His mother solemnly pushed the notice across the table. Carlos who had been trying to ignore the issue, now found that it was no longer possible to do so. He glanced at the notice. It was printed in Filipino. He did not need to read the explanation printed below. The two words in bright red on top were more than enough to make him lose his appetite.
‘FORCED EVACUATION’
“They can’t do this to us!” Carlos said emphatically. But even he could hear the marked lack of conviction in his voice. He pushed away his half eaten breakfast of garlic rice and longanissa and got up from the table. As he washed his hands, he got a glimpse of the cause of all his troubles standing proud in the distance. There, dwarfing everything else around it, coughing up ash was the volcano, Mount Mayon.
Carlos had always had a love hate relationship with the world’s most perfectly shaped cone that was Mount Mayon. As a small boy, with his round little midriff protruding from above his too–big shorts and the tip of his t-shirt in between his clenched teeth, he had run around the base of the mighty mount. He had clutched on to his father’s calloused hand as he walked around the family coconut groves that lay nestled at the foot of the volcano. The smoke that Mayon perpetually emitted was just another fact of Carlos’s young life. The sun rose in the east. There was a full moon every four weeks. The smoke coming out from Mayon’s summit was nothing to worry about.
Or so Carlos had thought till that horrifying day in on the second of February, in 1993. He had been in school, chewing on his pencil, trying to figure out the sums in his mathematic exam, when it had happened. He remembered hearing a huge explosion. Then panic set in, complete and overwhelming. The children were out on the roads. There were flashes of orange and the feeling of overpowering heat. They ran as fast as their legs would take them. Then everything was a blur. There were grown-ups, some dressed in the uniforms of the Philippines armed forces. There were trucks that took them away from the village. Carlos had blindly waded through the terrified villagers that were huddled together. He had found his mother, sobbing and rocking herself in extreme grief. His father was one of the seventy farmers who had been killed by the eruption.
Carlos grew up overnight. He had to work on the fields with his mother. They could not move away. This was the only life they knew. Mount Mayon’s shadow shaded him from the harsh coastal sun as he worked. The resentment flowed away, like the sweat that poured from his brow. He could not bring himself to hate the volcano. It had taken away his father, but it was what gave them the fertile soil to earn their livelihood. It was part of who he was.
And now it was erupting again. By night, it sent out slow moving rivulets of lava that silently made its way through the dark slopes, burning anything that thwarted its passage. During the day, it belched out grey gases and made threatening rumbling sounds. One by one, the villagers had boarded the trucks that the government had sent for them. And now the trucks were back to take those who refused to move out.
Carlos was one of them. He did not see how moving out helped. So what if he was safe till Mayon erupted? This was where he had to come back. And how long would he stay in a shelter? Till the time, the mount decided to erupt? Who could tell that this wasn’t a false alarm and that the volcano might go back to hibernating with the occasional minor sputters? Wouldn’t the evacuation have been in vain then? What would happen to the pigs? What about his coconut grove?
And what if Mayon exploded like it had so many years ago, flooding the small town with molten lava and covering it with ash? What then?
For Carlos, there was no better way to end his life. To be buried in his land, under the shadow of the volcano that had made him live on the edge, involuntarily.
He walked back to the table and picked up the evacuation notice. A cursory read-through later, he tore it up and flung the pieces on to the table.
Carlos had made his decision.
Shweta Ganesh Kumar was born in Kerala, India in 1984. Hailing from a family of eminent journalists, she grew up hearing and experiencing news as it happened. After graduating from Symbiosis Institute, she joined CNN-IBN (CNN’s Indian sister concern) as a news trainee at their headquarters in New Delhi. Today she is a freelance writer and travel enthusiast who is based in the Philippines with articles frequently appearing in the New Indian Express (An Indian newspaper) and the One Philippines (A newspaper for Filipinos abroad). She has contributed articles for the Chicken Soup for the Indian Spiritual Soul (Westland books) and CBW’s India’s Top 42 Weekend Getaways. Her short fiction has also been published in Australian Women online. She is also a guest blogger for Pratham Books, an Indian NGO who works to provide children with affordable books. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and a children’s novel.
‘FORCED EVACUATION’
“They can’t do this to us!” Carlos said emphatically. But even he could hear the marked lack of conviction in his voice. He pushed away his half eaten breakfast of garlic rice and longanissa and got up from the table. As he washed his hands, he got a glimpse of the cause of all his troubles standing proud in the distance. There, dwarfing everything else around it, coughing up ash was the volcano, Mount Mayon.
Carlos had always had a love hate relationship with the world’s most perfectly shaped cone that was Mount Mayon. As a small boy, with his round little midriff protruding from above his too–big shorts and the tip of his t-shirt in between his clenched teeth, he had run around the base of the mighty mount. He had clutched on to his father’s calloused hand as he walked around the family coconut groves that lay nestled at the foot of the volcano. The smoke that Mayon perpetually emitted was just another fact of Carlos’s young life. The sun rose in the east. There was a full moon every four weeks. The smoke coming out from Mayon’s summit was nothing to worry about.
Or so Carlos had thought till that horrifying day in on the second of February, in 1993. He had been in school, chewing on his pencil, trying to figure out the sums in his mathematic exam, when it had happened. He remembered hearing a huge explosion. Then panic set in, complete and overwhelming. The children were out on the roads. There were flashes of orange and the feeling of overpowering heat. They ran as fast as their legs would take them. Then everything was a blur. There were grown-ups, some dressed in the uniforms of the Philippines armed forces. There were trucks that took them away from the village. Carlos had blindly waded through the terrified villagers that were huddled together. He had found his mother, sobbing and rocking herself in extreme grief. His father was one of the seventy farmers who had been killed by the eruption.
Carlos grew up overnight. He had to work on the fields with his mother. They could not move away. This was the only life they knew. Mount Mayon’s shadow shaded him from the harsh coastal sun as he worked. The resentment flowed away, like the sweat that poured from his brow. He could not bring himself to hate the volcano. It had taken away his father, but it was what gave them the fertile soil to earn their livelihood. It was part of who he was.
And now it was erupting again. By night, it sent out slow moving rivulets of lava that silently made its way through the dark slopes, burning anything that thwarted its passage. During the day, it belched out grey gases and made threatening rumbling sounds. One by one, the villagers had boarded the trucks that the government had sent for them. And now the trucks were back to take those who refused to move out.
Carlos was one of them. He did not see how moving out helped. So what if he was safe till Mayon erupted? This was where he had to come back. And how long would he stay in a shelter? Till the time, the mount decided to erupt? Who could tell that this wasn’t a false alarm and that the volcano might go back to hibernating with the occasional minor sputters? Wouldn’t the evacuation have been in vain then? What would happen to the pigs? What about his coconut grove?
And what if Mayon exploded like it had so many years ago, flooding the small town with molten lava and covering it with ash? What then?
For Carlos, there was no better way to end his life. To be buried in his land, under the shadow of the volcano that had made him live on the edge, involuntarily.
He walked back to the table and picked up the evacuation notice. A cursory read-through later, he tore it up and flung the pieces on to the table.
Carlos had made his decision.
Shweta Ganesh Kumar was born in Kerala, India in 1984. Hailing from a family of eminent journalists, she grew up hearing and experiencing news as it happened. After graduating from Symbiosis Institute, she joined CNN-IBN (CNN’s Indian sister concern) as a news trainee at their headquarters in New Delhi. Today she is a freelance writer and travel enthusiast who is based in the Philippines with articles frequently appearing in the New Indian Express (An Indian newspaper) and the One Philippines (A newspaper for Filipinos abroad). She has contributed articles for the Chicken Soup for the Indian Spiritual Soul (Westland books) and CBW’s India’s Top 42 Weekend Getaways. Her short fiction has also been published in Australian Women online. She is also a guest blogger for Pratham Books, an Indian NGO who works to provide children with affordable books. She is currently working on a collection of short stories and a children’s novel.
