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Where The Water Learned Manners




The Periyar never asked permission.

It rose and fell like a breathing giant, changing its level each season, leaving the land dark and yielding—soil that held a footprint for a few seconds longer than it should.

From the main irrigation channel, water spread into the village. Each house cut its own kayyani, narrow paths dug by hand, guiding water to coconut palms and banana trees that had learned patience over generations

Water did not belong to anyone.It belonged to time.

Pump Days

Every alternate day, when the motor pump hummed alive for two hours, the village split itself neatly.

Children turned wild.

They jumped into canals, swam like fish, chased minnows, screamed and laughed until their voices echoed between concrete walls. On dry days, the same canals became cricket grounds—the walls perfect boundaries when fielders were few.

Adults became serious.

Bhaskaran Uncle measured water with his eyes.

Suku Uncle moved around correcting everyone, smiling while scolding.

Varghese stood where strength was needed, lifting stones, sacks, gates.

Unni was everywhere—swimming harder than anyone, playing longer than anyone, his limp forgotten in motion.

And always, the smell of wet soil rose—earth breathing.

When Flow Changed Direction

That year, the water changed.

The house closest to the main channel had a new owner—Jose Chettan. He was not a bad man. Just new. From somewhere else. From a place where land was owned loudly.

The first kayyani flowed through his land before branching out. Jose improved it—cemented, widened, redirected. He planted new saplings, dug fish tanks, and let water stay longer than it should.

By the time water reached the far houses, it arrived weak.

Palms waited.

Bananas yellowed.

People waited too.

No one argued.

Villages rarely do—at first.

Watching Quietly

The men noticed.

Bhaskaran Uncle frowned but said nothing.

Suku Uncle observed patterns.

Varghese understood the danger but waited.

Unni noticed something else.

Jose irrigated fully—methodically—then blocked the access from the other houses’ backyard channels while leaving the main gate open.

He thought he was being efficient.

Unni smiled.

The Day Water Spoke Back

On the next pump day, Unni waited.

He waited until Jose finished irrigating his land—his trees soaked, his tanks full. Then, quietly, without touching Jose’s property, Unni blocked the opened access where water exited toward the rest of the village.

He didn’t steal water.

He didn’t divert it.

He simply stopped it from leaving.

Within minutes, water had nowhere to go.

It rose.

Jose’s courtyard flooded first.

Fish leapt from tanks into the open canal, shining briefly before disappearing. Plants drowned. Coconut roots soaked too deeply. Banana leaves bent under excess.

Water climbed steps, touched walls, crept toward the house.

Jose ran out, panicked.

“ENTHA ITHU?”

“What is happening?”

Unni stood ankle-deep in water, calm.

“Nothing new, Chetta,” he said softly.

“This is how water behaves when it can’t move.”

Suku Uncle arrived.

Bhaskaran Uncle followed.

Varghese stood silently, arms crossed.

No one accused. The water did the talking.

Understanding

Jose opened the channels himself.

Water rushed out, relieved, balanced again—flowing to the far houses, waking tired palms, touching roots that had waited patiently.

Jose stood soaked and quiet.

“I didn’t know,” he said finally.

Suku Uncle nodded.

“Too much is as bad as too little.”

After Flow

The village returned to itself.

Children swam again.

Cricket returned to dry canals.

Water flowed evenly.

Jose adjusted timings. Shared gates. Learned the language of land.

And Unni?

He went back to swimming—hard, fearless, free.

Years later, when I think of that summer, I remember not the conflict, but the lesson:

That water, like life, demands movement.

That balance is not taught with words.

And that sometimes, the kindest correction is letting excess drown itself.

The Periyar flowed on, unchanged.

And so did we.

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