Page 8 - Microsoft Word - My story of Pathyil Kalluvelil as told by Joseph Pathyil

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the bunds are under water. Waves batter the land. The distant roar presages the
impending downpour. Monsoon in all its fury is unleashed on the land. And suddenly the
heavens open. Cascade runs down the roof. Children cannot be contained in the house.
They rush out nearly naked, stand under the down- pour from the roof, and laugh heartily,
as buckets of clear cool water tumble over them. They fight to get the best position to
enjoy the most water. They run around, splashing water from the land, and then dare to
jump into the flooding fields, to test the fury of the waves. They are children of the water
and know how far they can go. They will play in the water, but close to shore. They will
not take their canoes out into the deep, nor will they swim far from the shore. They will
dive into the water from the stone boulder at the water’s edge, and instantly swim back
up on land. Having tested the might of the elements, they will get back home, to the relief
of their mother. They will saunter out again at night to catch fish by torch light from the
shallow water on land. They will bring still more fish, to the joyous exclamations of the
men, and the consternation of the women-folks who must clean and cook.

They have learned to live in tune with nature, never to challenge it, and always to be
cautious. They know of mishaps, drownings, capsized canoes, bloated corpses floating in
the water, and disasters that befall those who are careless. But they also know that floods
too can be fun .

Soon it is time for the boat races. Everyone with big and small canoes prepare for the big
boat races in Kottayam and Alappuzha. Occasionally races are also held as part of the
festivities of the local churches and schools. People - young and old - argue about the
vallam kali, and which boat will win, and where. And families prepare to go to Kottayam
to watch the races. Children ply their canoes as if in preparation for the races, or in
imitation of the best boats.

A few weeks later: The floods have receded. The land is dry. The bunds are visible. The
ploughers are busy ploughing in the shallow water. Giant motors pump out the water
from the fields into the canal systems. Young amateur fishermen are everywhere with
their nets catching the abundant fish from the channels. Soon the sowers will cast the
paddy seeds on to the wet fields. A few days hence, hundreds of workers are bent over
the fields, transplanting the seedlings, and weeding . The farmers are busy, fertilizing,
pumping excess water, strengthening the bunds, discussing the cost of cultivation and the
perils to the crops, and always anxious, always vigilant. A flash flood, or unexpected
rain could ruin the crops, or the bunds may burst and inundate the fields. That too
happens every few years. But, undaunted, the farmers will pump the water out, reseed the
fields, and cultivate again. Or write the year off. Destiny, fate, the inevitable, are forces
that they will accept with equanimity.

Late one afternoon, if you sit on that boulder in the kalappura muttam, you will see the
verdant fields bursting with golden crops. The workers have retired to rest from the
travails of the day. The birds are flying back to their nests. The channels are silent except
for the occasional fish jumping, or a water snake rippling the surface. The golden sun is
about to embrace the green fields laden with the promise of a rich harvest. People are
busy getting the children bathed, and readying for the evening prayers. Darkness falls

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