The Chatak : Portrait of a Thirsty Land - Satyavan Suralkar

If someone were to ask me who feels the greatest joy at the first rain, I would say it is the people of a drought-stricken village. A peacock may dance with its plumage unfurled, a poet's soul may sprout new leaves, and city dwellers may savour tea and fritters on their balconies, but when the first drop of rain touches the face of a person parched by drought, words themselves fall short of describing their ecstasy. The word ‘village’ conjures an idyllic image: lush green hills, a gently flowing river on whose banks sits a small settlement. A hen pecks food into the beaks of her chicks, a cow lows for her calf in the shed, crops sway in the breeze, and leaves glisten, dripping with rainwater. It is a portrait of peace and abundance. But there is another portrait of a village: the village of drought. Mention a drought-stricken village, and a different scene materialises: women with water pots balanced on their heads, hauling water from the depths of a well with a rope and pail. The black earth is scarred with deep fissures, the lakes and rivers are bone-dry, and an emaciated bull lies listlessly. An old man, his hand shielding his wrinkled face, stares up at the merciless sky. This is the stark reality. When the tear in this man's eye meets the first drop of rain from the sky, an immeasurable joy erupts. The simple thought that the heavy pot will finally be lifted from their heads, that the endless trek for water will cease, is enough to unleash a flood of relief. That is why, I believe, the people of a drought-plagued land experience the purest joy of the first rain. It is a common belief that villagers migrate to cities for their livelihood, but a far greater reason is drought. Their day begins before sunrise, a pilgrimage for a single drop of water. With empty vessels clinging to their bodies, they set out. The village wells are dry, so the search extends to the forests and distant fields, a desperate hunt for any well that might still hold a trace of life. They peer into the dark mouths of wells, their eyes scanning for a glimmer. Sometimes, water is trapped in the crevices of the well’s stone walls, invisible from the top. To reach it, a woman—for it is almost always a woman—ties a rope and descends into the darkness. She gropes in the recesses, her fingers searching. The faint of water is like the discovery of treasure. The woman above lowers a pail, and the one below fills it cup by cup. As the full pail is hauled up, not a single drop is wasted. A slight tilt that spills a few drops earns a sharp rebuke from below, for it can take nearly an hour to fill a single pail. This perilous art of descending and ascending the well is a tradition bestowed upon them by hardship. But the crevices run dry in a few days, and the search begins anew. They move from one well to the next, their hopes rising and falling with each empty gaze. Their only chance is the wells in distant fields, dug for irrigation but left unused in the summer. There, they find and draw the last dregs of hidden water. The journey back is an art form in itself. A coiled cloth serves as a base on their heads, upon which a precarious tower of pots is built. One pot is tucked under an arm, another in hand. The women, with a singular grace born of desperation, feel the full pots to be lighter than the empty ones. An empty pot after a day’s fruitless search is a burden of despair; a full one is a trophy of victory that lightens their steps on the path home. The water tanker is their messiah on wheels. Its arrival sends the entire village—children, elders, men, and women—into a frenzy, grabbing any vessel they can find and chasing after it. The tanker empties its precious cargo into a communal well, where a thicket of pails already hangs, waiting. An unwritten rule dictates that no one pulls up their pail until the tanker is empty. The moment it departs, a battle ensues. Ropes hiss as pails are dropped and hauled up with frantic speed. In this contest of desperation, the strong prevail. The meek return with half-filled pots, if any. Fights break out, not over gold, but over a sip of water. In the blistering summer, life hangs by a thread. With no water and no work, the youth flee to the cities—not for the allure of urban life, but to earn a few rupees to survive. Those with land return before the first rain, while others, their connection to the village severed, seek their fortunes in the city's concrete jungle. For a young man from such a village, finding a bride is a monumental task. No one wants to marry their daughter into a life of perennial struggle. A girl from a drought village married into a family near a river or a dam is said to have “struck immense fortune.” Their joy, their entire destiny, is measured in water. It is in this context that the feeling of the first raindrop on their skin becomes an emotion beyond description. But this initial joy is fleeting, for one ordeal gives way to another. With the first rain, farmers fence off their fields with thorny branches, closing the makeshift paths to the wells. The journey for water now becomes treacherous. If a thorn pierces a woman’s foot, she dare not drop her pots. She balances on one leg, pulls the thorn out with her fingers, rubs the bleeding foot in the dirt to stanch the flow, and continues her journey. Water is more precious than blood. With all field-wells now inaccessible, the crisis deepens. During the first few showers, they collect every drop that runs off their roofs, filling buckets, pans, and even broken pots. This water, used for washing and cleaning, is a treasure in itself. After a week of steady rain, the village wells begin to replenish. To watch the fresh springs gush from the well walls is a sight more magnificent than any waterfall. The daily trek ends, and the pot moves from the head to the hip as water becomes available closer to home. Even this small change is a source of profound contentment. The hands that toiled for water now toil in the fields. The phrase "sowing even while covering a corpse" comes to life here, as they work relentlessly, even in pouring rain. Their feet sink into the soft, rain-soaked earth, mud clinging to them in heavy clumps. Their hands, caked with mud, are washed clean by the rain itself, as if the sky is offering a small gesture of care. When the rain pauses, they work faster, and sweat mingles with the raindrops, consecrating the seeds they sow. This is what it means to reap a harvest of sweat and toil. The children, who could be a potential hindrance, are sent to school with their older siblings, a pragmatic approach to education driven by the urgency of sowing. Soon, the black earth transforms into a lush green sea. Raindrops linger on the leaves of young crops like jewels, each holding a reflection of the world. The work continues—weeding, spraying—but these tasks cannot be done in the rain, and so the sky, as if in understanding, grants them intermittent breaks. The crops reach their knees, and the fields sway with promise, bringing smiles to their faces. But then, a new crisis looms: a rainless period known as the month. The sun beats down, and the crops begin to wilt. The farmer's soul withers with them. To summon the rain, they turn to an ancient tradition. Children take charge of this ritual. A dozen young boys, clad only in tattered shorts, gather. Some catch a large frog, while others fetch branches of the neem tree. They fashion a costume of neem leaves for one boy, covering his body. The frog is tied by one leg to a neem branch and hung upside down. This boy is the Dhondi. Followed by a chanting chorus of his friends, he goes from house to house. “Dhondi, Dhondi, let the rains fall, Let the rivers and streams overflow.” The women of each house pour a pot of water over the head and pray for rain. Often, within a week of this procession, the heavens open up. The drooping crops stand tall again, and the village rejoices, declaring, “The has answered.” But sometimes, even the magic fails. When the dry spell persists, a more somber and macabre ritual is performed: the “living funeral.” While the procession is a playful plea, this is a heart-wrenching spectacle. A man from the village is chosen to play the part of the corpse. A bier is prepared. The man lies motionless, wrapped in a white shroud, his big toes tied together, a betel leaf in his mouth. Marigold flowers are strewn over him. Four men become pallbearers. Another man, dressed as the grieving widow, follows the procession, his wails echoing through the village. As the bier passes, women watch with veiled faces, their eyes filled with real tears—tears shed in the hope of summoning tears from the sky. The entire village follows this grim parade to the cremation ground. There, the village mystic enters a trance, beating his chest and pleading with the sky. After the ritual, the ‘corpse’ quietly slips away into the crowd. This bizarre offering of a symbolic death is their ultimate plea for the life-giving rain. And when, a few days later, the rain finally pours down, the joy on the faces of those who staged a living funeral is, once again, a feeling for which words retreat in defeat. Now the rain dances, the crops sway, and the rivers, lakes, and wells are full. The fields are irrigated, and a spirit of celebration takes over. But as the harvest approaches, the welcome guest—the rain—becomes an unwanted visitor. A new fear takes root: the unseasonal rain. The fear materialises. The sky darkens, and a fierce wind begins to blow. A frantic scramble to cover the heaps of harvested grain begins, but it’s too late. The deluge arrives, washing away the grain, the hope, and the year's hard work. As they watch their harvest dissolve into the muddy water, a different kind of rain begins to fall from their eyes. And so, the picture returns to its beginning. The riverbeds are bone-dry, an emaciated bull lies waiting for its end, and the earth is cracked and broken. An old man sits, his wrinkled hand shielding his face, his eyes fixed on the sky. His soul has become the Chatak—the mythical bird that drinks only raindrops—forever waiting, forever hopeful. - Satyavan Suralkar 

(This article is the translated version of the original article

चातक

written by

Satyavan Suralkar 

published in the Sahitya Chaprak Diwali Ank 2025 )

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