Water (translated From ‘Jalam’ By Shahina E.K) – Nithya Mariam John

“Water…

Soon you would realise what a treasure it was!! You have been ignorant of its value. Water is a resource that we cannot create, and that we cannot do without. This land will shortly echo with the footsteps of death…”

“Yes, the authorities have concluded that our land will soon be listening to the footsteps of death. You have burnt down the forests that protected us. You have drained thousands of rivers, and shamelessly poisoned the water resources. Our villages have slowly been turning into cities. But now, there is not enough rain. You see, nothing that has been wasted away can be regenerated. Water is scarce. And yet, we need water more than ever now, for the development plans to be executed in our country soon. Always keep in mind that the growth of the country lies in the development of its people. In such a situation, certain necessary steps must be taken immediately. It is our people who are to blame for the bleak crisis ahead of us – thus the government has been moved to make some hard decisions on the matter… From tomorrow morning, all the water resources in the country will be under the jurisdiction of the government.  Household wells, ponds, rivers, lakes, canals and water holes will be entirely controlled by government officials.  Depending on the number of members in your family, the officers will decide on the quantity of water you may use. You will receive this stipulated amount of water without fail. No one should panic. Remember, the authorities do not intend to make life difficult for you. This is a collective call for repentance. Those who protest may have to spend their lives behind bars. The government understands the concerns of the people. Hence in case of private water resources, they may accept the relief fund offered by the government. The owners are requested to receive the offer and accept the administrative decision…”

The announcer let his booming voice rest for a few moments. The old, green vehicle crawled down the main street into the wide market roads. He could see that many of his listeners had fallen silent. As the vehicle turned towards the market, it slowed down a little and the announcement resumed loudly.

The people in the market who were buying and selling fruits, vegetables, fish, meat, clothes and toys stopped short. Those who had not been paying much attention ran around, badgering others for details. As the crowd streamed in, the announcer asked the driver to speed up. Sticking to its schedule, the dark green vehicle rolled by hospitals, tourist centres, bars and gambling houses.

The sun had set. Believers started to stream into the centres of worship. And while they chanted their prayers of wealth, health and a happy afterlife, the voice of the announcer slithered in like that of Satan’s, jolting them out of their meditations on afterlife, back to the stark reality of their present. Ignoring the priests’ sermons about the glorious afterlife, they rushed outside, they crowded around the walls of the centre, straining their ears.

“God, Oh God! We have been praying to you…and yet…” They complained to the heavens and turned their backs to the altars of worship. Perhaps God was afraid of the government as well, they thought. The priest read their minds. He stepped into their midst saying, “God works in a thousand mysterious ways…” He tried to entreat them back into the shrines and a few did, but most of them, as if in protest against God, refused to return.

When they reached the hospitals, the announcer’s voice seemed to soften. He repeated the same message clearly and calmly but in a kinder tone. At his voice, ailing bodies, riddled with diseases and afflictions, leaned their anxious heads out the dirty glass windows of the hospital. “Ya Allah!”

Mehandi, a young girl who lived on the riverbanks placed her hand over her heart. Miles away, Ashok Mehta sat clutching at his heart, as if somehow, he could hear her pain. He used to visit his beloved Mehandi at nights on the riverbanks where violet and red wildflowers bloomed in plenty. Some nights she would appear at the window that opened to the waters. She would wave at him to signal that her parents were not asleep yet. He would wait. Lie sleepily on the cool sands, bask lazily in the moonlight that streamed down the riverbanks. And then, as he walked among the flowers. she would come treading the same path as his. By then, he would smell like the flowers, and it would spill over on her… The river would stifle a peal of laughter and flow gently by, caressing their feet. A shining star in the east would remind them of the dawn and they would kiss each other passionately and walk away in different directions, to their own houses, to their varied circumstances.  

The windows painted in different hues anxiously opened out to the streets. Nayab who was watering his plants in the courtyard did not know what to do when he heard the announcement. He kept watering his plants till they were immersed in the water. And then he started screaming loudly. The flower petals tore off under the enormous pressure of water.

While the city gave in to chaos, Salomi went searching for her son Imran who had been missing for a while. She reached the well-side. It was a newly built well, without proper finishing. The smell of new mud still hovered in the air. On this “cursed land”, as the locals used to say, there was not enough water for small-scale farming and household requirements. So, Imran had dug a new well here with the help of his two friends. Though the soil had shown some signs of dampness for a couple of days, there was little hope. Salomi had felt devastated looking into the tired and hopeless eyes of her son. But then yesterday, he had come running to her calling, “Ma! Ma!” She had rushed out to find the the small spring, sky-full, like blue eyes! Innocent like her son and his dreams. He had been jumping up and down in ecstasy to see the spring open its eyes. He had held her face close to his with muddy hands and kissed her. And then he had burst out laughing…

Salomi sat down near him. He was staring at the little spring. “To hell with the authorities!”, she cursed and cried.

Mehandi, Abba, Ummi, Ashok, Imran, Salomi, Nayab… none of them could believe their ears. They could accept that the government now had complete control over their own water resources. They felt powerless and exhausted. Their hearts burned. “From now on water will be rationed out. As they please…”, they kept murmuring. Within hours, they had been turned into slaves of the government. Merely slaves!

Water ushered in many memories: its crystal-clear transparency, the light green moss shimmering in the sunlight, the coolness of the white sands. These memories united them, brushing away, for a while, their differences. Kundan told the crowd, “I did something terribly wrong. I corrupted the water. I dumped waste from the hotel into these rivers, in the darkness of the night”. But nobody listened to him. Each of their conscience was haunted by their own atrocities, by the mistakes they had made. They let their thoughts wander, lest their confessions be revealed in public.

– “I used to relieve myself by the river-banks and also near the pond.”

– “The beer bottles which we had dumped in the river would be still there. The offal must be rotting in the waters.”

– “I used to bath the cattle in the waterways from which you fetched drinking water.”

– “I used to take revenge on others by poisoning river water.”

– “I dumped the household waste in it, because we did not have a courtyard.”

Each of them started rambling incoherently as if to escape the pinpricks of their own conscience.

An old man, who believed that his daughter had loved the river so much so that she now rested under it, held an armful of sand against his chest and mourned, “My daughter, my daughter!”. He still believed that she reposed on the riverbed. Looking at his despair, a few people could not hold on to their tears.

“We do not need emotion. We need revolution!”, a young man shouted. He had always been one to bring the problems of common man to the attention of the government and thereafter, was always watched closely by the forces in power.  As if to bask in the last ray of hope, people crowded around him. Slowly, it turned into a long procession.

“Water is our right”. “Our water is ours!” “Stop state violence!” Since there was no time to waste, they wrote down slogans of their choice on pieces of cloth, preparing for revolution. Some of the youngsters who jumped in to join this rebel group were dragged back to their homes by their parents. A few others backed away, ashamed, but fearful of the law.

“Good move!”, the radical intellectual applauded, as the vehicle rumbled away with its ominous message. “Water is nobody’s private property. It is the breast milk of Mother Earth…the life-giving ambrosia; it is to be divided equally among all”. A senior writer who was jealous of the intellectual, while also holding a grudging respect for him, voiced his support. In truth, he resented the government for its formidable laws on water. He believed that the authorities were abusing their power to effect changes which were not even meant to do the people any good. But he was to receive an award from the government in three days. It would be a recognition par excellence, which might even change his life. So, he swallowed his indignation, and shouted “Jai!”. His kuppayam and dishevelled hair fluttered in the breeze as he walked away, followed doggedly by a substantial mass, sceptical of their own judgement, choosing instead to put their faith blindly in the intellect of others.

It was the last night that they had any power over water. Their minds were flooded with the remembrance of water. Some people drew water incessantly from their wells. Though Mehandhi was absent, Ashok treaded the wildflowers on the riverbank. He felt sad knowing that the river would no longer be able to hold them together and that they would have to be separated forever. He yearned to see Mehandhi again. The children, innocent and uncomprehending, were overjoyed by the sudden freedom. They jumped in glee and swam in the waterways. Waterdrops, glistening in the moonlight, eased down the sands. Aquatic creatures stuck their heads in the waterholes while the jalakkura wrote the letters dictated by the children. The naughtier ones teased those with unknown words. The children laughed at their futile attempts. The jalakkura left, feeling offended.

People who had stretched themselves out on the banks of the river felt a haunting sadness come over them. All on a sudden, they wanted to hum a tune and take a dip in the water. They wanted to a boat across the waters back and forth. They wanted to swim in the cold water like fishes. “That which is thrown into the depths of the waters stay true.” The old man looked into the calm, moony, dark blue waters. “My daughter, my girl…she is here… under the water!” He shouted. He walked into the water and drew a circle with his fingers. Before anyone could stop him, he sank beneath the waves. Many of them thought they saw a bright light. “The girl with wide, open eyes…Yes, we saw her!”, somebody shouted from the banks. Nobody agreed or disagreed. If it were true, they thought, the girl was perhaps the spirit of the water that they had murdered ever so often.

Light streamed in from the east. The noise made by government vehicles and the slogans of the revolutionaries, played on from opposite directions, echoing all over the land. Fearfully, Imran let the last drop of water from his well wet his throat. It tasted salty.