Silent Screams Of Wayanad

Listen to the ground beneath your feet to figure out why heavy rain triggered a killer landslide

- SHAJIL KUMAR

Wayanad was safe and serene for ages, with its hills and forests. To its east, stood the Nilgiris. To the northeast, the Mysore plateau. On the northwest, the Kodagu hills. On July 30, however, landlocked Wayanad was bobbing in a sea of grief as one of its hills came crashing down. The landslide obliterated several villages and took hundreds of human lives.

People all over Kerala whimpered why-even though they knew why. Life in Wayanad had been rooted in agriculture, and past generations had lived close to nature.

They worshipped trees, snakes, birds, animals, ancestors and the five elements. They were simple, unlettered people without bile or guile, who trusted everyone. Legal contracts were unknown until the British arrived and until clever settlers trickled in from beyond the hills.

Life changed slowly as 'civilisation' spread. 'Rational' men ran down rustic wisdom as superstition. Men of scientific temper scorned the land's sacred groves and dammed its rivers at the crest of the hills. As age-old beliefs trembled and loosened, so too did the invisible tree roots that bound the rocks deep inside the hills. Meandering streams lost their rhythm and went wayward.

Who can strengthen the binding roots and the rustic customs-if only to keep alive the flickering hope of averting recurring landslides? Wayanad was as right as rain in my childhood. Raindrops fell steadily but gently, not scaring anyone. An occasional torrential rain larded the earth. There was fleeting flooding during the monsoons, but no deluge.

When the streams overflowed, we swam in the biting cold water or made rafts out of banana stalks and punted around with a pole. The water drained in a day or two.