The Night the Nalukettu Almost Burned
(A Short Story Inspired by an Anecdote from Shekharan Channar’s Life)
Well before sunrise on a cloudy morning, a faint curl of smoke rose from the northeastern corner of the Alummoottil nalukettu. Most of the household still slept. Only the soft cooing of roosting pigeons broke the silence. But Shekharan Channar, an early riser, stepped outside to take in the cool dawn air—and froze.
A thin plume trailed ominously skyward at the edge of the large wooden roof, right where dried coconut fronds met woven bamboo. Alarm jolted through him: this section of the house was prone to catch fire if even a single ember took hold.
Without a moment’s hesitation, Shekharan called for help. Servants rushed from their quarters, some still tying on their mundus. A few stumbled in bleary-eyed confusion, but Shekharan remained steady, issuing crisp orders. “Water buckets—hurry!” he commanded. “Check all corners for stray embers!”
In a whirl of commotion, they doused the smoldering spot. Then, as dawn gradually lit the courtyard, they discovered what appeared to be a small charred coconut shell stuffed with husks—deliberately placed to ignite the thatched roof. Someone with a grudge against the family had made an attempt under the cover of night.
Though alarmed, Shekharan’s mind blazed with solutions rather than panic. He immediately sent a messenger to Mangalapuram, known for its tile-making industry. “Bring roofing tiles at once,” he wrote on a scrap of paper. “Send workers who can help us replace the thatch before nightfall.”
The messenger set off at a gallop. Meanwhile, Shekharan inspected the damage. It was minor—luckily discovered in time—but the risk loomed large. He recalled past quarrels with certain neighbors who had shown open hostility. Determined not to leave the nalukettu vulnerable, he summoned carpenters and laborers from the surrounding villages.
All day, the Alummoottil courtyard teemed with activity. The old thatch was carefully stripped away, revealing the solid wooden framework beneath. Ox-carts rumbled in just after midday, piled high with fresh, fired tiles glinting in the sun. Foremen shouted instructions, hammering new battens in place. Women bustled about, bringing jugs of cool buttermilk and sweet rice cakes to keep the workers’ energy up.
Shekharan stayed at the heart of it all, overseeing every step. Sweat ran down his forehead as he personally inspected tile after tile, ensuring none were cracked. Evening shadows stretched across the yard while laborers continued to fit rows of tiles, transforming the venerable wooden roof into a safer, more permanent covering. Lanterns were hung to push back the dusk, allowing the work to continue.
By the time the moon rose, the main house stood crowned in brand-new tiles. The old thatch lay in piles, waiting to be burned or hauled away. Exhausted yet satisfied, the workforce gathered in the courtyard, where Shekharan offered them a hearty meal and heartfelt thanks.
In the days that followed, rumors spread about the near-disaster at Alummoottil. Some whispered that a rival clan had tried to destroy the nalukettu, envious of Shekharan’s standing. Others recalled older feuds. But as far as Shekharan was concerned, the immediate threat had been averted—and he went one bold step further by purchasing the very property to the east of the compound, ensuring nobody could approach unseen with malicious intent again.
Over time, people spoke of that decisive day, praising how Shekharan Channar safeguarded the heart of his family home. They remembered the quick thinking, the dash to Mangalapuram for tiles, and the determined spirit that rebuilt the roof in a matter of hours. To everyone who admired him—or even to those who feared him—this episode proved once more that when duty called, Shekharan would never falter in defending Alummoottil, no matter the obstacle.
