The sky looked pregnant with possibilities. Heavy rain was forecast, and there was every chance that the school would declare a holiday.
Sunny did not stir from his bed even when his mother called him. He knew in his bones that the rains would begin as soon as he left for school. If he skipped school today, he could enjoy a two-day break.
He smiled at the grey sky. The clouds were his friends, the rain his ally, and the sky his constant companion. Sometimes, the company was bright and sunny, like his name, while, other times, it brooded and sulked like his grandfather.
His grandfather was always in a bad mood, and his irritability increased when the rain showered down upon their little valley town.
“Amma, why does Appappa get so angry at the rains?” Sunny would invariably ask every monsoon.
His mother would stare for a long time through the window and get back to her chores without answering him.
For Sunny, the rain was the perfect foil against the silence in the house. As a child, he thought that his grandfather and mother were angry at him because he was naughty, lazy, stubborn, unlucky, or all of the above on any given day. These were the adjectives that his teachers used for him in school.
But neither his grandfather nor his mother would scold him. As he grew into a teen, Sunny realised that his family had embraced silence as a cloak against the harsh world. His grandfather repaired umbrellas while his mother worked in a nearby textile shop. They struggled to pay the bills.
Sunny had friends who were worse off, but their families looked happy. Why was his home so forlorn?
He was afraid to ask his grandfather or mother about his father. Once, when he asked, his mother burst into tears and shut herself up in her room, refusing to step out for two whole days. His grandfather explained that his father had gone far away. A few months before his tenth birthday, he asked why his father did not visit them. His grandfather had then divulged that Sunny’s father passed away eight years ago.
He wanted to ask why there were no photos, but something in his grandfather’s eyes told Sunny that he would not entertain any more questions.
As he lay in bed, Sunny remembered that the week after was his fourteenth birthday. He hoped he would have a good one.
Sunny jumped when he heard his grandfather. “Why are you not going to school?” His voice had an edge.
He rarely entered the bedroom that Sunny shared with his mother.
Appappa usually slept in the open verandah or, on rainy days, in the kitchen, which also had a TV and a couple of chairs.
“They’ll declare a school holiday soon,” Sunny replied, still facing the open window. The wind picked up outside.
Appappa left without a word.
Sunny was used to such silences. The two adults sneaked around as if afraid of waking up sleeping ghosts.
To his surprise, he heard whispers and raised voices from the kitchen.
A few minutes later, his mother entered the bedroom, her face flushed and eyes red. Her streaked cheeks quivered as she struggled to speak.
“Go wash up and get ready for breakfast.”
“But I am not going to school today!” Sunny protested.
“I know, but Appappa wants to take you on a trip.”
“A trip!” He jumped up and down until his mother’s vacant stare stopped him.
“What’s wrong, Amma?”
His mother shook her head and pretended to fold clothes, but Sunny was acutely aware of the fresh tears threatening to burst out.
When you live in silence, you hear unspoken words.
Sunny and Appappa set off to the nearest bus stop to take them to town.
“From there, we will board another bus,” Appappa told Sunny.
“But where are we going?”
He got a silent nod in reply.
After two hours of a windy, rattling bus ride, which made Sunny incredibly happy, they reached a sleepy village square.
“We get down here,” Appappa said.
Sunny admired the gigantic grey-green mountain in the background as he alighted from the bus.
“Is it a waterfall?” Sunny asked his grandfather.
“Where?” Appappa stopped in his tracks.
“I don’t know,” Sunny replied. “I meant, are you taking me to a waterfall?”
Appappa shook his head and asked him to walk faster. “We need to return before dusk,” he added.
Sunny picked up pace initially but slowed down when he began noticing the beauty of the place. His village was beautiful, too, but this place had a supernatural quality as if he were in the presence of divinity.
He gaped at the tall trees on the upward slope and the river gushing beside them. Sunny ran towards the water and peeped in. It was crystal clear. He took a scoop and placed it against his lips. The water was icy cold, refreshing him. He ran back to Appappa, who waited for him on the road.
“Such a beautiful river!” Sunny exclaimed excitedly, but Appappa squinted at a mound of bricks uphill.
Appappa climbed up the slope.
Sunny followed, but his eyes lingered on the mountains afar.
“That was the school where your father studied,” Appappa said, pointing to the mound of bricks. On closer inspection, it was a quarter of a brick wall. The remaining debris was missing.
“There was my shop,” Appappa pointed to a clump of trees and wild shrubs.
“Where?” Sunny asked, expecting to see a building or dilapidated structure.
“It was there. Everything is gone now.”
Sunny stared at his grandfather, afraid that he might be losing it. The man had stewed in silence for too long. It could also be old age. The place where he said an array of shops existed was now part of the wilderness that blanketed the mountain slopes.
Even as Sunny gazed at the wild beauty around him, his grandfather climbed up.
Sunny ran to catch up with his Appappa.
“There…,” his grandfather stopped as his voice choked. He fell to his knees.
“Appappa!” Sunny cried out. He knelt beside his Appappa, who had a steady stream flowing down his cheeks.
Sunny had never seen his Appappa cry.
“There was our house. We all lived there happily until that fateful day. I lost my son, your father, my wife, your grandmother, my daughter, your aunt,” Appappa spoke through his sobs.
Sunny looked into the trees ahead, expecting to see his family walk out of the woods.
“But your mother… your mother lost her husband, a son, and a daughter that day!”
Sunny started at his grandfather’s words. “My brother and sister?” he whispered.
“There was a deafening roar. It was the rain. It was the river. It was the mountain. It was nature. They all came tumbling down in anger and wept away the entire village. And there were us, mere mortals. Few survived. Our houses disappeared. It was all mud--dark brown mud that could silence people forever.”
Appappa consoled Sunny, who had broken into sobs.
“I thought it was time that you knew about your family,” Appappa said. “Forgive me for keeping the truth from you.”
“How am I alive? How are you?”
“We ran in the right direction.”
Sunny returned home wrapped in silence. The rain ceased to be his companion, the skies threatened him, and the clouds darkened his thoughts.
If only the river had saved some photographs.
There is anguish as well as hope in the stories from the landslide survivors and those who came to search for them at Mundakkai, Meppadi and Chooralmala in Wayanad.
I sincerely hope that the future holds more hope than grief.
Unfortunately, four days after the tragedy today on the 2nd of August, we still do not know how many have lost their lives, buried under the mud.
Well written... Really moving.