The day the earth swayed

This is a narrative of an incident that I will never forget in my life, as a lad. This has happened in November 1977, when a super cyclone hit the coast of Tamil Nadu, in what was billed as one of the worst natural calamities ever, with thousands dead in Tamil Nadu and Andhra, and millions rendered homeless, and their livelihood gone.

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"Dey Dilip! Don't forget to pack your scrapbook and pen!" yelled dad, as he engrossed himself in tying up the holdall, full with the choicest of our clothes. He always made sure that whenever we visited Andhakudi during vacation, we did not "waste our time" but rather spent it "educationally" jotting down on that scrapbook, all our feelings, replete with new words in usage. I could not afford the luxury of a diary, but, hey, who cared? My father made made me read "The Hindu" editorial everyday, and asked me to mark at least ten new words, find out the meaning of them from the dictionary, and then learn to use them in sentences. That, he was convinced, was the best way to improve my vocabulary, never mind the fact that I was only in my fifth standard in school, and did not understand most of those editorials.

My brother and I were getting excited, as we usually did, whenever Andhakudi, that little ancestral village of ours close to the Nagappattinam coast in Tanjore district, beckoned us. We were so used to spending our summer vacations in Andhakudi, running around the lush green paddy fields, climbing tamarind and mango trees in search of success, plunging ourselves into the lake from a tree branch above and vying with each of our ten cousins to devour the choicest of Thavalai idlis, crispy vadais and the freshest of filter coffee you can ever imagine, made with cow's milk ( grandma used to milk it herself, grind the roasted coffee seeds afresh, and fill the big brass tumbler with divine aroma).

But this visit was special. My chitti ( mother's youngest sister) was looking forward to her Seemantham (baby shower) function. In the month of November. When the normally hot and humid Andhakudi gets a little dewy and chilly. After a rather uneventful train ride to Tiruvarur, the nearest train station, we barely had the time to stretch ourselves in the early morning air, when "Vaanga Ayyaa!" ( Welcome Sir!) beckoned us. It was Govindarasu, our servant in the pannai (farm). Govind was a fourth generation pannai worker. And was the last; his sons are now comfortably settled in government jobs. He was the epitome of loyalty, always keeping our interest in front of everything else. Govind took hold of the luggage, and led us to the rather decrepit bus-stand. We missing our early morning coffee already but the strict instruction "Amma asked you to come home directly" relayed, put paid to my father's thoughts of having a coffee at the Vasantha Bhavan.

It was going to be Diwali, the next day. Tiruvarur wore a festive look, with fire-cracker shops spread all over. There were only six trips for bus No.5 to Andhakudi through the day, so we had to wait for an hour and half, before we boarded the next one. The 11-km winding road made me feel tired. The lush green paddy fields along the way, littered with white cranes, and farmers going about their daily routine and above all, the beautiful coconut trees lining the horizon, were a spectacle. Little did I realize then, that those trees are going to be gone, by the time I took my return journey.

We reached home to a boisterous welcome. All my cousins had already assembled by then, and the cracker quotas for each of us had already been decided by then. I was one of the younger ones, and so mine largely consisted of flowerpots, chakrams and the like. My protests to get some of the louder and more dangerous bombs, a feeble attempt to establish my machismo, were met with " oh! you can do them next year when you grow up". I sulked for a brief while, but then the lure of the crackers was simply too much, and soon enough, I was on my feet, with the rest of the boys and girls in the Agraharam. Diwali day was grand, needless to say. The usual "Ganga Snaanam aacha?" ( Did you finish your bathing in the Ganga- that traditional way of greeting in South India) was also accompanied by " I hear that a storm is approaching. Is that true?" It was quite obvious that the so-called uneducated villagers were quite worldly-wise.

The usual fare of great food, with about 30 of us at home being fed to some of the mouth watering delicacies my grandma had made, capped the day. Matched only by those lively bursting of crackers. And a whole lot of fun in brand new clothes, with each one of us kids vying with each other to establish that his dress was the best. The cows at the cattle-shed were worshipped as Lakshmi, the Goddess of wealth. They were given a nice bath in the pond nearby, decorated well, puja were conducted and they were fed with a variety of bananas and freshly cut wild grass. The women got down to making preparations for the Seemantham function slated for the next day.

In the evening, during those rare hours when electricity was available, someone had turned on the valve radio for the 7.15 p.m. evening news in Tamil. The news reader started off : " All India Radio, Tiruchirappalli Radio Station. This news is being presented by Saroj Narayanaswamy. The severe cyclonic storm in the Bay of Bengal has moved in a North Westerly direction, and now lays centered about 300 km off the coast of Nagappattinam, and is expected to cross the coast near Cuddalore over the next 12 to 24 hours. During this period, severe winds up to 150 kmph are expected. The sea is expected to be rough. Warning flag no.9 indicating very high severity has been hoisted at the Nagapattinam coast. Fishermen have been advised not to venture into the sea".

There was sudden silence at home. The elders were in quiet confabulation. Do we go ahead with the function or not? But then, the sambandhis were already on their way, and so, it was decided to leave it to God and go ahead with the function. Clearly, by then, the festive atmosphere had given way to a rather eerie silence. People quietly went about doing their jobs. The kids were forced to sleep early.

"You need to get up early for the function in the morning". The sambandhis had arrived by then, had their dinner rather quietly, and retired early to bed, tired, as they were from the long journey.

Early next morning, the Vadyar ( Pandit) appeared promptly. The rituals were done through well. Lunch was a grand affair. The cyclone was kept at bay - literally. No sight of it yet. It was still bright and sunny during the day.

Towards the late evening, a quiet stillness pervaded the village. The streets were empty. The trees, it appeared, stood still. The coconut tree, right behind our home, appeared to brace for what was coming. The street dogs were nowhere to be seen. The lamp that my mother had lit right at the entrance of the home flickered as stoically as a saint in penance. The perfect calm before the storm, as it were. The cows were all removed from their shed, and were accommodated at the covered backyard - all fifty of them. Everyone was relieved that the function went off well, in spite of the impending threat. The kids, who were blissfully unaware of the goings-on till then, were a bit bewildered now, when grandma had accommodated quite a few poor villagers inside the safer confines of the house- probably another 20 of them, on top of the existing visitors. Quite an achievement it was, considering the fact that in the Agraharam, a non-brahmin staying overnight at a brahmin's house was quite unheard of. But grandma was firm. " At a time of existential crisis, only humanity matters", she said, as she went about doing her work. Coming from the otherwise staunch orthodox widow, it was a revelation for me, when I look back, after all these years.

The clear sky had quickly given way to murky clouds. In the distance, foxes were heard howling. The quiet still gave way to gentle breeze, and, soon enough, gale and heavy rains. Dad was quick to add: " this is what you call a torrent". This word would finally find it's way into my scrapbook. It was probably 11 at night by then. The winds had picked up pace, Electricity, as expected, had been switched off by the authorities as a precaution. The whole house was lit by a few lanterns. The tiny tots were wailing for milk, and grandma was busy the kitchen at that rather unearthly hour, firing up wood, to heat some milk. By now, the intensity of the thunder and lightning were frightening for anyone. It felt that the lightning was going to strike the house any time. One could see the Perumal Temple right opposite, occasionally lit by the lightning. One expected the terracotta tiles that served as the roof to fly off in the gale, exposing us all to the rain and winds. But no, the they held up admirably well.

At about 4 in the morning, the wind speed abruptly dropped. The rains too took a break, though it was still heavily overcast. The stony silence had returned. None of had slept through the night. But we all were happy, and relieved that the worst was behind us. The villagers who had taken refuge started going back to their huts, anxious to assess the damage. It was about to dawn. The elders were getting to have a quick nap.

Just when we thought things were returning to normal, all of a sudden, the sky opened up again. The gale returned. Only much stronger, this time. The villagers scurried back for cover. The wind speed this time was a lot stronger than the previous bout. Daylight had broken by now, and so, we were able to see the skyline clearly. The normally placid coconut tree at the backyard, was being bent ominously towards the house, terrifying the cows in the backyard, as well as the elders at home, For me, it was a spectacle unseen hitherto. The whizzing sound of the gale was threatening, in itself. Add to it, the mooing of the cows in the backyard, and the sound of the lashing water in the courtyard, I was quite scared by then. My bravado of wanting to burst big crackers just the day before, quietly gave way to refuge in my mother's pallu.

By then, the cyclone was in it's fullest fury. The rooftop was finished with testing its resistance. The few tiles had indeed flown away, and wind and water were gushing into some parts of the house. By now, I had started crying in sheer fear. The villagers moved into the only "dry corner" available, along with the rest of us. There we were, huddled in a corner of the house, clutching to each other for dear life, and indulging in our choicest prayers. At that moment, caste and creed took a backseat. Only humanity prevailed. It seemed that the coconut tree would fall on us at any moment. Not a word was spoken by anyone. All fifty of us. Even the infants had stopped wailing. It seemed that all of us were looking to meeting our end.

Except that hard-bred village lady, my grandmother. She seemed totally unperturbed by the goings on. She was murmuring the Vishnu Sahasranamam ( a popular prayer) as usual, but went about helping the rest of us with snacks and hot water, with the zeal of a missionary. When I think about it even now, her resilience on the face of adversity does not fail to astonish me.

The gale and the torrent continued. By the side of the house was a big pond, and paddy fields beyond. For a moment, I felt that the whole earth was swaying, like a drunkard under the influence of alcohol. One could see whole trees being uprooted, and getting rolled over by the fury of the cyclone. "Look! That is cartwheeling!" cried my father. Even at this hour, he was particular that I learnt my English hands-on. Literally.

After what seemed an eternity, the winds stopped. So did the rain. By then it was mid-day. The damage had been complete. Anthakudi looked more like Kurukshetra after the war. The trees that remained resolute, were bereft of any leaves. All those leaves could be seen mashed up on the walls of the houses, and on the road. Most houses had lost their roofs. As for the poor villagers, they had lost their entire huts, along with their meagre belongings. Grandmother, as usual, was quick to provide them with dry clothes that were available. All of us were asked to chip in, and we did.
The coconut tree, after all, spared our mansion, as if in deference to the wishes of the cows in the backyard.

Grandma was quick off the block. She shook up the ladies from their state of shock, into affirmative action. Food was prepared for all, with the remaining dry woodstock. The kids at first, followed by the rest. Hunger soon gave way to tiredness. I did not know when I had slept.

I was woken up by the sound of " Dey! Get up! Time for us to return to Madurai. We need to catch the 6 p.m. train, and it is already 9 a.m. here. We have a long way to go. Hurry up!". That was my father, literally shaking me awake from my slumber, the next morning.

It was going to take a while before normalcy could return. To the Households. To entire Andhakudi and the district. I learnt later in life, that the quietude in between the two storms actually was us being in the path of the eye of the storm, which apparently remains quiet for a while, only to resume its fury soon after.

By 11 a.m. we started from home. Four bullock carts, full with the guests, would bear our burden for the next six hours to traverse those eleven arduous kilometers. The buses had stopped, due to the trees lying strewn on the roads. Electricity poles had come down. As we left Andhakudi, I actually had wished we stayed put. For, right in front, the roads were inundated, and I felt I was entering the ocean in a bullock-cart! Scary prospect, indeed, for a 10-year old.. Dad was heard saying " Dey! Remember your asking me the meaning of the word "deluge", in the G K Reddy article in "The Hindu" the other day? This is it". I nodded in acknowledgement. It was hard to make out the end of the road and the start of the paddy fields, which, by now, were completely flooded. But Govind was at his skillful best. "You don't worry Sir! I will make sure that you reach Tiruvarur safely, in time for the train". One worry for us though, going forward, was the recently built bridge over the Pandavayaru, a distributary of the Cauvery. There were rumours that it had been washed away. If the flash floods persisted, we would have had no choice but to return to Andhakudi, midway.

Luckily, that was not to be, Govind deftly maneuvered his bullocks away from those fallen trees. the other carts followed suit. It was going to be an indefinitely long journey back home, as we found out later. It took two whole days thereafter, for us to reach Madurai. The railway tracks had been washed away. Communication lines of the Railways were snapped in the storm. The driver had nothing but his instinct, and a whole lot of courage, to traverse the distance, at snail's pace.

In hindsight, in what seemed like a new world for me, that 11 km bullock cart ride had taught the lad in me, many things in life. The resilience of the villagers from frequent adversities like this, and their ability to bounce back, was astonishing. The ability of birds and the dogs to sense the impending cyclone, and react in advance was unbelievable, as my father explained on the way. The skill of Govindarasu, who knew what he was doing, was quite reassuring, and had taught me to do whatever little I know, to the best of my ability. An otherwise conservative Agraharam lady who otherwise swore by orthodoxy turning into Mother Teresa and displaying the highest degree of humanitarianism on the face of a calamity, was an eye opener. And yes, the trip did make me learn and experience a few English words, firsthand.

And, as the bullock cart waded it's way towards Tiruvarur, I eagerly looked for those lovely coconut trees that had lined the horizon, on the way to Andhakudi, to see if they were still there.The line of unison between the overcast sky and the deluded paddyfields was now clean. The coconut trees were gone. "Cartwheeled!" I smiled to myself.

❤D❤