Many thoughts rushed to my mind when I saw this
creation by the Royal Painter Raja Ravi Varma by
chance yesterday. It is titled ‘The Reaper’. An untouchable woman waiting for a boat with the paddy she has harvested, gazing into the sunset.
This is a scene we shall not see again. It belongs to
another age.
I grew up in a basically agricultural background in
the sense that we owned large stretches of land. I have watched the great changes
that came about for 70 years and more. We still cultivate paddy, but on a smaller scale, actually, more for the tradition.
I wonder whether any community has contributed as
much as the Pulayas to filling the granaries of Kerala. Some time back I wrote
a short story with this background. The Hindu Literary Review (May1, 2005)
commented on it “…tinged with sadness. A sense of longing for something lost.”
I am republishing the story here for the benefit of
those who missed it earlier.
A short Story
Morning after the storm
Morning after the storm
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 there 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 eat. 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 his eyes filled.
“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 and workers 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 Pulaya 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 in this
problem. 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.
“Can't you see it is still there," the young man rebuked and walked away.
Fool, Chathan said to himself, the boy 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 maintain 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 crop. 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 color
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 symbolized 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 often 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
brought, 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. 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 Chathan and Neeli 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. But that rarely happened.
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
those days. 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.
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. 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-publicized 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 skeptical 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 labor of
love for him. In the bygone days everyone was concerned and involved. Rice was
sustenance. Growing it was a noble endeavor.
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 of a plant
and a tune to the counting of the measures of grain. Those were simpler times
when people lived in harmony with nature.
But the
music faded with the changes that came about 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 unionize labor 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 thought of Mathappan. He 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 again heard Neeli’s sobs in the
darkness of that 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 of Travancore Government 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 the 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 to protect that man.”
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 savior.”
When Mathappan
died a few months later, neither Chathan
nor Neeli attended the funeral. That was
against convention, an offense 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 theater 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 the 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 rumored 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 who worked in the port 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, savoring the flavor. 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.
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 to 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 endeavor 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 ate 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 centers 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 realization
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, defense 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.
