Kamala Succumbs To Drought

Kamala staggered back towards her home. After standing for several hours she got her share of two plastic pots of water. Just about enough for drinking and cooking purposes. The walk was nearly a mile and she was only halfway. That was when she collapsed, the first victim to succumb to the heat wave and drought.

The official machinery swung into action. Denials and accusations were flying back and forth between the media, opposition and the government. The engineer at the water resource department was transferred with immediate effect. He was just posted only six months ago and there he was packing his bags once again. The drought was long coming. Even the past year rain was insufficient. But the government steeped in lethargy and fatalism hoped that a bountiful monsoon would relieve them of their inefficiency and provide much needed relief. But the forecast was otherwise.

The minister announced he would now sit on a prayer. The sadhu and sadhvis were happy for they would be in the limelight. Some scientists talked of cloud seeding. He was scoffed at. No scientific mumbo jumbo here. The nation was swept in the wave of traditions and it was all about prayer and fasting to resolve the troubles of both the country and the family.

Back at Kamala’s village, Kamala’s grandfather was emotional as he recalled the past of the verdant forests in their village boundary and how the forest ensured that the rainwater seeped into the ground and the wells never went dry. The lakes and ponds provided enough water for animals and for bathing. Slowly the forest disappeared and with it the water too. What lies beyond he wondered?

The social forestry program had come and gone in the 80s followed by the watershed development program in the 90s. Much money was spent on these programs. Yet the village resources steadily dwindled and now there was a drought of both resources and ideas.

Kamala’s grandfather was a neerkatti. His job was to have a close watch over the water levels and also took care of channelling water into individual fields. He was paid by the villagers in kind by a share of the crop they would harvest. The entire villages would gather for repairs and maintenance work called the kudimaramathu. The modern water management paid no heed to such traditions which were simple and required no big budgets.

Some NGOs revived such practices in some areas nowadays. But the government was not encouraging as they felt they would lose control. His son from the city was pressing for them to leave the village. He was doing well and had enough room to accommodate. He walked up to the back yard and looked longingly at the mango tree which he himself had planted ages ago. The sapota tree none to beat is sweetness. The jack fruit generously yielded plenty year after year. The raw fruit, the ripened, the dried ones, the pulp made into halwa, where would that all go. With the death of Kamala the decision to migrate became imminent. His heart was nearly broken.

He set out for a walk. He climbed the hill beyond to have a view of the village from the hilltop. He laid his head for a rest on the mundasu which he always wore. He was in a reverie and his past came and went. The next day the shepherd found him dead.