The village of Ambilezhathu was parched, its fields cracked and dry from months of relentless drought. The desperate villagers turned to the one man whose reputation for commanding the forces of nature preceded him: Manthravadi Mathevan Channar (II). Approaching him with folded hands, they pleaded for his help to summon rain. Channar, seated in the cool shade of his veranda, listened without a word. When the villagers fell silent, he rose and spoke with an air of authority.
“Summoning rain is not without its risks,” he warned. “The forces I invoke may not be easily controlled. Do you accept the consequences?”
The villagers, their desperation outweighing their fear, agreed unanimously. That evening, as the sun dipped below the horizon, Channar began his preparations. He stood under the sprawling banyan tree in the center of his estate, its roots twisting like serpents into the earth. With a tender palm leaf coated in sacred oils in hand, he began drawing symbols on the ground, forming a protective circle around him.
The villagers gathered at a safe distance, their murmurs filling the air. Channar’s voice rose above their whispers as he chanted ancient mantras, his deep tone resonating through the still night. The air around him grew heavy, and the palm leaf in his hand trembled as if alive. A sudden gust of wind swept through the clearing, causing the villagers to shield their faces.
From the branches of the banyan tree, a crow let out a sharp caw. It circled above Channar before spiraling downward, landing at his feet. The villagers gasped in unison, some clutching their rosaries.
“The heavens are listening,” Channar declared, raising the palm leaf toward the sky. “Now, let the rains come.”
As the final words of his chant echoed, dark clouds gathered ominously above. The first drops of rain fell, drawing cheers of relief from the crowd. But within moments, their joy turned to terror. The drizzle became a torrential downpour, accompanied by violent winds that tore through the village. Lightning flashed, illuminating the fear-stricken faces of the villagers as they huddled together for safety.
Channar remained in the circle, his chants unwavering as the storm raged. The crow at his feet cawed frantically, its cries lost in the howling wind. When a bolt of lightning struck the banyan tree, splitting one of its branches, the villagers screamed. Channar’s voice grew louder, his chants more fervent, as if wrestling with the storm itself.
Finally, with one last incantation, he placed the palm leaf on the ground and raised both hands. The storm began to subside, the winds calming and the rain reducing to a steady drizzle. The villagers emerged from their hiding places, their relief tempered by the destruction around them. Several homes had been damaged, and uprooted trees lay strewn across the fields.
Channar stepped out of the circle, the palm leaf now limp and lifeless. He addressed the crowd, his tone somber. “The rains have come, but the forces of nature demand respect. Remember, blessings and curses often walk hand in hand.”
The next morning, the banyan tree stood scarred but upright, its blackened branch a stark reminder of the night’s events. The fields, though wet with rain, bore marks of the storm’s fury. While the villagers were grateful for the water that would save their crops, they approached Channar with a newfound reverence, understanding that his power was both a boon and a burden.
