Telugu short story: The Spate

Many streams flow into this story—history, a parade of characters, a hierarchical society and the two great levellers of life: floods and hunger.

Published : Nov 04, 2019 07:00 IST

SATYAM Sankaramanchi (1937-87) wrote several novels, plays and essays under different pseudonyms. He won the Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Akademi award in 1979 for his ‘Amaravati Kathalu’. Shyam Benegal produced a serial based on it for Doordarshan.

SATYAM Sankaramanchi (1937-87) wrote several novels, plays and essays under different pseudonyms. He won the Andhra Pradesh Sahitya Akademi award in 1979 for his ‘Amaravati Kathalu’. Shyam Benegal produced a serial based on it for Doordarshan.

The temple’s awe-inspiring archway rises majestically to kiss the clouds. Beyond, the gold-plated tower of Amareswara’s abode is seen gleaming and shimmering at the sun’s touch. Several satellite shrines encircle the steeple of the temple. The Vaikunthapuram hill lies to the east and, to the south, the ruins of Buddhist stupas. Dhanyakatakam, the capital of the Satavahanas of yore, is now just a huge mound on the west. The River Krishna flows boisterously, circling the mound and the people living there, like a gold waistband. This is the glorious town of Amaravati.

Stray dogs, donkeys and Sambayya’s old abandoned bull roam the grounds where majestic horses and elephants once marched in military formation. The street that once buzzed with the traffic of pearl-laden carts is now witness to emaciated creatures struggling to pull carts weighed down by bags of chaff.

People clean their front yards and stoop but deposit the detritus in the middle of the bazaar. Mongrels and mutts curl up amidst the dirt piles while roosters and hens run helter-skelter skittering rubbish in every direction. Crazy Surigadu, his feet wrapped in rags, has claimed the northern tower for smoking pot, the tower from which regal trumpets long ago announced the arrival of the victorious king. The din of expletives unleashed by the card players drowns out the fading strains of Vedic chanting.

Fresh mounds of garbage appear daily where the Buddhist University once flourished, where thousands of foreign students flocked to pursue self-realisation. Pigs have a free run of these sorrowful mounds now. Tattered boys of the Vaddera community run around herding the pigs.

Legend has it that when the pearl anklet of a young maiden on her way to the Krishna to get water fell off, she did not bother to stop to look for it. She found it just where it had dropped off, and went home happily wearing it around her dainty ankle. The maidens today have no anklets to boast of but have the same grace and beauty of their predecessors.

River Krishnaveni is a mute witness to the present and the past.

It is not dawn yet. There is a deafening roar of rushing water. The Krishna is swollen, and the flood waters are rising fast. The backyards are sinking in waist-deep water. The crowds push and trample each other in a mad stampede. Mud walls crumble. The houses on an elevation near the temple soon feel the wrath as they are swept away. The huts of the Yanadis are all gone. Cattle in the sheds have been swallowed by the river. Boats in the docks have vanished without a trace. Launches have drifted away snapping anchor.

As dawn turns to day, the river is destruction personified. She flows with great fury bent upon swallowing the earth. The shore on the other side has merged with the horizon. Cattle drift downstream, crying pathetically as their horns slowly go under. Logs and timber rush down. A mongrel is adrift on a log, baying piteously. It struggles for a grip as the log swirls in the waters. A man beseeches God to free him from the vicious torrent. Soon he is heard no more, lost forever. The crowds watch helplessly from the shore. Everyone is overcome with fear.

Children manage to find joy even in the face of such calamity. They play with paper boats in the roiling waters and mark the rising flood level on the walls with charcoal.

Sangayya’s family in the low-lying street barely escapes the collapsing walls of their mud hut. Venkataswami stands on the mound, impotent, as his herd of lambs is washed away. In the weaver colony, a snake is washed in by the flood and bites Subbayya. Where are the farmhands and their herd that went out to the island to graze?

Some housewives offer coconuts and turmeric and vermilion to Krishnaveni asking her to abate. Children mill around them for coconut pieces. Half the town is under water now. The town folk salvage whatever possessions they can and gather under the Mahalakshamma tree. They string makeshift swings on the trees to rock the infants. The current begins to relent around ten in the morning.

The elders of the town, Venkataswami, Veeraswami, Avadhanulu and others gather under the Mahalakshamma tree. They hold their heads and exclaim, “What shall we do now?” Somebody shouts out, “Provide food for the people first.”

That sets off hectic activity. The young people take out spades and dig trenches for a community kitchen. Another group gathers rice, vegetables and cooking utensils from around town.

Soon, cooking oil, ghee, lentils and spices start pouring in from all quarters. The volunteers place a huge pot of rice for cooking on the improvised hearth. “Let us cook the vegetables next,” says Venkateswarlu who is overseeing the cooking. Women transcend caste and come forward to chop and prepare the vegetables for cooking. By twelve noon, dosakaya pappu and pulusu are ready.

Volunteers line up rows of disposable leaf plates donated by the Setti of the town, to serve meals to the displaced villagers. Sastri finishes his morning recitation and sits down to eat. Next to him sits Subbarayudu of the Telaga caste. On his other side sits Ramulu, the shepherd. Nobody bothers about the caste protocol that is usually observed with such diligence. Sangadu of the Mala community hesitates to serve Sastri the Brahmin.

“Re Sanga, I’m hungry. Ghee is ghee, whoever serves it. Come, come, pour it on my rice,” shouts Sastri. Sangadu complies with alacrity. The chants of namah parvatipatayeh soar to the tip of the temple tower.

Have the minds of these men been cleansed of caste prejudices by the flood? Hardly. Just as a freshly bathed body attracts dirt, their minds will collect dirt by dawn. There is no flood fierce enough to wash out the dirt that accumulates in the mind of man.

Story selected by Mini Krishnan

Reprinted courtesy Rupa & Co.

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