The floods came every year.
With unfailing regularity.
The monsoons would arrive , and it would begin pouring in this small coastal town . The oldies of the village would tell of strange tales, wherein it rained fish , or frogs or such fantastic things . I , myself never witnessed any of these, but yes , I remember the rains brought in small fry . Millions of them . Swishing amid the reeds , getting caught in the storm drain filters and gliding in and out of the rice stalks, now barely shin height.
Even as the young folks prepared makeshift bamboo fish lines to catch the bounty, the elders would prepare to leave .The arrival of the baby fish from nowhere meant we needed to go. Valuables and meagre possessions would be placed on shelves high up, near the ceiling, important documents wrapped up in plastic sheets , tin boxes full of perishables,packed days ago in readiness.
Then it would come . One evening of torrential rain , merging into inky blackness of a calamitous night. Waters, till then gently lapping the edges of rice fields, would, like a raging goddess, turn into a frothy, churning,surging, massive destroyer. The waters inside the huts swiftly,within hours , rose to armpit levels, bringing goodness-knows-what-with-it.Cattle would have been rounded up and taken up , in advance , before us.
My uncle routinely plucked snakes when they nestled between his toes and tickled his bare sole. He would laughingly wave green,writhing, harmless tree snakes , into our shrieking faces,before chucking them away into some distance . Once , legend has it , he found a cobra , whom he carefully put into the y-fork of a passing uprooted eucalyptus,so that it doesn't bite any one "Out of sheer fear".
We would camp at a highland for a couple of days , which would sometimes stretch into weeks, subsisting on rations airdropped by the army.Space was scant , and fights would break out often. It was unpleasant and scary. Thankfully, it lasted for only a few days, before the floodwaters receded.
Then we would return to our homes , mud coated, wet, slimy, and mostly destroyed.Bloated corpses of stray dogs would be stuck on roofs , tree-tops , with flies buzzing around them . Vultures had to be chased away. But it was home . So palm fronds were secured, roofs rebuilt, and silted floors sanded. What I remember , most strikingly , was the sheer lack of clean water. With all the water around us , we would sit there , thirsty.
With unfailing regularity.
The monsoons would arrive , and it would begin pouring in this small coastal town . The oldies of the village would tell of strange tales, wherein it rained fish , or frogs or such fantastic things . I , myself never witnessed any of these, but yes , I remember the rains brought in small fry . Millions of them . Swishing amid the reeds , getting caught in the storm drain filters and gliding in and out of the rice stalks, now barely shin height.
Even as the young folks prepared makeshift bamboo fish lines to catch the bounty, the elders would prepare to leave .The arrival of the baby fish from nowhere meant we needed to go. Valuables and meagre possessions would be placed on shelves high up, near the ceiling, important documents wrapped up in plastic sheets , tin boxes full of perishables,packed days ago in readiness.
Then it would come . One evening of torrential rain , merging into inky blackness of a calamitous night. Waters, till then gently lapping the edges of rice fields, would, like a raging goddess, turn into a frothy, churning,surging, massive destroyer. The waters inside the huts swiftly,within hours , rose to armpit levels, bringing goodness-knows-what-with-it.Cattle would have been rounded up and taken up , in advance , before us.
My uncle routinely plucked snakes when they nestled between his toes and tickled his bare sole. He would laughingly wave green,writhing, harmless tree snakes , into our shrieking faces,before chucking them away into some distance . Once , legend has it , he found a cobra , whom he carefully put into the y-fork of a passing uprooted eucalyptus,so that it doesn't bite any one "Out of sheer fear".
We would camp at a highland for a couple of days , which would sometimes stretch into weeks, subsisting on rations airdropped by the army.Space was scant , and fights would break out often. It was unpleasant and scary. Thankfully, it lasted for only a few days, before the floodwaters receded.
Then we would return to our homes , mud coated, wet, slimy, and mostly destroyed.Bloated corpses of stray dogs would be stuck on roofs , tree-tops , with flies buzzing around them . Vultures had to be chased away. But it was home . So palm fronds were secured, roofs rebuilt, and silted floors sanded. What I remember , most strikingly , was the sheer lack of clean water. With all the water around us , we would sit there , thirsty.
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