Dupes of Destiny
Frank Naguran
Š Frank Naguran 2014
First published in 2014 by BK Press P O Box 47055. Greyville 4023 ISBN: 978-1-928245-01-8 Cover Design and Typesetting: Ginny Porter Although every effort is made to ensure accuracy, the publishers, personnel, printers, distributors and/or other related parties do not accept any responsibility whatsoever for any errors or omissions, or any effect arising therefrom.
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, translated or transmitted in any form by any means electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise, without the written permission of the author.
The author may be contacted on Email: naguran@telkomsa.net
Dedication I dedicate this book to my dear wife Gonam Naguran, my family, and in memory of my father who would have been proud
Acknowledgements A special thanks to my sons. Ray and Sagie, for their unstinting love and encouragement. I want to thank my colleagues, former school headmasters, P N Done and M S Pillay, for reading the manuscript and offering their useful comments and suggestions. To my editor, Ginny Porter, my thanks and appreciation for being extremely patient with me.
Prologue The rains came Destruction it may sometime pour But only rain can life restore‌‌.Thirukkural
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he monsoon rains came a week earlier that year. Towards the end of May, the southwest monsoon first hit Thiruvananthapuram, the Indian port city on the windward side of the Western Ghats. Earlier in the morning the sky became dark as the sun disappeared behind blankets of storm clouds. Then the heavy rains were preceded by a flurry of booming thunder and flashes of lightning announcing the arrival of the seasonal monsoon. By midnight it had moved north-eastward over the plains of the Coramandel Coast. The dry earth drank its fill and sucked the precious drops into an invisible sponge. Flamboyant trees along the roads massed with vibrant orange-scarlet flowers, shook and trembled, dropping their blossoms like red hot coals, only to be smothered by the hissing rain. In late spring, south-western India is extremely hot as if the air is on fire with soaring temperatures. From centuries of experience, Indians know that as the baking-hot air around them rises high into the sky, it sucks in the cool moist air from the ocean. As the two air masses collide as
they do in June each year, it causes one of the most intense annual weather events in the world. The annual monsoon is a breathtaking spectacle that annually shapes the lives of the people in the sub-continent. The welcome rains inject an amazing amount of vigour into the people. After the rigours of the summer heat, people are run down and exhausted and when the rain comes it cleanses, nourishes and sustains the body. In view of its reliability, special events and festivals are planned and celebrated throughout India. The people gather in the deluge to welcome and celebrate the life-giving rains and dance in abandonment, allowing the ecstasy of the heavenly bliss to wash over them. The monsoon in India affects every facet of life; rivers flow and plants grow, flowers bloom and wild animals reproduce taking maximum advantage of the food supplies. However, with its life-giving rain, the monsoon is a mixed blessing to the people of India, for it is also the harbinger of death and destruction. While most people welcome the monsoon rains as they bring much relief to the drought conditions in many areas, for others the torrential rain brings misery and desolation. Flash floods triggered by the heavy deluge cause havoc as people, animals and crops are swept away by the floods. Land and mudslides destroy villages, often burying people alive in their sleep. Stagnant pools of water provide ideal conditions for the spread of a host of diseases.
Chapter 1: Kollam
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region that was hardest hit by the monsoon that year was Kollam, an ancient city on the Malabar Coast at the southern tip of India. In its rural areas, large farms and plantations were destroyed overnight by floods and mudslides. Scores of men, women and children perished overnight to be buried alive by mudslides. Domestic animals and poultry were washed away by the floods. In the darkness before dawn Murali Ramsamy, a tall man and his old headman stood at the edge of the valley in the pelting rain and surveyed below with shock the destruction to their rare sandalwood plantation. Earlier, long after midnight on the first day of the monsoon, Murali Ramsamy the owner of a large sandalwood plantation in the area, was awakened by bright flashes of lightning and booming thunder, followed by a low rumbling and violent tremor of the ground. He got up not knowing what the rumbling meant. Hurriedly he put on a canvas sheet over his head and rushed to his headman’s cottage nearby. Joseph the headman was standing at the open door of his cottage with a worried look on his face. They looked at each other despondently when they heard a low rumbling sound and felt earth movement coming from the adjacent hills. Then they ran towards the sandalwood plantation in the hills with Joseph limping behind. It was raining heavily with strong winds. On arrival at the plantation, they were devastated at what they saw down the valley. Where once stood a valley
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with groves of rare sandalwood trees, was now a yellow bare flat land. The landslide had completely buried all of Murali’s precious white sandalwood trees. Only a few branches denuded of leaves poked themselves out of the yellow sand like fingers pointing at the sky accusing the heavens for their death. The sight of the destruction of his sandalwood trees caused Murali great dismay. These trees were of a special variety, yielding rich, sweet-smelling oil, which fetched a higher price than the red ones. While surveying the destruction, a short man came running towards them. The man held an umbrella over his head and his dhoti around his waist was soiled and shredded by the fierce wind and rain. When the newcomer tilted his umbrella to reveal his face, Joseph recognised the young man as Nandha from the village. Addressing Joseph as Dhora, Nandha said, “I bring bad news. Last night our village was hit by a mudslide and many huts have been completely buried.” “Are there any deaths?” queried Murali noticing the grief on the man’s face. “At the moment I don’t know how many people of the village have perished. But I think many might have died, judging by the extent of the damaged huts. But I came here to tell you that Khandan died last night. His mud hut collapsed on him while he was sleeping. Luckily, his wife and children escaped by running out before the flood waters hit their hut,” replied Nandha. “I am sorry about Khandan. He was a good worker,” said Murali to Joseph.
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Without hesitation Murali and Joseph hurried towards the devastated village. Passing several villages they saw temples being prepared to welcome the rain. In some villages people were singing and dancing in the rain, probably unaware of the death and destruction nearby. Overnight the village stream had become a raging river flooding paddy fields. In the adjacent village, they were shocked to see several men, women and children atop trees, precariously holding on to branches higher up the swirling flood waters. Several huts were washed away by the floods. Some were buried by the mudslide. Huddles of people were standing or squatting where once stood their huts, mourning the death of loved ones. Dead bodies covered with oddments of clothing lay in the mud with heavy rain pelting down upon them. Drowned cattle and goats were floating in the adjacent rice fields. Dead fowls, ducks and geese were trapped in the debris. A peacock, belonging to the local temple, lay dead in the mud with its once beautiful feathers forming a bedraggled shroud. Murali and Joseph stopped at the spot where Khandan’s hut used to be. Nothing remained of the hut. A few men and women, together with Khandan’s family, were huddled under a huge tamarind tree. In the centre laid out on some palm fronds were the remains of Khandan. The body was covered with a yellow cotton sari and strands of marigold flowers. Big drops of rain filtered through the branches and leaves fell on the lifeless body of Khandan. Rills of rainwater flowed amidst the weeping group sitting or squatting on the muddy ground. On seeing Murali, Khandan’s wife could not contain her grief. She wailed and
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sobbed thumping her chest with both hands. Murali tried to calm and console the woman with little success. His heart went out to the bereaved family. ‘How could God bring such death and misery to the very poorest of people? Why should the poor villagers always bear the brunt of the god’s anger with the natural disasters?’ thought Murali. Murali instructed Joseph to attend to the funeral arrangements for his late worker. He also left a generous sum of money with Khandan’s widow and arranged temporary accommodation for her and the children on his plantation. In view of the tardy response from the authorities for any form of relief for the affected villagers, Murali mobilised the other plantation owners in Kollam and formed an emergency relief body. The farmers responded generously and soon food and temporary shelters were provided. The biggest problem was water pollution and the spread of disease. Already a number of children were showing signs of being afflicted with cholera and other diseases. The paucity of clean water for drinking added to the misery of the villagers. Murali encouraged the villagers to use every available container to catch rainwater. It would take months before normality was restored in the village. Commenting on the spontaneous and generous response from the farmers towards the relief aid, Murali said to Joseph, “Did you notice how natural disasters turn even misers to be generous in helping their fellow beings? We have even received a large consignment of grain from our zamindar.”
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