The Great Flood

By Satyam Sankaramanchi

(Translated by Kesava Mallela)

The monumental temple entrance tower seems to be keeping company with the clouds. It must be the golden hour. The sun casts a golden glow upon the Amareswaralaya spire, the tallest among its peers in the temple complex. Step outside, and you see even taller hilltops—to the east, Vaikuntapura Hill, and to the south, the remains of a Buddhist stupa. To the west lie the ruins of Dhanyakataka, the erstwhile capital of the Satavahanas. Through it all, the River Krishna flows, a central spine running across these spires and hilltops, cradling the people of Amaravati in its lap.

Amaravati was once a great city, rivaling Rome. Mighty horses and chariots once paved these streets; today, they belong to street dogs and stray donkeys. The streets that once shimmered with heaps of gemstones and pearls must now settle for hand-drawn carts carrying far less valuable rice hulls.

The city lacked municipal services. Households swept their narrow doorways and dumped garbage in little heaps nearby. While some dogs curled up in the warmth of these heaps, stray chickens pecked away in hopes of finding grain.

The towering temple entrance, once home to huge kettle drums blaring triumphantly, now shelters ragged Surigadu, who spends his days piping ganja smoke into the sky.

The ancient banyan tree, which once echoed Vedic recitals, now hosts an unofficial gambling club, where cuss words recoil in the ears.

The great Buddhist university, where students from distant lands once gathered, is gone—leaving behind only mounds of dirt. These mounds now belong to hogs, pigs, and the unruly children of the riverbanks.

River Krishna was a silent witness then and remains a silent witness now, bearing testimony to the ever-changing times. Today, it flows full, perhaps hiding all the timeless drama within its depths. The river's fullness presses against the temple walls, washing the feet of Amareswara in its course.

The sun is almost ready to rise. It seems impatient to reach Amaravati, eager to rise between the hills of the river valley and bring warmth to its sibling, Krishna. The river, in turn, rushes faster and fuller, eager to greet the morning guest. Krishna's million diverging streams swell, converging around islets and boulders, only adding to its fullness.

Amaravati is already buzzing with pre-dawn chores. The markets are alive with hawkers, and streets are filled with people rushing toward their morning destinations.

And then—disaster struck.

Krishna unleashed a flash flood. With a ferocious roar, it charged into the city.

Before pre-dawn darkness even dissipated, the streets near the banks filled with hip-high water. Chaos erupted—people panicked, stumbling over each other in a desperate bid to escape the rising flood. Mud walls softened, collapsed, and brought roofs crashing down.

The houses near the temple street hillock barely survived—though their walls stood, their utensils floated away.

Three-quarters of the lowlands lay submerged.

The highlands bore fresh high-water marks.

The thatched huts of the outcastes beyond the village were gone.

The tiled outhouses, once filled with livestock, were now nothing but sediments in the water.

The boats on the banks had long disappeared.

Even the anchored sailboats had likely washed away.

As dawn broke over Amaravati, the full contours of catastrophe became clear. Fear gripped the people. They dreaded that Krishna might swallow the entire landscape. The other bank of the river was no longer visible—it seemed as if the sea had swallowed Amaravati, replacing the river.

Tiled houses, moaning cattle, and floating debris painted a painful picture. Logs drifted by, carrying weak stray dogs, their eyes pleading for rescue.

Amidst the chaos, a piercing cry rose above the roar of the flood:

"Help! Help! I'm drowning!"

For a brief, heart-wrenching moment, the villagers on the bank stood frozen, ears ringing with the desperate plea.

And then—Krishna yanked the voice away.

Farther from the riverbanks, the flood seemed less menacing. The streets were only knee-deep in water.

Children, oblivious to the tragedy unfolding nearby, pestered the grown-ups to help them make paper boats. Older school kids marked the rising water levels on school walls with charcoal.

The grown-ups gathered beneath the central tree, swapping disaster stories:

"Did you hear about Sangayya on the low street? His kids woke up in the middle of the night when water started pooling on the floor. But then—boom!—the flood surged, the walls caved in, and they barely escaped!"

"Poor Yenkatasami! He stood helpless as his goats were swept away."

"In Weaverville, a snake floated into a hut and bit Subayya!"

"God alone knows what happened to all the herders who took their cattle grazing on the islets."

One tale outdid the next. Meanwhile, housewives offered kumkum and turmeric to Krishna, praying to calm her fury—while children scrambled for the coconuts meant for offerings.

Half the village lay submerged and uninhabitable. Families gathered whatever belongings they could and took shelter beneath the great Mahalakshmi tree.

By 10 a.m., the river finally began receding.

Village elders—Venkataswami, Veeraswami, and Avadhanlu Garu—summoned themselves at the central tree, pondering the next steps.

"The first order of business—food for the entire village!" someone declared.

Volunteers sprang into action. Some dug a long earthen oven (gaadipoyyi), while others went door to door collecting grains. The village head provided giant cooking pots. Lentils, salt, ghee, and oil magically found their way to the community hearth.

Soon, rice boiled in the massive pot.

"Next—curries!" hollered Venkateswarulu and Sobhanadri.

Hearing the call, Avadhani's wife, Komati Sooramma, Telaga Venkamma, and Golla Subbamma swiftly chopped vegetables—a magnificent display of collective action.

Within an hour, steaming-hot meals of Dosakaya Pappu and Pulusu were ready!

Shopkeeper Settigaru provided stacks of vistarlu (leaf platters). The villagers lined up along the main street.

As volunteers served, Sastry Garu stretched his hand for ghee. Low-caste Sangadu, ladling the ghee, hesitated and shrank back in fear.

"Sanga! We are all hungry. Hunger knows no caste," Sastry Garu said gently. "Serve the ghee."

Sanga, beaming, obliged.

"Hara Hara Mahadeva!" echoed in the skies.

Did the flood wash away the filth in their hearts? Not so fast.

These bodies and hearts will gunk up with filth again—just as they do even after bathing daily.

A flood is far too weak to cleanse them forever.