Short Story: Requiem for a Stream by Lalitha Ramanathan

This short story by Lalita Ramanathan is a part of Kitaab Quarterly Vol 1.

I lowered the car window to enjoy the scenic view. I was greeted by a veritable sea of yellow and brown. Once upon a time, these landscapes were lush green. As a little boy, I had raced through these fields with a paper plane in my hand.

“Subhash! Please close the window. We can’t feel the aircon!” Asha, my wife, complained, as she fanned herself with a newspaper.

This hadn’t been her idea of a holiday. We had left the comfort of our home in Singapore to visit my ancestral village, one I hadn’t set foot in for the past forty years. Our children, who were accompanying us, seemed unaffected. My daughter, Riya, was immersed in a fantasy fiction novel, and my son, Rajan, played video games on his device. He alternated between completing levels and asking us if we had reached them.

“Sir, do you know the way to the temple?” the driver of our rental car inquired impatiently.

“The village is by the stream and following it will lead you to a hill. The temple is located on top.”

“Sir, there is no stream here,” he declared.

I kept insisting that he was mistaken.

“Just stop the car and ask someone!” Asha exclaimed.

She opened a bottle of mineral water and gulped some noisily. Her face was flushed with the heat, and she reminded the children for the umpteenth time to drink only bottled water. My wife was a germaphobe and had taken care to pack sanitizers, soaps, gloves, and an array of hygiene products to prepare us for every contingency.

“Why are we here again?” Rajan demanded.

“Daddy made a promise to Grandma that we would visit the ancestral temple,” Riya, my little know-it-all announced.

She was right. My Amma died a year ago from heart disease. She had wanted to return to her village, but I forbade her from travelling. In her frail condition, she couldn’t have possibly covered the distance from Singapore to here by herself. But now, with her gone, I was undertaking this journey for her. Promises issued to the dying are more binding than those made to the living.

Asking the driver to stop the car, I alighted. The minute I set foot outside, the blazing heat hit me. Rivulets of sweat rolled down my forehead. It was peak summer; the worst time to visit this part of the world. Between school holidays and hectic work schedules, this was the only window that had been feasible.

The dust had covered the car windows. I recalled drawing hearts and writing my name on dust-covered surfaces. Along with it, other vignettes of my childhood resurfaced, running with my friends, chasing rolling tires with sticks, and floating paper boats in muddy puddles. We used to drink crystal-clear water from the stream and splash each other with it. A part of me was left behind here, and now, I was back searching for it, but this time with my children.

Up ahead were two villagers carrying twigs. I waved to them and requested directions to the stream. Their replies astonished me. The stream no longer existed; it had dried up. Years of repeated drought had rendered it barren. Like water washing away the dusty hearts, I felt a part of my childhood erased, just like that. I pacified myself that at least the temple was standing, firm, and tall. Bhoodevi, the patron deity, the Earth Goddess, watched over the village from her hill. We were here to visit the Goddess as my Amma had desired. Ironically, legend had it that the stream was a gift from Bhoodevi to the villagers. A gift she seemed to have taken back.

As I returned to the car, I suggested that we ought to stop at the village for some respite. Asha raised a wary eyebrow as this hadn’t been the original plan. We had proposed only a quick day trip; in and out. I managed to convince her. It would be a new experience for the children.

The driver took us to the village. It was dotted with thatched roof huts made of dried coconut leaves, and there were stray dogs everywhere. As the car slowed down, we became the cynosure of all eyes. Little children in ragged clothes viewed us curiously. As we alighted, I wondered if I would meet my old friends. Would I remember them? Would they recognize me?

“Subhash, is that you?”

I turned to find an elderly man inspecting me curiously. I recognized him from his voice.

“Kesavan Mama! How are you?”

“I am good. After so many years you are visiting us. Your mother would often call us from Singapore to enquire about our welfare. It is unfortunate she couldn’t make it!”

I introduced my family to him. He was a distant relative, and hence I addressed him as Mama or uncle. Amma knew him well enough to keep in touch, and I had spoken to him a bunch of times over the phone.

Kesavan escorted us to his humble hut where his wife welcomed us and insisted that we join them for lunch. I knew Asha would prefer the cold sandwiches we had packed. But how could we refuse our hosts, especially when they looked this earnest?

We settled on the floor as Kesavan laid out plantain leaves and served steaming-hot rice along with a delicious curry. The children found the experience of squatting and eating with their hands delightful.

“Mama! Where are your sons? I used to play with them,” I demanded.

“Who lives here anymore? All the fledglings have flown the nest. Our sons have moved to the city, and keep asking us to join them, only we don’t have the heart to leave.”

“Do you still work in the fields?”

“The weather has become unpredictable over the years. Our fields dry up in the summer and flood during the monsoon. Agriculture isn’t sustainable anymore,” Kesavan sighed.

We fell into an uncomfortable silence, till he spoke again.

“Subhash, you are a big man in Singapore now. I’m sure you must be having contacts in India. Can you help my sons find better-paying jobs?”

I assured him that I would try my best to help.

After lunch, Kesavan provided us with directions to the temple, while his wife gifted Asha a figurine of Bhoodevi. We bid our hosts farewell and informed them that we were likely to head back to the city immediately after visiting the temple. With any luck, we would be back in our plush hotel before nightfall.

Our driver was in a better mood now that we were equipped with directions. The car made wheezing noises as the roads became narrower and the potholes wider. We rocked back and forth, proceeding at a snail’s pace; we should have just walked. The hill was visible from a distance, and atop it stood the silhouette of the temple.

“Stop the car here. I remember this spot. This is where the stream used to flow!” I cried excitedly.

We alighted. I was hoping against hope that the villagers were wrong. But alas, there was no stream. Only a giant ditch stared back at us defiantly, its sides rough and rugged. It functioned as a landfill with putrid plastics and rubbish bulging from its depths.

There was a time when the stream had gurgled and flowed; its gentle susurration a melody to the ears. But now? It was barren and bereft, brimming with debris. We walked along the winding ditch; a graveyard for the stream. A feeling of discomfort overwhelmed me, like a familiar piece of favourite furniture being relocated without consent.

We instructed the driver to wait for us as we began the climb upward. My thoughts took me back in time to one stormy turbulent night when this hill had to be conquered.

A night when a mother refused to give up on her feverish son. She had lost her husband to the fever; she couldn’t bear to lose her son as well. When the village herbalist told her that she needed a miracle to save her son, she set off barefoot, with only courage as a companion. She braved the storm in pursuit of that elusive miracle, one that Bhoodevi could grant.

More memories flashed by. The rains lashing out furiously. An eight-year-old delirious me, clinging onto my mother’s frayed saree. Us, wading through the knee-deep waters of the stream and making an arduous ascent uphill. Amma making me sit on the floor of the temple and begging Bhoodevi for mercy. The stern and benevolent countenance of the idol staring at me with compassion. The storm raging both outside and within. Such vivid recollections.

Towards dawn, something miraculous happened. Was it divine intervention? Or sheer luck? My fever broke, and the storm abated.

Amma said that if we had not climbed that hill that night, I might have not survived. She made me promise that one day I would return to pay my dues to Bhoodevi.

A few months after my recovery, a relative invited us to relocate to the city. After my father’s death, Amma was struggling to make ends meet, and this seemed to be a good opportunity. We moved. I was a bright student and did well. Over the years, I got a scholarship to study in Singapore, and our lives changed for good.

I had a mountain load of debt, but with hard work and luck, I repaid every single dime, something I was very proud of. I built a home for Amma and me in Singapore. Amma’s last years were comfortable, surrounded by grandchildren and a steady roof over her head.

“Daddy, are we there yet?” Rajan’s voice interrupted my chain of thought.

“Soon.”

The terrain had turned rocky. Occasionally a shrub or two peeked from the crevices, a sign that life blossomed in the most unexpected of places. A lizard darted out from a crack. I warned the children to be careful. How had Amma managed the climb with a sick child, and that too in inclement weather?

At last, we were here. The temple seemed to have withstood the test of time, a tiny stone structure untarnished by the wheels of change. We bent our heads to avoid colliding with the low-rise ceiling and entered it; an elegant structure housing a small sanctum that bore a stone-carved idol of the Goddess. A yellow silk was draped around her, and she donned a garland of white jasmine. Here I was, finally. Face to face, with Bhoodevi.

“Welcome!”

Did the idol just speak?

From the depths of the inner sanctum emerged the priest. He was wizened and frail, very different from what I remembered. He asked us to sit on the floor as he lit lamps that cast intricate patterns on the ground, an interplay of shadow and light.

We sat crammed in the dingy space as he performed special prayers. Once the rituals were completed, he handed over flowers and sandalwood wrapped in a plantain leaf. He smeared vermillion on our foreheads and blessed us. The children rang the temple bell vigorously, the tintinnabulations reverberating through the confined area.

“Come back every year!” the priest persisted, as he escorted us out.

I assured him we would, ignoring Asha’s expression that once was enough for a lifetime. As we began our descent, we realized that it was no longer hot and blistering. The sky had transformed to an angry black with nimbus clouds jostling against each other. A cool breeze blew, spraying us with tiny droplets of water.

“Rain at this time of the year? How is it possible?” I wondered.

“But how did the weather flip so quickly?” Asha cried. “Hurry up, children. We need to reach the car before the storm!”

The descent was much easier due to the cooler weather. It was drizzling by the time we reached our car. The fragrant petrichor masked the stench of the ditch. The car’s bonnet was up, and the driver hunched over, with a forlorn expression on his face.

“I think the engine overheated, and the car isn’t starting now. I need to call help from the city. We may need to stay overnight, Sir.”

“What?” Asha and I exclaimed at the same time.

This was not a scenario we had a contingency plan for. I tried to examine the car, but nothing I did could revive the engine. The rainfall had become heavier, and it was evident that we needed to find shelter. Asha’s face, just like the sky, resembled black thunder.

We trudged wearily back towards the village, with only plantain leaf umbrellas for protection. We reached Kesavan Mama’s hut, hoping he would grant us refuge for the night.

“Of course, you can stay. My wife and I will sleep at the neighbour’s so that you have more space.”

Mama ignored my vehement protests and told us to get comfortable in his hut. Our driver returned and updated us that a spare car would be dispatched the next morning. He had found accommodation for himself too.

The cold sandwiches we had packed emerged out of their foil wrappers, and we munched on them ravenously. The rain steadily lashed against the thatched roof. It was ironic that while we craved water all day, now there was plenty of it, yet we were still not happy.

Rajan swatted mosquitoes, and Riya squinted her eyes to read in the light of the lantern. The wind howled as the hut quivered against nature’s elements. A cold gale blew out one of the lamps. This was a scene straight from a horror movie. Riya shuddered.

“Daddy, I remember a story I read. It was about a couple who got lost in the countryside. They found a place to shelter in. The caretaker of the house was helpful. But later that night they realized that he was part of a satanic cult and planned to kill them before dawn.”

Her narration was punctuated by peals of thunder making it twice as eerie. I calmed my hyperactive offspring, making a mental note to regulate the books she read. We were already on tenterhooks and any conspiracy theories her fertile imagination generated would not be appreciated. Rajan, the younger one, was already trembling.

A sudden flash of lightning illuminated the entire hut. We spotted a shadow across the threshold wielding something like a club. Asha and the children screamed.

What ghoulish creature was planning to lay siege to us?

“Sorry, I didn’t mean to scare you. It’s me!” cried Kesavan, much to our relief and embarrassment.

He had brought straw mats for our use.

After thanking him profusely, we assembled makeshift beds. The children were exhausted by the day’s events and nodded off. I heard Asha tossing and turning. New places did that to her.

It was peculiar that none of the forecasts had predicted this sudden turn. But were weather forecasts ever accurate?

I woke up in the middle of the night with a start. My family was still sleeping soundly. The torrential rain continued its relentless pounding. I tried to close my eyes when I heard a voice calling my name. Could it be Kesavan? I got up to check.

There was no one outside. My legs refused to go back in. Something prompted me to move ahead. I walked directly into the rain, battling the fury of the storm. The rain drenched me, and my clothes clung to me, yet I could not stop. As I trudged on, the damp soil stuck to my naked soles. I don’t remember how long I continued like this in a trance-like state. Was I reliving the night Amma, and I climbed the hill?

Perhaps an hour had elapsed, maybe more. I had reached the base of the hill, and I could see lights at the top, like shimmering will-o-wisps. The temple was beckoning me.

“Stay strong, child. We will face the storm together, you and I.”

That’s what Amma had told me that night. I could feel her presence at that moment, like a warm blanket. I knew what I had to do; I began my ascent. The slopes were slippery and cold; I made it up to the temple with great difficulty. I stood facing the idol of the Goddess. I do not know how long I remained that way. Why had I been summoned?

Suddenly, the floor of the temple started flooding. A gentle stream of water tickled my toes, and wavelets danced around me. I was back to being that little boy who loved playing in the stream. I felt the wetness seep through as the cold rattled my bones.

“Ahhh!”

I woke up with the realization that it had been a dream. I was still here in the thatched hut with my family, my soles dry and clean. The climb up the hill, the temple, the stream, all of it was just a figment of my imagination. However, one thing was real. The water.

A part of the thatched roof was damaged by the storm, and water was leaking through the gaping hole. I jumped into action and tried to block the leak. A now awake Asha extracted pots from the kitchen to hold water. My watch’s neon glow stated that it was five AM. Kesavan would be up in an hour and tell us what to do.

“Get us out of this hellhole, please!” Asha begged as I tried to comfort her.

Kesavan Mama came at six with steaming hot tea. He didn’t seem to be too perturbed about the roof.

“The flash floods have damaged it so many times. Every time it falls, we rebuild,” he shrugged nonchalantly.

The rains had weakened in intensity. The air was crisp and fresh and resounded with chirping crickets. The veranda was flooded with water, which wasn’t surprising, considering the entire village was flooded. The potholes on the road were now mini pools. I watched a floating slipper embark on a solitary cruise.

I helped Kesavan repair the gap with a tarpaulin sheet. We cleaned as much as we could. I stuffed a wad of notes into his pockets despite his protests. This was the least I could do in return for his hospitality. It would help him replace the roof with a better one.

It was close to nine when our driver turned up, reminding us that the new car would be here soon. We would have to transfer our bags from yesterday’s vehicle, which was immobile and still parked at the base of the hill. We had no choice but to return there, a route I had covered not long ago in my dream.

The children were in high spirits having survived the storm and followed me eagerly through the slush and muck. Asha rallied behind reluctantly. As we made our way to the ditch, sidestepping the puddles, Riya gasped.

“The stream is back again!”

“What?”

She was right. The rainwater had resurrected it!

I should have been overjoyed that my beloved stream was restored, albeit temporarily. Sadly, the resurrection did not mean rejuvenation. It was now brimming with flotsam and debris, plastics, paper, and old leaves.

The stream was witness to the passage of time but had sadly lost its identity along the way. The Earth had changed and so had the climate, but the brunt of these changes was borne by this innocent spectator. It seemed to cry out for freedom, for release. I felt guilty, overwhelmed by an urge to do something.

While I was ruminating, Asha unlocked the car and managed to extract her bag. I rummaged through its contents; a pair of gloves, tissues, and waste disposal bags. Perfect!

I donned the gloves and fished out a large twig. Using it as a pole, I began extracting the plastic. Asha watched in horror.

“Subhash, have you lost it? It’s time to leave!”

I smiled at her apologetically but continued determinedly. Today, there would be no stopping me. Watching my enthusiasm, our children joined in too, and my wife shrugged in resignation. Our actions attracted the children of the village. Soon, there was an army of people working on the stream.

“Honk!”

Our car was here.

“Let’s finish cleaning the stream first,” the children insisted.

It took another hour to remove all the dirt and tie it up in heaps. I stepped back to appreciate the result. The stream gushed on unfettered and unrestricted, like a dormant volcano erupting back to life. I reminded myself that it was only transient and would vanish by the next drought. But till then, it would flow.

I glanced at my reflection in the clear water; amidst the ripples, I could see the face of my younger self.

“Look Daddy, a rainbow!” Riya exclaimed, pointing to the sky.

Was that a benediction from the heavens above, or just an uncanny coincidence?

I heard the ringing of temple bells from the hilltop.

My dues may never be fully repaid, but I was doing what I could, one step at a time.

Author’s Bio

Lalitha is a Finance Manager turned writer. She is an avid blogger and has published her works on many online platforms and in anthologies. She loves to write on a range of topics including parenting, humour, and drama.

Lalitha lives with her family in Singapore. Her little daughter is the center of her universe and is the inspiration for many a piece that she has written.

When not writing, Lalitha loves to read, play the violin, and design Rangolis, all the while gathering ideas for her next plot. The library is her haven and going there every week is a must.