The fifth morning after Ganesh Chaturthi broke over the Shamshabad estate. The heavy monsoon clouds that had threatened rain for the past two days had miraculously cleared, leaving the sky pale blue.
Today was the day of the Nimarjanam—the formal immersion of the deity.
The central courtyard of the main house was buzzing with a level of chaotic, overlapping activity that mirrored a bustling village square rather than a billionaire's private residence. The social hierarchy of the estate had dissolved over the past few months, but today, it was nonexistent.
Parked in the center of the stone courtyard, dwarfing the potted plants and the delicate garden furniture, was the classic red Mahindra tractor, hitched to its heavy, steel-framed open trolley.
Siddanth was currently standing in the bed of the trolley, holding a massive bundle of thick, rough jute rope. He was wearing an old, faded t-shirt and loose track pants. His hair was damp with sweat, clinging slightly to his forehead as he tried to secure a wooden pallet to the metal floor of the trolley.
"Pull it tighter on the left side, Siddu!" Vikram called out from the ground, pointing at the front wheel of the trolley. "If that pallet shifts while we are driving down the dirt path, the idol is going to tip over."
"I am pulling it tight, Nanna," Deva replied, bracing his boot against the metal side-railing and hauling back on the heavy rope with his full body weight. "The rope is stiff. Give me a second to knot it."
Rahul hopped up onto the back of the trolley to help, grabbing the slack end of the rope. "We need to put some old blankets under the wood, boss. The suspension on this tractor isn't smooth. Every bump is going to crack the dry clay before we even reach the lake."
"Good idea," Deva agreed, wiping his brow with the back of his wrist. "Find some blankets we used for the warehouse supplies last month."
While the men engineered the structural integrity of the transport vehicle, the women were orchestrating the aesthetics.
Anjali stood a few feet away, holding a clipboard that she did not need, functioning as the self-appointed creative director of the procession. She was wearing a comfortable, bright yellow cotton kurta, her hair tied back in a high ponytail.
Spread out across the stone floor around her were overflowing wicker baskets filled with thousands of fresh flowers—vibrant orange and yellow marigolds, sweet-smelling white jasmine, and hundreds of dark green mango leaves freshly cut from the estate's own orchards.
"Okay, string the marigolds along the side railings of the trolley first," Anjali instructed, pointing a pen at two of the estate workers who were holding long needles and thick thread. "But alternate them. Two orange, one yellow. If it's just a solid block of orange, it won't pop against the red paint of the tractor."
Krithika walked out of the kitchen carrying a large steel jug of cold lemonade and a stack of plastic cups. She paused, looking at her sister standing with the clipboard.
"Anju, you are decorating a farm tractor, not organizing a float for a parade," Krithika noted dryly, setting the jug down on a small table. "They are flowers. Just tie them to the metal."
"Presentation matters, Akka," Anjali defended herself without looking up, waving her pen. "This is our lockdown Nimarjanam. If we can't go out for the nimarjan, we are bringing that energy here. It has to look authentic."
"It looks like a tractor covered in a salad," Deva called out from the trolley, grinning as he pulled a final knot tight.
"Ignore him," Anjali told the workers, shooting a glare at Deva. "He lacks artistic vision. Start stringing the mango leaves."
The chaotic hum of the courtyard was suddenly interrupted by a loud, frantic barking.
Ronnie came tearing around the corner of the house, his paws scrabbling for traction on the smooth stone tiles. The dog had realized that the everyone was gathered in one place, which meant there were dozens of people available to pay attention to him.
He bolted toward the baskets of flowers, skidded to a halt, grabbed a massive, half-strung garland of marigolds in his jaws, and immediately took off running in a wide, triumphant circle around the tractor.
"Ronnie, drop it!" Krithika yelled, abandoning the lemonade and jogging after him. "Those are for the pooja!"
Ronnie did not drop it. He perceived the shouting as an invitation to a high-speed chase. He darted under the tractor trolley, the long string of orange flowers trailing behind him in the dirt.
Aadhya, who had been sitting on the veranda steps eating a piece of sliced apple, saw the dog running with the flowers and immediately decided this was the greatest game ever invented. She dropped the apple, shrieked with laughter, and waddled onto the courtyard stones, attempting to chase the dog that was moving roughly ten times faster than she was.
"Aadhya, wait," Sesikala sighed, pushing herself up from a chair and intercepting her granddaughter before she could wander under the heavy tractor tires. She scooped the squirming toddler up. "Let your mother catch the dog."
"Ron! Ron!" Aadhya yelled, pointing frantically as Ronnie completed another lap around the courtyard, expertly dodging a lunging grab from Rahul.
Deva stood on the trolley, resting his hands on his hips, watching his wife, his assistant, and two estate workers try to corner a energetic dog holding a string of flowers.
"Just let him have it," Deva laughed. "We have three more baskets."
"It's the principle of the thing!" Krithika called back, finally cornering Ronnie near the veranda pillars and gently prying the slightly slobbery flowers out of his mouth. "Bad dog. Go sit."
Ronnie wagged his tail enthusiastically, unbothered by the scolding, and immediately trotted over to Aadhya to lick her bare foot.
While the tractor was being prepped, a different operation was taking place along the paved pathway that led from the main house down toward the lake at the southern border of the estate.
Narayana, Rahul's father, was overseeing the construction of the Uttis.
An Utti was a traditional fixture of rural Telugu celebrations—a small clay pot, or in this case, carefully constructed utti made of thick cardboard, colorful paper, and bamboo sticks, filled with loose flower petals, small coins, and colored powder. They were designed to be hung from high tree branches and smashed with a stick during the procession.
Narayana stood on a sturdy wooden stepladder under the shade of a massive banyan tree, tying a thick rope over a sturdy branch. His two young grandsons, were standing at the bottom of the ladder, holding the colorful paper spheres they had spent the last two days meticulously building and painting.
"Is it high enough, Thatha?" the eight-year-old asked, looking up.
"This one is for you boys," Narayana said, looking down and measuring the distance with his eye. He tied a slipknot that would allow the rope to be pulled up and down freely. "We will hang it low. But the next one down the path... that one we will hang very high. That one is for the men."
The boys grinned, already anticipating the chaos.
By one o'clock in the afternoon, the preparations were complete. The family retreated indoors to escape the peak heat of the day, eating a light lunch and resting. The estate fell into a brief lull.
But as the clock slowly ticked toward 4:00 PM, the atmosphere began to shift. The blinding heat of the afternoon sun began to soften, the shadows stretching longer across the lawns.
The community began to gather.
The heavy wooden doors of the farmhouse opened, and the family stepped out into the courtyard. They had bathed and changed into fresh, comfortable traditional clothing. Deva wore a crisp white cotton kurta with the sleeves rolled up to his elbows. Krithika wore a simple, vibrant yellow kurti that mirrored the marigolds on the tractor.
Subba Rao, Suma, Vikram, and Sesikala took their places near the massive, towering clay Ganesha idol they had sculpted together a week ago.
The idol still sat on its heavy wooden board in the center of the veranda. It was dry now, the clay hardened into a solid, pale grey mass.
Rahul arrived with his family, joining the gathering. A dozen of the estate's agricultural and maintenance workers, who had isolated within the compound alongside them, filed into the courtyard.
Vikram stepped forward, holding a silver aarti plate.
The courtyard fell silent. Even Aadhya, sensing the sudden shift in the energy of the adults, stopped trying to run away and stood quietly holding Deva's hand. Rishi stood on Deva's other side, his dark eyes wide as he watched his grandfather light the small piece of camphor on the silver plate.
Vikram began the final prayers.
Subba Rao rang a small silver bell, the crisp, clear chime cutting through the quiet evening air.
Deva closed his eyes for a moment, listening to the bell and his father's voice.
Vikram finished the aarti, turning to offer the sacred flame to the gathered community. They each cupped their hands over the warmth, touching their eyes in quiet reverence.
"Alright," Vikram announced, setting the silver plate down on a nearby table. He turned to the men, his tone shifting from a priest back to a practical farm manager. "The prayers are done. Now we have to move this thing without dropping it. It weighs more than a small car."
Deva, Rahul, Narayana, Subba Rao, and four of the strongest estate workers stepped forward, surrounding the heavy wooden board on the veranda.
"Everyone find a grip," Narayana instructed, taking charge. He positioned the men evenly around the perimeter of the board. "Lift with your legs, not your backs. We carry it down the steps, and we slide it straight onto the back of the tractor trolley. Do not tilt it."
Deva crouched down, sliding his hands under the rough edge of the thick wood, finding a solid grip. Beside him, Rahul mirrored his stance.
"On my count," Narayana said, gripping his own corner. "One. Two. Three. Lift!"
The eight men strained simultaneously.
Deva gritted his teeth, the muscles in his forearms and shoulders bunching tightly under the fabric of his kurta.
"Keep it level! Keep it level!" Subba Rao grunted, his face turning slightly red with the effort.
They shuffled forward in a slow march. They moved down the two shallow veranda steps, the heavy board trembling slightly, dust falling from the dried clay. They crossed the short distance of the stone courtyard, approaching the back of the decorated red tractor trolley.
"Lift it higher! Slide it in!" Narayana commanded.
Deva and Rahul, taking the heaviest brunt of the weight at the front, hoisted the board up an extra three inches, resting the leading edge on the metal bed of the trolley. With a final, collective shove, the men slid the massive wooden pallet deep into the trolley, centering it on the folded blankets they had prepared earlier.
The men stepped back, gasping for breath, shaking out their cramped hands and rubbing their lower backs.
"Well done," Vikram nodded approvingly.
Deva hopped up onto the trolley, quickly grabbing the thick jute ropes they had pre-positioned. He threw the heavy ropes over the shoulders and waist of the clay idol, securing it tightly to the metal railings of the trolley to ensure it wouldn't topple during transit.
He jumped back down, dusting his hands on his pants. He looked at Vikram.
"It's secured, Nanna," Deva said.
Vikram smiled. He walked over to the front of the red Mahindra tractor and pulled himself up into the heavy, open-air driver's seat. He turned the key. The diesel engine rattled, coughed, and roared to life with a loud, rhythmic chug-chug-chug, a plume of dark exhaust shooting briefly into the air.
Four of the estate workers stepped out from the shadows of the veranda. They were carrying large, circular, flat leather drums—the traditional Telangana Dappu. They carried thick wooden sticks in their hands.
They didn't start with a slow beat. They exploded instantly into a fast teenmaar rhythm.
DUM-DUM-DUM-DA-DUM!
The sound was deafening.
"GANAPATI BAPPA!" Rahul screamed at the top of his lungs, throwing his fist into the air.
"MORYA!" the entire courtyard roared back.
"MANGAL MURTI!" Narayana shouted, clapping his hands.
"MORYA!"
Vikram shifted the tractor into its lowest gear. He looked down at Rishi, who was standing near the front tire, staring up with wide eyes.
"Rishi!" Vikram called out over the drums. "Come here!"
Krithika picked Rishi up and handed him to Vikram. Vikram settled the boy securely on his lap, wrapping his large, weathered hands over Rishi's tiny ones on the black steering wheel, as he had done during the plowing weeks ago.
Rishi's initial apprehension vanished. He looked down at the steering wheel, his face settling into an expression of majesty. He was driving the god to the lake.
The tractor let out a heavy blast of its horn and began to crawl forward, inching its way out of the courtyard and onto the dirt pathway.
In front of the slowly moving tractor, anarchy broke out.
The Dappu players walked backward down the path, maintaining the blistering teenmaar beat.
Deva stepped into the center of the dirt path, right in front of the drums. He raised his arms, dropped his shoulders, and launched into a teenmaar dance. There was no choreographed grace to it; it was joyful street dancing. He stomped his feet, kicking up small clouds of dust.
Rahul jumped in beside him, laughing wildly, trying to match Deva's energy. The estate workers' children ran into the mix, jumping and spinning in circles.
Even Krithika and Anjali stepped onto the dirt path. They didn't hold back.
Aadhya was currently standing safely on the edge of the grass, held securely in Suma's arms.
She watched the tractor moving. She watched her brother sitting high up in the driver's seat. She heard the deafening drums. And she saw her father, her mother, and her aunt stomping around in the dirt, having the time of their lives.
Aadhya's eyes went wide. She looked at her grandmother. She began to squirm with the determined intensity of a captured wildcat.
"Down!" Aadhya yelled over the music, kicking her legs. "Amma! Nana! Down!"
Suma laughed, unable to hold the wriggling toddler, and carefully set her down on the grass.
The moment her bare feet touched the ground, Aadhya launched herself forward. She didn't just walk toward the procession; she sprinted at top toddler speed, her arms windmilling, running into the center of the dancing crowd, fearless of the loud drums or the moving tractor.
"Nana!" she shrieked, throwing herself at Deva's legs.
Deva saw her coming. He smoothly reached down without breaking his rhythm, grabbed Aadhya under the arms, and hoisted her high into the air. In one fluid, practiced motion, he swung her over his head and settled her securely onto his broad shoulders, holding her tightly.
Aadhya shrieked with delight. She was suddenly the tallest person in the crowd. She grabbed handfuls of Deva's hair for balance and began to bounce on his shoulders, kicking her small feet against his chest in time with the drums.
Deva laughed and continued to dance down the dirt path, carrying his daughter like a conquering king.
The procession crawled forward, the tractor chugging slowly behind the wall of dancing bodies. The air was thick with the smell of diesel exhaust, fresh marigolds, and the heavy, dusty heat of the late afternoon.
After twenty minutes of dancing, the group reached a wide clearing along the pathway.
Hanging from a low, thick branch of a sprawling tamarind tree was the first Utti. It was a brightly painted cardboard sphere, decorated with colored streamers, suspended roughly 15 feet off the ground by a thick rope. The other end of the rope was draped over a higher branch and hung down near the trunk of the tree.
Vikram hit the brakes, the tractor idling loudly. The Dappu players paused their heavy beat, dropping into a slower, rhythmic tapping.
"The first one is for the kids!" Rahul announced, wiping sweat from his forehead. He walked over to the side of the path and picked up a thin, lightweight bamboo stick, sanded smooth so there were no splinters.
Deva walked over to the tree, carefully lifting Aadhya off his shoulders and setting her down on the grass.
"You go first," Deva smiled, pushing her gently forward.
Rahul handed the bamboo stick to Aadhya. She grasped it with both hands, looking up at the colorful paper sphere hanging just out of her reach. Her brow furrowed in concentration. She understood the assignment. She was supposed to hit the thing.
Anjali walked over to the trunk of the tree, a wicked, playful smile spreading across her face. She picked up the slack end of the rope that controlled the Utti.
"Okay, Aadhya, hit it!" Anjali encouraged loudly.
Aadhya raised the stick, letting out a small battle cry, and swung it forward with all her might.
Right as the stick was about to connect, Anjali yanked the rope downward.
The Utti shot two feet into the air. Aadhya's stick swung through empty space, missing the target. The momentum spun her around slightly, and she almost fell over in the grass.
The adults burst into laughter.
Aadhya stopped. She looked at the stick in her hands. She looked up at the Utti, which was now hanging high above her head. She looked at Anjali, who was holding the rope and grinning.
Aadhya's lower lip pushed out instantly. A angry scowl settled over her features. She stomped her foot against the dirt, raised the stick, and pointed it threateningly at her aunt.
"Mine!" Aadhya yelled, demanding the sphere be returned to her level.
"Try again!" Anjali laughed, loosening the rope and letting the Utti drop back down to eye level.
Aadhya narrowed her eyes, crept forward slowly, and took another two-handed swing.
Anjali yanked the rope again. The Utti flew up. Aadhya missed.
Aadhya let out a shriek of frustration, throwing the bamboo stick onto the grass. She crossed her arms, her face turning red, unwilling to participate in a rigged game.
"Anjali, stop teasing her," Krithika laughed, walking forward to pick up the discarded stick.
Deva walked over, still chuckling. "Let her hit it once before she declares war on the entire family."
"Fine, fine," Anjali sighed, lowering the rope and holding it still.
Krithika handed the stick back to Aadhya, crouching down beside her. "Okay, Aadhya. One more time. Hit it hard."
Aadhya looked at the stationary target. She took a deep breath, raised the stick, and delivered a solid, echoing thwack against the cardboard sphere.
It didn't break, but the sound of the impact was satisfying. Aadhya's scowl vanished instantly, replaced by a smile. Then she hit it a few more times and dropped the stick, threw her arms up, celebrating her victory while the family cheered and clapped loudly.
But up in the idling tractor, a different emotional crisis was brewing.
Rishi, sitting on Vikram's lap, had watched the entire sequence. He had seen his sister get a stick. He had seen her hit the colorful ball. He had heard everyone clapping for her.
He looked down at the black steering wheel in his hands. Suddenly, driving the tractor was the most boring job in the world.
Rishi's lower lip began to tremble. His dark eyes pooled with sudden, immediate tears. He let go of the steering wheel, reached his small arms out toward the tree, and let out a wail of sorrow.
Vikram looked down, startled. "Oh, Rishi, what's wrong? You are driving!"
"He wants to hit it!" Krithika realized immediately, hearing the cry over the idling engine.
She jogged over to the tractor, reaching up. Vikram gently handed the sobbing toddler down. Krithika carried a crying Rishi over to the clearing, bouncing him gently.
"Don't cry, baby, you get a turn too," Krithika soothed, wiping his tears with her thumb. She set him down on the grass next to Deva.
Deva picked up the bamboo stick and placed it in Rishi's hands. He knelt behind his son, wrapping his own large hands over Rishi's tiny ones, guiding the stick.
Rishi sniffled, looking up at the colorful Utti.
"Ready?" Deva asked softly. "One, two, three, hit!"
Deva guided Rishi's arms forward, helping him swing the stick with just enough force to produce a loud smack against the cardboard.
Rishi blinked. The tears stopped instantly. He looked at the stick in his hands, looked at the Utti, and a wide smile spread across his face, then he hit a few more times. He patted the stick with his other hand, thoroughly satisfied with his contribution.
"Alright, the kids have had their turn," Narayana called out from the sidelines. "Let the older boys at it!"
Rahul's two sons, aged six and eight, along with a few of the estate workers' children, sprinted forward, grabbing the stick.
This was where the traditional rules of the Utti truly began.
As the eight-year-old stepped up to take a swing, one of the estate workers casually walked over to a blue plastic drum of water sitting near the edge of the path. He picked up a plastic mug, scooped up cold water, and without warning, threw it at the boy taking the swing.
The water hit the boy squarely in the side of the head, splashing across his face just as he swung the stick.
Blinded by the water, the boy missed the Utti stumbling in the mud that was rapidly forming on the path.
The boy wiped the water from his eyes, grinning wildly, and readied his stance again.
Rahul took over the rope from Anjali. He wasn't gentle. As the kids took turns swinging the stick, Rahul pulled the Utti up and down, making it an impossibly moving target, while the other kids relentlessly pelted with mugs of cold water from the sidelines.
It was chaos. The kids were slipping in the mud, shrieking, laughing, and swinging wildly at the air.
Finally, after twenty minutes of watery warfare, Rahul's older son timed his swing perfectly. He ignored a splash of water to the face, leapt into the air, and brought the stick crashing down hard on the top of the Utti.
The cardboard sphere shattered. A shower of loose, colorful flower petals and tiny, harmless colored paper confetti rained down over the kids.
The Dappu players immediately launched back into a triumphant beat. The children jumped up and down in the mud, celebrating their victory.
The procession reformed. Vikram put the tractor back into gear, Rishi safely returned to his post at the steering wheel, content now that he had proven himself in combat.
The dancing resumed, heavier and more exhausted now, moving further down the path toward the lake.
A quarter of a mile later, the tree line opened up near the edge of the lake. The water stretched out, reflecting the bruised purple and fiery orange colors of the setting sun.
Hanging from a towering, sturdy branch near the banks of the lake was the second Utti.
This one was different. It was hung significantly higher, well out of the reach of the children.
"This one is for the adults!" Subba Rao announced cheerfully, stepping forward to take control of the thick guide rope tied to the trunk.
Deva grabbed a thick, heavy wooden staff that Narayana handed him. He didn't step up to the plate. Instead, he turned around, looking at his assistant.
With a quick, sudden shove, Deva pushed Rahul into the center of the clearing beneath the Utti.
"You're up, Rahul," Deva announced, tossing the wooden staff to him.
Rahul caught the staff, looking nervously up at the Utti, and then looked around at the grinning faces of the estate workers who were already moving toward the water drums.
Subba Rao pulled the rope, raising the Utti even higher.
Rahul took a deep breath, gripped the staff, and stepped forward, preparing to swing.
He never even saw the first hit coming.
Deva hadn't picked up a small mug. He had walked over, grabbed a plastic bucket filled to the brim with lake water, and hauled it up into his arms.
Just as Rahul raised the staff, Deva threw the contents of the bucket directly at Rahul's chest.
A massive, solid wall of water hit Rahul with the force of a blow. The volume and sudden cold of the water knocked him off balance. His feet slipped in the wet grass, his arms flailed wildly, and he swung the staff at the empty air, missing the pot by at least three feet.
Rahul stumbled, nearly falling flat on his back, sputtering and wiping water from his eyes. His white shirt was plastered to his skin, dripping heavily onto the dirt.
The crowd lost their minds. The roar of laughter echoed across the lake. Deva was laughing so hard he was holding his stomach. Krithika was leaning against a tree, wiping tears of mirth from her eyes.
"That was a foul!" Rahul yelled, spitting water out of his mouth and pointing a wet finger at Deva. "You used a bucket! That's against the rules!"
"There are no rules in Nimarjanam!" Narayana laughed loudly from the sidelines, thoroughly enjoying his son's misery.
Rahul took three more swings. Every time he raised the staff, Anjali, the workers, or Deva pelted him with mugs of water, blinding him. He eventually managed a glancing blow that chipped the side of the pot, but couldn't break it. Exhausted and soaked, he tapped out, handing the staff to one of the younger estate workers.
For the next twenty minutes, the clearing turned into a muddy battlefield.
Every single man who stepped up to swing the staff was subjected to a relentless barrage of water from the crowd. The ground beneath the Utti turned into a slick, treacherous mud pit. Men slipped, fell on their backs, laughed, and took wild, blind swings at the air.
During a brief lull, Deva noticed his father-in-law standing near the tree trunk, looking far too clean and dry while holding the guide rope.
Deva walked over, grabbed the rope from Subba Rao's hands, and handed it to Rahul.
"Your turn, Mama," Deva smiled, gesturing toward the center of the mud pit.
Subba Rao's eyes widened in panic. "Siddanth, no, no. I have high blood pressure. I cannot jump in the mud."
"It's tradition, Nanna!" Krithika yelled encouragingly from the grass, abandoning her father to his fate.
"You don't have to jump, Mama," Deva promised, handing him the wooden staff. "Just one swing."
Subba Rao reluctantly took the staff, adjusting his spectacles nervously, and stepped into the wet grass.
Rahul, seeking revenge for his own soaking, immediately yanked the rope, sending the clay pot flying high into the air.
Subba Rao raised the staff. He didn't try to jump. He simply waited for the pot to swing back down, his eyes narrowed in concentration.
As he swung, an estate worker tossed a small mug of water. It hit Subba Rao squarely in the shoulder. The older man flinched, his swing going wide. He stumbled slightly.
Suma gasped from the sidelines, but Subba Rao simply stood up straighter, wiped a few drops of water from his glasses.
Rahul lowered the pot. Subba Rao didn't wait. He swung the staff with surprising speed and force, catching the bottom of the Utti with a solid crack. He didn't shatter it, but the loud impact drew a cheer from the crowd.
Subba Rao walked back to the sidelines, handing the staff back to Deva, looking pleased with himself.
Deva took the staff. He wiped his hands on his pants, gripping the wood firmly. He stepped into the center of the slick, muddy clearing.
This was the moment everyone had been waiting for. The family's chance for ultimate revenge.
Rahul immediately grabbed the guide rope, a wicked smile spreading across his face.
Anjali didn't bother with a mug. She picked up an entire bucket. Krithika walked over and picked up a second bucket. Three of the estate workers armed themselves with jugs of water. They formed a tight circle around Deva.
"Don't hold back," Deva challenged them, a confident smirk on his face. He widened his stance, his boots finding traction in the thick mud. He rested the heavy staff on his shoulder, keeping his eyes locked onto the clay pot swinging high above him.
Rahul yanked the rope, sending the pot swaying erratically left and right.
Deva stepped forward, raising the staff.
"NOW!" Anjali screamed.
A literal tsunami of water hit Deva from three different directions simultaneously.
Krithika threw her bucket directly at his chest. Anjali threw hers at his back. The workers splashed him across the face. The volume of water instantly plastered his white kurta to his skin, blinding him completely as the cold water flooded his eyes.
But Siddanth Deva didn't need to see the pot. He had already calculated its trajectory before the water hit him.
Through the blinding sheet of water, Deva boots dug into the mud. He launched himself into the air, his body twisting in a flawless, powerful arc. He swung the heavy wooden staff with the precision of a master batsman hitting a pull shot.
SMASH.
The sound was explosive.
Deva's staff connected dead center with the swinging Utti while he was still suspended in the air.
A cloud of yellow turmeric powder, coins, and flower petals exploded outward, raining down over the muddy clearing.
Deva landed heavily, his boots sinking deep into the mud. He wiped the wet hair out of his eyes, water streaming down his face, and looked around the clearing, breathing heavily.
For two seconds, there was silence.
Then, the crowd erupted. The Dappu players lost their minds, beating the drums with frantic, blistering speed. The estate workers whistled and cheered, throwing their remaining water into the air in celebration.
Ronnie, overwhelmed by the noise and the falling flower petals, began barking wildly, doing rapid, chaotic laps around Deva's legs, splashing more mud onto his soaked clothes.
"Show-off!" Anjali yelled over the drums, dropping her empty bucket, laughing in disbelief at the absurdity of the jump.
"You couldn't just let us soak you, could you?" Krithika murmured, smiling up at his dripping face.
Deva chuckled, wrapping his wet arms around her waist. "I told you. Don't hold back."
The celebration lasted for another twenty minutes. The procession was exhausted. The dancing had drained their energy, the water fight had soaked their clothes, and the heavy, humid heat of the evening had taken its toll.
But there was one final task remaining.
As the sun finally dipped below the horizon, painting the sky in deep, bruised shades of purple and dark blue, the loud, chaotic energy of the Dappu drums slowly faded out. The musicians lowered their sticks, breathing heavily.
The atmosphere shifted instantly.
The tractor was parked close to the gentle, sloping banks of the lake. The water was still, reflecting the dying light of the sky.
Vikram stepped down from the tractor, carrying Rishi. He handed the boy back to Krithika, who wrapped a dry towel around his shoulders to protect him from the evening breeze.
"It is time," Vikram announced quietly into the stillness of the evening.
Deva, Rahul, Narayana, and Subba Rao walked to the back of the tractor trolley. They unfastened the thick jute ropes that had secured the idol during the bumpy ride.
"Take a good grip," Narayana whispered, his voice carrying clearly over the quiet water. "It will be heavier now because our muscles are tired."
The men slid their hands under the heavy wooden board.
"One. Two. Three. Lift."
They strained, pulling the massive idol off the metal bed of the trolley. They didn't march this time. They moved with slow, shuffling, incredibly careful steps, carrying the heavy deity down the grassy bank toward the water.
Deva stepped into the lake first. The cool water immediately soaked into his shoes and trousers, the soft mud of the lakebed squelching beneath his weight. Rahul stepped in beside him, followed by the others.
They waded deeper, the water rising past their knees, then to their waists, holding the heavy wooden board high above the surface.
On the banks, the women and children stood in silence. Sesikala and Suma had their hands folded in prayer, their eyes closed. Anjali stood quietly. Krithika held Rishi against her shoulder, while Aadhya stood quietly at her legs, staring at the dark water.
"Matti Ganapati Morya," Vikram chanted softly from the bank, his voice carrying a deep, emotional resonance. The clay Ganapati.
The men waded until the water reached their chests.
"Here," Narayana said quietly.
They stopped. They looked at each other over the heavy wooden board. There was no need for a countdown. They moved in perfect, unspoken synchronization.
Slowly, gently, they lowered their arms.
The base of the wooden board touched the surface of the lake. They tilted it forward.
For a few seconds, the idol bobbed slightly near the surface, buoyed by the displaced water. Then, the immense weight of the solid earth took over. The idol slowly began to sink.
Deva stood in the chest-high water, watching the deity disappear beneath the dark, rippling surface. Because it had not been baked in a kiln, and because it had not been painted with toxic, synthetic colors, the destruction was immediate and beautiful.
The water washed over the dry clay, softening the hard edges. The lopsided ears melted away. The crooked trunk dissolved. The tiny handprints of his children vanished into the current. The earth was returning to the earth, leaving behind no trace of its existence except the memories of the people who had built it.
As the final piece of the crown sank below the surface, leaving only ripples behind, the heavy, oppressive shadow of the lockdown era seemed to sink with it.
The men waded back out of the water, shivering slightly in the cool evening breeze, their clothes heavy and dripping.