Everyone thanked the sand mafia. They said it was their tireless digging up of the riverbed which enhanced its water-holding capacity which in turn enabled additional water from the dams to flow on without incident. Thank you marauders of the earth! They were joking, alright. These jokes, these badly articulated relief sighs, came wrapped in uneasy icons: shit-colour heads that smiled or winked unconvincingly. I too laughed for two reasons. One was from remembering a recidivist friend from my teenage years. Between bails the only work he’d engage in was
Gushing waters froth stories. When set amidst lush landscapes, the viridian violence can give rise to some very haunting ones. Sarojini Omanakuttan remembers a few with moist eyes, though not exactly a shudder – toughened by the wildness of office, nothing is shook enough for her. She pointed nonchalantly to a spot outside the wayside shed where she sat keeping an eye on visitors, guiding some and sharing stories with the solivagant. “It was exactly three years and three days ago when the engineering student drowned over there.” The spot
