Zero point is the name. That is the other end of the lane from where the state route starts. From this end of the lane for automobile traffic across the top of the dam where security check controls the freeway lane, one could see the sprawling stretch of the Western Ghats towards North West vanishing to merge with the pale grey sky giving an impression of Scotch mist which Krishna had seen in paintings of Scotland heights. To the right, spanning the grey canopy, farthest ends of the catchment was not visible at all and close to the dam, the lake water was dark and disturbing. To the left, roaring water gushing out of the dam through the fully opened sluices could be heard above the din of the downpour. In the narrowed down visibility, serpentine canals carrying the gushing water down below on the left could not be seen. 

Stratus clouds were still lurking above. In the otherwise incessant pouring rain, that was a short break, though only for a few minutes. Past three days spent at Pechippara had educated him that. Clutching the umbrella tightly, closer to the body, using both hands though he had a torch light in his left hand, fighting against the whistling airstream carrying the drizzling droplets, shivering sensation climbing up his spine, Krishna hurried down the lane. 

Scurrying noise must have alerted the cop at the security shed. Fluttering tip of the black and yellow muffler peeped out. Krishna could see only the sharp eyes of the cop and he waved. Muffler just nodded back and the blocking red and white painted wooden barricade was lifted. Krishna hurried down the lane of the dam. He had a job to do. 

In the hazy fog, he visualised Mr.Bashyam Iyangar, with folded dhoti, watching him, with a sneer on his face, from the other end of the freeway. Was he holding on to his bamboo cane? Anyway he should be blissful to watch his son toiling as a non-muster labourer on a daily wage of three rupee and fifty paisa. Anger added to the chill made him clench his teeth even more tight. What did he do to earn this? Falling in love with a girl? she is a Muslim, so what? … Kahlaa… yes, her eyelids naturally appear to have kohl on them. 

* 

From the narrow gap between the worn out gunny curtain which had seen many a rains and the newly painted window frame, an Onam special, Omana was looking out. The stranded bus was just parked outside their tea shop, in which the driver and the conductor could be seen smoking beedi and chatting which can’t be heard over the hammering downpour. By this time, if not for rains, there would be a gathering of all ages sipping ‘chai’ and gossiping as though their lives thrive on those cheap and nasty news mongering, not even bothering about the women folks around. Of course, she is not a woman yet, though she attained puberty a year ago – that was a deep secret, not to be shared – since she had to help Achchan in the shop whenever she was free. Oh, what Ammai said was true; guys with their ogling eyes grazing her budding breasts! She sighed. Then she saw someone hurrying along the freeway on top of the dam, half blanketed in a tightly held umbrella. She recognised the new boy employed by the PWD office there. She called to her father. 

“ Achcha… aa puthiya checkan… that new PWD boy… running on the dam… Ohho… Ayyo! aathmahathi cheyyaano? Yesuve! Will he jump over to die as Preman did last year? Achcha, Peydiyagunnu achcha … I am afraid” 

Mathai Chettan, as fondly called by everyone, looked up startled, for a split second, halting his counting the unsold cold and stale ‘unniyappams’ midway. Then he laughed out. 

Omana smirked. “Daddy, I think you have had one too many of that arrack… I will kill that Moosa uncle one of these days for spoiling you…. Here… come and look for yourself … that boy is running on the dam freeway…. Come… see…” 

Mathai did not move his butt, but said, “MoLe, Let Moosa uncle live for some more years to come… that boy, Sami’s son, is employed to do that. He has to report to Cheruppaloor office, every one hour… the level of water in the dam. Understand? That is what he is paid for… … Checkan is a chattambi … that is what Raman Pillai told … all that white is not milk, Omane” 

Omana was surprised to hear that. “Oh! Is it so? He looks so timid, Achcha. In addition, I do not believe Raman Pilaai. He yaps a lot, you know?” 

Mathai laughed again, wiping his hands in his already oil strained lungi. “Just right, my daughter … Pillai is that. Anyway, we do not know what the fact is. … Ha, Omana… enough of wasting your time… is there no homework to do. Go!” 

Omana, showing face at him teasingly, slipped inside while Mathai peeped out to see what was going on. 

* 

Baldy, with a paunch that could accommodate a couple of kids to sit on, Raman Pillai, spitting the last remains of his betel nut chewing, out through the window, holding the telephone pinned to his ears, was literally shouting which but for the bucketing rains would have echoed throughout the valley. 

“Listen…. Are you able to? Haan… pouring rains, Parameswara, situation is still under control… do not worry…. Please tell the S.E. … then, is our Bashyam Sami there?"
“ hann…. He is outside smoking his heart out… should I call him?”
“Call him”
“ Sami…. O! Samiyo!...  phone for you … “
Slightly baldhead, with a broad forehead, a middle-aged man who was relishing a smoke turned at the sound and clasped his left hand to his ears…
“ han… ?”
“phone” … Parameswaran gestured to the phone and shouted, “ Sami, phone for you”.
He turns to the receiver, “Rama, I had to shout… He is coming… Raman pilla wants you”