A Tale from Edava

I live on a cliff, in a little house, of a small village called Edava, near the southern coastal tip of India. Here, time usually chugs at a lethargic, languorous, sweaty pace of its midday summer heat. Roosters' call awakens our village to the coolness of each morning, while packs of dogs roam the empty shorelines ferreting out a rat or an occasional mongoose. Gods, spirits and ghosts mingle equally in our days and join us regularly in our festivities or are sometimes appeased with a tempting bribe to stop from pestering us. 

Like that time, two monsoons ago, when an unseasonal storm raged through the two small streets of our village - only. The skies became black,  waves galloped endlessly as wild horses, while the palms carried on their sword fights against the skies. Everyone knew, but wouldn't utter, that it was the rage in the heart of the old Nambiar who had died - leaving behind that beautiful, young, wench of a wife - who loved his young and dashing driver. Of course, he must've have known the risk when he brought home his new bride - but when has man's desires not blinded him to the folly of his hopes or futility of his dreams? In this case of siring an heir - Ha! At his age - the Fool!! People say that this effort killed him in bed - and that the witch keeled over in mirth, trying to cover her naked bosom. Oh the wicked, wicked ways of the young!

So as I was saying, that strange storm shook the village even as the old man Nambiar's corpse lay on the palanquin, being prepared for the final rites. Finally, the old brahmin priest was called and began, with the his ten young novices, the rituals of persuasions and negotiations with Nambiar's spirit. They lit auspicious lamps with ghee, burnt plates of camphor and recited long gutteral chants that are unbearable to the musical sensitivity of the spirit world. They also flung coconut-jaggery payasam over the cliff, cooked in ghee and cardamoms - a favourite of old Nambiar - and he finally left. We All saw that whirlwind of a wild storm flying away into the sea, carrying with it - the roof, the corpse tied to the palenquin, and that poor, handsome driver in his white liveries - who had driven his young wife mad with lust.

Such things occur somewhat regularly here in Edava - so people don't really care much. They just shook their heads, and returned to their shady spots under the palms, chewing on little twigs, and dozed under clear, hot blue skies, while crows cawed once again and dogs ambled out again in search of a cat or perhaps a rat.