Chapter 10: Riverwalls and Roadplots
Velikara, Kerala — 1711 CE
It began with mud.
Not the philosophical kind. The literal, sticky, squelching, boot-stealing kind that turns a simple field walk into a full-body protest.
Which, of course, was the perfect time to propose a dam.
---
I stood knee-deep in riverbank goo while Devika, Bhairav, and a very wet goat glared at me.
"You brought us here," Devika growled, "to study this slush?"
"Not slush," I said. "Future infrastructure."
Bhairav raised a brow. "We're standing in the Grand Vision of Sludge?"
I held up a sketch. "Gentlefolk, welcome to the early blueprint of the Velikara Flood Control and Transport Initiative."
Stone the goat sneezed in what sounded like disbelief.
---
The idea was simple: turn the unpredictable, flood-prone river bend east of Velikara into a controllable canal and raised road system. It would prevent annual crop loss, allow year-round transport, and even harness enough kinetic energy for small grain mills.
To everyone else in the village, it was insanity.
To me, it was obvious.
But we had to start small.
And nothing says "small start" like convincing five skeptical elders, a drunken potter, and a dozen bored oxen that your plan to build a mud-wall river blockade won't collapse by Wednesday.
---
We held our first village assembly under the banyan tree. I presented with all the confidence of a 14-year-old trying not to sound like an alien.
"I propose a trial dam using compressed clay walls reinforced with palm fiber and sand-core bulking," I said. "It's cheap, fast, and if it leaks, you can throw me in the river."
The crowd blinked.
One elder leaned forward. "Palm fiber?"
"Yes. Dried, twisted. Like coir rope. It resists cracking and disperses pressure."
"Do you have a model?"
"I have three!" I said.
Devika whispered, "Only two survived the trip."
"I have two!" I corrected.
---
Bhairav set up the demo on a slope behind the banyan tree. He poured water into two miniature trenches — one with regular clay walls, one with my layered construction. The first burst after twenty seconds.
The second held.
Cheers followed. Some skeptical, some amused, some inspired.
It was enough.
We got approval for a 20-foot trial dam.
And thirty volunteers.
---
The next week was chaos.
We taught people how to stomp clay layers into wooden frames, how to braid palm fibers, how to haul river sand without dumping it on themselves (Bhairav failed that one repeatedly).
Stone the goat, now unofficial mascot, became a motivation icon. Whenever someone wanted to quit, Devika would shout, "Stone stayed — and he hates water!"
By Day 6, the trial dam stood.
By Day 7, it rained.
By Day 8, the dam held.
And on Day 9, the village council approved the full canal project.
I nearly fainted.
---
That night, Devika found me sitting under the same banyan tree, scribbling new schematics by firelight.
She sat beside me and didn't say anything for a while.
Then: "You're changing things."
I looked up. "Too fast?"
"Too well."
I laughed softly. "They think I'm mad."
"They think you're magic."
I paused. "You don't."
"No. I think you're reckless, obsessive, and smell like goat. But you make things work."
She hesitated.
"You made me want to build something too."
I blinked.
She pulled out a palm-leaf scroll of her own. Rough diagrams. Canal gates. New tension levers. Her handwriting.
"I was angry that you always led. So I made my own."
My heart swelled. "It's brilliant."
"You're not just saying that?"
"I'll fight anyone who disagrees."
She smiled. "Even Stone?"
"Especially Stone."
---
The next morning, we started Phase Two.
Roadbed preparation. It meant breaking rocks, clearing brush, and arguing with everyone who claimed the planned path cut through "ancestral goat grazing zones."
Bhairav became chief negotiator. He promised to build a "goat monument."
Stone approved.
I continued designing drainage underlays and surface slope curves, while Devika organized villagers into rotating work groups.
Each evening, we updated the main schematic board by the banyan tree.
Soon, children memorized road terms. Elders debated curve angles. Uncles argued about soil compressibility.
The village was thinking like builders.
Like a team.
---
And then the letter arrived.
A hawk, not an eagle. Its talons wrapped around a bone-white message tube sealed with wax — foreign wax.
Devika took it. Opened it. Read it aloud.
> "To the boy engineer of Velikara: We have heard of your dam. The merchants of the south request an audience. A road that reaches the sea is a road worth guarding.
> Come to Karavettur port in seven days. Bring your plans.
> — The Traders' Assembly."
My pulse raced.
Devika folded the letter. "They want your road."
I looked at her.
"No," I said.
She frowned. "Why not?"
"Because I don't want to sell roads. I want to build a country."
---
That night, under firefly light, I turned to a fresh page in my journal.
> "Day 45: The wall held. The road begins. Devika drew blueprints. Bhairav bribed a goat. And someone, somewhere, has heard our name. Good."
And with that, I kept writing.
Because the road to the future had just found its first curve.