The Narrow Road to Palem (11 page)

‘The dam has flooded,’ shouted someone, over the din of women barking orders to frightened, weeping children.

‘They won’t open the gates until tomorrow!’

‘If the rain doesn’t stop, we will all sink!’

But the blob of human masses stuck together and rolled on. The water receded as we scaled the hill, and as the shivalayam
approached, Rama Shastri raised his lantern and said, ‘Fear not! The lord will protect us!’

‘Hara Hara Mahadeva!’

Drenched limbs and faces wherever I looked. Dripping hair. Quaking voices.

‘Shambho Shankara!’

One step at a time. Hands clawed at whatever was within reach; other hands, garments, sticks, ropes. On the way to the school we must have passed Mariamma’s house, but I did not look for her. I did not pause even for a moment to glance at the mango tree in her compound. The rain came so hard that I could not breathe right. Every time I opened my mouth I swallowed water. Sweet, fresh, fragrant water, as if it had been dipped by the essence of the lord, but drink enough of it and your lungs would drown.

Only when we entered the temple courtyard did the mass of humanity disengage. They scattered like sprinkled water from a fountain, to different parts. Some stood by the edges and watched the torrent in the light of the lantern. Some sat cross-legged in front of the lingam and began to chant. Mothers dragged their kids by their arms to the middle of the floor. They dried our hair with their soaked saris, and ordered us to sleep.

But where would sleep come from? The drumming of the clouds filled our heads, even as our mothers clapped our ears. It seemed that the sea was swelling toward us from all four sides, and here we were, entrapped in the temple of the lord, with nowhere to turn but to the inner sanctum, with no hope but that the rain would stop.

* * *

By the time we woke up, the air was clear. There was no sunlight, but the clouds had lifted. I heard someone ask where Mariamma was, and I listened for the mutter of the old woman. I heard nothing. Then someone asked where Girisham was. Last night’s flood had come unexpectedly, and there hadn’t been enough time to wake up Girisham’s household and get them to the temple.

‘Would they have survived?’

No one answered the speaker. I knew what the crowd was hoping.

Some people – those who had held the lanterns last night – had gone into the village, and now they came back. Rama Shastri was one of them. He lumbered up the steps, as if his legs weighed ten kilos each. In his hand he waved the dead lantern, blackened by soot. He came to the main corridor, bowed in the direction of the lingam. ‘Gangadhara hara namo namo,’ he said.

We all gathered around him. ‘What happened? What happened?’

‘I found Girisham’s body in the well of his house. His eyes had come out, and his body had swollen beyond recognition.’

Silence nibbled its way through the gathering. I thought I heard someone behind me say, ‘Serves him right, the asshole.’

‘What about Mariamma?’ I asked.

Rama Shastri shook his head. ‘I searched for her in the house. All her things were ruined by the water. But I did not find her body.’

‘Who else?’ said someone else. ‘Who else is missing?’

Rama Shastri shot his hand up. ‘We counted everybody this morning. Everyone is accounted for. Only the two of them.’

In the corner, I saw Subbai in the corner, standing all by himself, staring at a large black card. The mad Chander was skipping along the edge of the temple on his haunches, playing with the golden necklace around his neck. The first wisps of sunlight sneaked through from between the clouds, and everyone went up in unison.

‘Hara hara Mahadeva!’

‘Hey!’ said Chander, pointing up at the sky and giggling. ‘Look!’

‘Shambho shankara!’

‘Someone shut up that mad fellow.’

‘But wait, look, up in the sky!’

We all went to the Western edge and peered out. Water dripped from the eaves and made splashes on the granite rocks below. ‘Wow,’ people said. ‘That’s beautiful.’

A rainbow covered the sky. It disappeared behind the trees on one end and behind the temple wall on the other, but what little of it we could see was resplendent, bright, sharp. Each of the seven colours was visible in its own majestic curve, as though the lord had filled it in himself, with his own hand.

No – wait. Not all
seven
colours. One of them was missing. My eyes squinted at the sight. I counted from the top. Yes, six. Then I counted from the bottom. Yes, again six. ‘Hey!’ I said. ‘Hey...’

Then Mariamma’s words came to my ear, softly floating by.
There is no yellow in my rainbow. There is no yellow in my rainbow.

* * *

Thank you for reading this little collection of stories. I hope you had a lovely time in Palem.

If this book evoked strong feelings in you - either positive or negative - it would mean the world to me if you could put them all into a review and post it on its Amazon page. Reviews will help other readers discover these stories, and indeed, it will help me get better as a writer. My only request is to make your views honest and frank.

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http://sharathkomarraju.com
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Fiction

Murder in Amaravati (2012)

Banquet on the Dead (2012

The Winds of Hastinapur (2013)

The Puppeteers of Palem (2014)

Jump, Didi! (2015)

Nari (2015)

Non Fiction

Money Wise: The Aam Aadmi's Guide to Wealth and Financial Freedom (2015)