father had been.

The confrontation between Chacko and Big One began on a November night, a couple of years after the Great War.

With the onset of winter, migrating common teals from Siberia settled in the lake and the rice fields of Kadep, which were flooded after the October harvest when the farmers opened the sluices on the embankments to let in fishes and crustaceans. Chacko often hunted them because they were good table birds.

While returning from such an outing one evening, he saw Janaki emerge from a pond near her house after bath, wearing only a wet loincloth that clung provocatively to her body.

He walked in to her hut.

Everyone in Kadep knew about Janaki. The young widow would receive only men of the upper classes. A few months previously, she had made history as the first low caste woman in Kadep to appear in public fully dressed, covering even her breasts. Wearing a top was a privilege reserved for high caste ladies those days. While Janaki walked nonchalantly to the bazaar in her radical attire, some prominent people of the locality stopped her and forced her to remove the offending garment. It became an open secret that subsequently some of the men who had chastised Janaki began visiting her habitat clandestinely and insisted her wearing the top throughout their visit.

Janaki rushed back and asked the hunter to sit on a mat on the narrow front veranda. She went inside the only room of the thatched hut and reappeared shortly, dressed like a high caste lady.

The hunter gave one look and said sharply, “Take it off.”

The woman was startled. Her hands moved to the sarong.

“Not that,” Chacko’s voice was harsh. His eyes indicated the upper garment.

Janaki nearly tore the blouse in her anxiety to comply. Chastened, she stood shyly, bare breasted now.

The birds in the game bag were given to the cook, an old woman who stayed with the widow. Janaki led Chacko into the room. She opened a bottle of arrack specially distilled with herbs and poured some into an earthen bowl. As the man started gulping the light golden colored liquor, the hostess placed hardboiled eggs and onion and hot pepper chutney before him on a piece of green banana leaf. After a while, the sizzling sound and the pungent smell of the teals being fried drifted into the room from the lean to kitchen.

It turned out to be a long night.

Chacko hardly noticed the scent of jasmine that laced the air from the buds that were opening, when he finally came out of the woman’s habitat. He was groggy and tired. It had been quite a while since he had consumed so much alcohol. The brew that Janaki had served was potent stuff.

As he reached atop the raised footbridge across the canal beside Janaki’s hut, the man noticed a crocodile below. It had probably strayed there attracted by the odor of the teals. Crocodiles had highly developed senses of sight and smell. They could see in the dark, underwater, and because of binocular vision, had accurate depth and distance perception.

In the pale moonlight all that Chacko could see was the top of the beast's head. He lifted the gun, took quick aim and fired. A fraction of a moment too late, he remembered that the weapon was loaded with birdshot.

There was an unearthly growl from down below, like rolling thunder. An immense mass rose from the water with surprising force. The crocodile was not close enough to fling its weight against the wooden structure. It hung in the air for a few seconds and fell back into the canal. Water swirled up the banks and shook the bridge.

Chacko was absolutely sober suddenly. From the enormous size of the creature he knew that it had to be Big One. There could be no other crocodile like that. He had casually provoked the awesome beast. He knew that crocodiles were vengeful and had long memories.

He did not panic. An attack on the bridge by Big One was unlikely. The creature could not know whether the man was ready for another shot. Instinct warned Chacko against trying to flee. Crocodiles could run on land with a burst of speed and it was doubtful whether in his given condition he could out pace Big One. He stayed where he was, holding the empty gun and scanning the canal.

The vigil continued till the first rays of morning.

To be continued.

© Abraham Tharakan.

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.