The theatre of the flood and the act of resilience

A dark stage welcomes the audience with silhouettes of men and women standing on what looks like a platform. "Year after year, soil deposits carried by the river from uphill settled down parallel to the seashore, forming islands along the backwaters." A voice in the background introduces the land and history of the coastal villages of Ernakulam in Keralam (formerly known as Kerala). Illustrated images projected behind the silhouettes narrate the history of the place starting from 1341 CE when it was part of the historical port city of Muziris.

As the stage dimly lights up, we see ten characters wading through knee-deep waters on a flooded street in front of a house. Marching in wet sluggish, sloshing footsteps towards the audience as the music which sounds more like a siren in the background, intensifies.

Sailaja K. S. is one of the ten on the stage. The play is called Chevittorma – the name of a local catholic ritual where a prayer is whispered into a dying person’s ear to give comfort. Like all others performing in this play, Sailaja has no prior experience of acting. In fact, this community theatre is a space that blurs reality and fiction for her.

“I’ve often heard my mother say that as a child I was pure mischief. No, not just mischief, a little storm. In those days, she would coax me to eat by telling stories. The divine smell and the mouthwatering flavours of slightly warm rice, a gentle drizzle of coconut oil and salt mixed together…! And then, when I was about 12 or 13, a palm reader came home and examining mine, she said, ‘she will one day strip that house bare. Take even the last grain of salt!’ It troubled me. Would I ever do such a thing? But everyone laughed.

“Years later. In 2018, my mother was with me. She only came to stay for a few days, poor thing.” Sailaja would tell the story of losing her mother immediately after the floods to a rapt audience while holding the salt jar in her hand.

“The theatre group is like a family. It helped me restore my mental health. I learned that I too was capable of doing something and giving back to the society,” 57-year-old self-employed Sailaja says with pride in her voice. She calls herself a homemaker, but is also an entrepreneur who sells homemade pickles for an income. And very recently she has also taken a sales job at jewellery store. “Community theatre helped me overcome what happened in 2018 and share my own experiences with others here, and especially with those who have no idea how we manage [tidal floods].”

Sailaja’s 32-year-old son Abhimannue P. J. says, “We’re used to flooding in the village.” Puthenvelikkara sits right between the mighty Periyar and Chalakudy rivers, surrounded by tidal pools and backwaters. “Every year, around December, water comes into the house or gets clogged on the roads because of the tidal rises and of course during the monsoons we get heavy rains, but we know what to expect – we can see the waters coming, they rise slowly and are predictable. We can manage that, but 2018 was different.”

The 2018 flood was the worst one Keralam had seen in 100 years and Puthenvelikkara was one of the worst affected villages. A 2020 report by Dr. Madhusoodhanan CG and Dr Sreeja K. G, presently of Equinoct, an organisation working on climate change, states multiple reasons for the unprecedented flooding in 2018: from water infrastructure management to extensive changes in wetlands and paddy fields, and climate change. The flood was fast and fierce, killing over 400 people and displacing millions. The disaster also resulted in loss of livestock and agriculture, fisheries, damaged houses and crops, destroyed roads, bridges, and schools. The state witnessed a total loss of over 10,000 crores.

Sailaja and Abhimannue’s own two-story house, like many in their neighbourhood, was damaged severely in the floods. The loan for the house they built on their family land in 2010 was still pending, when the water entered the ground floor, reaching almost 6 to 8 feet high all the way up to the electric switch boards.

“The police did come to warn us, asking us to leave, but we didn’t think it was so dangerous – we had no idea how fast or how much the water would rise. We had never seen anything like that before. Our family eventually got separated during the flood.” The Army took Sailaja to the relief camp with her mother and her daughter. Abhimannue, his friend and Sailaja’s brother were stranded on the roof of their house for two days before they got shifted to a mall.

“I celebrated my 24th birthday in a relief camp that was hosted in a shopping complex. Before the authorities rescued us and brought us to the camp we were stranded on the rooftop of my uncle’s house, surviving on plain rice for 48 hours. We ate some sweets from a shop that was open,” Abhimannue recalls the details even today, after 8 long years. “There hasn’t been a single year since then when I haven’t thought of that time. My birthday means something else now.”

“For almost three days the phone networks were down,” says Sailaja. “We weren’t able to hear from each other. We didn’t know who had survived, who had not. It felt like there was no space for optimism.” Sailaja’s husband, a construction labourer who migrates to neighbouring districts for work, was away at that time. She was unable to get in touch with him for the next three days leading, to severe anxiety until contact with the contractor was established.

Eight years later, Sailaja still battles anxiety related to personal safety when it rains. “All the furniture and appliances in the house were ruined during the flood. We repaired a few things, replaced a few others. The walls still have water marks,” she says. And so do people. “Mother didn’t leave the house for a while when we were back and settled, and she doesn’t really like to talk about that time. It was really hard for her when we were all separated. She still gets worried when it rains, the fear continues to linger,” says Abhimannue.

“Mental health has many social determinants and now climate change is exacerbating some of those – like access to livelihood. Disasters and unpredictable weather just add to that. Acute traumas like the 2018 floods can lead to anxiety, depression, or insecurity. With chronic issues like the tidal floods, the constant strain and distress can lead to mental health issues,” says Manojkumar, the founder of Mental Health Action Trust (MHAT) in Kozhikode.

Sailaja still trembles when recalling that time, “We were used to tidal floods, but 2018 caught us all off guard. It hit us very hard,” she says. “Now, when it rains heavily for two days together, I get worried and we begin to gather all our important documents and electronics and make sure they are kept on the very top floor of the house. We never did that before.” After the floods, it took about two months for work to trickle in for Sailaja’s husband. She herself took longer to get back to work. “I used to worry a lot about the pending loan payments then,” she says. “When we slowly began working again after a few months, it was a relief.” But the mental peace took longer to return.

“Resilience looks different to different people,” M. P. Shajan, who runs the Community Resource Centre in Puthenvelikkara, explains. “We have WhatsApp groups, self-help groups, and a theatre group now. Many lost everything due to the floods. It really impacted people’s livelihoods and their sense of safety. My wife is a nurse who works at a primary health centre. While many people come in for their physical health, most people do not realise they can get care for their mental health as well.”

Eldhose Sakaria, a senior clinician at MHAT, blames the stigma attached to accessing mental health support even today for this. That, despite Keralam launching one of the first District Mental Health Programmes (DMHP) in the country in 1999. Setting up an office in every district equipped with psychiatrists and psychologists.

“We are supporting 57 people – along with their families – right now with mental health services. There are suffering increased anxiety and depression because mental health is dependent on our surrounding environment. A loss of livelihoods, a scarcity of resources – everything is interconnected. And while DMHP is good at giving out medicines, it's not holistic,” says Sakaria.

The healing that Sailaja and many others needed, came from the community theatre. And that in turn came by accident. In 2022, while leaving the local temple, she ran into her neighbour Vilasini T.P. 63, who told Sailaja about the camp that was taking place.

The camp turned out to be the life jacket saving Sailaja from the flood of her inner emotions.

“Theatre took me out of my kitchen. I did it to save myself and people around me and to popularise the issues to the outside world and government. I play a family member in the play and when I hear that music, I feel a drumbeat in my soul,” says Sailaja.

Vilasini also lived on the banks of the backwaters, about a 10-minute walk from Sailaja, and had faced the fury of the 2018 floods. Her husband had already lost his job when his hand got caught in a crushing machine at the coir factory he used to work at. Vilasini was relying on her income from the MNREGA when the flood happened. Their two sons are auto drivers, but they had no work for months after 2018.

Their house was completely flooded, items damaged. She and her husband had to live in the relief camp for days while the boys stayed with relatives. It took them weeks to get the house back in shape. “We would come to clean the house every day for weeks after the water receded. The journey from the camp to the house used to break my heart. The streets were dark and desolate, without a sound, without electricity,” she says.

“I know many people just threw things away, but we could not take that chance. My sons had no work and the future seemed so uncertain.” She didn’t throw anything away, not even the damaged furniture pieces. “I cleaned everything carefully, making sure there was no fungus. The 2018 flood was a milestone,” she says. It even made her worry about the impact of the yearly tidal floods even more.

“Tidal flooding is rarely dramatic enough to be recognised as a disaster every time, but it slowly occupies everyday life,” says Sreeja, director of research from Equinoct. “Water enters homes repeatedly, damages belongings, contaminates wells, affects sanitation, disrupts routines, and gradually erodes livelihoods. Many women describe living around the tide as constantly wondering whether the next high tide will enter the house, deciding where to keep valuables, or questioning whether repairing a home is worth the investment.”

The rise in global warming in the last decade years and the annual rise in sea levels, has led to sea water entering inland through river mouths, smaller water bodies and tiny streams more frequently since 2011. Additional factors local factors like the Vallarpadom container terminal project and the deepening of the Kochi port shipping channel have only exacerbated the situation, often creating a permanent flood-like situation in low-lying areas of the district. This is seen as a direct and tangible impact of climate change. And a 2026 state government order has even declared tidal flooding as a state-specific disaster.

“At the heart of both the 2018 floods and recurring tidal flooding is a profound change in people's relationship with water. Water, which has always been central to life, livelihoods and culture in Kerala, suddenly becomes something unfamiliar. It becomes untamed, unpredictable and unclean. The same water that nurtured homes, fields and communities begins to invade them. I think that shift, when something so familiar becomes a source of fear, is psychologically very significant. It changes how people relate to their environment, their homes, and even their sense of safety,” says Sreeja.

The disaster is traumatic as people overnight lose homes, belongings, livelihoods, memories and some – like Sailaja – even loved ones. Women carry the burden of invisible emotional labour of holding families together during and after the disaster.

Vilasini speaks about the mental load she was carrying during the 2018 floods. “Everyone was really distressed in the relief camp. I didn’t share everything that was playing on my mind. I didn’t want to. It's easier to keep things to oneself when people rely on you. But just because I choose to smile doesn't mean I don't have things going on inside. I was lucky my two sons helped me clean our house, so many people didn’t even have that. There’s no point looking into the future with fear. We live in constant uncertainty. We saw what happened in Wayanad overnight,” she says, referring the 2023 landslide. “I have nothing left to experience; I have seen it all.”

And it is from the position of someone who had witnessed it from so close that people like Vilasini came into the theatre project. One conceived by Dr. Manjula Bharathi of TISS Mumbai as a part of a Fulbright Alumni project led by Dr. Jayaraman Chillayil of EQUINOCT the theatre camp. The idea was to document the community’s experience, the devastating effects of floods in a play directed by Sreejith Ramanan, faculty at the School of Drama, Thrissur.

“While the 2018 floods created acute trauma, tidal flooding creates chronic climate stress. One is a violent interruption; the other is a slow, persistent wearing down of one's sense of security. Yet in both cases, what is lost is not only property or income. It is trust in the landscape itself. When water ceases to be a friend and becomes an unpredictable presence, it reshapes everyday life in ways that are both practical and deeply emotional,” says Sreeja.

Chevittorma was to bring together real people with real stories about their experience of their changing landscape. As the opening line of the play says: This is not a drama. This is a glimpse of life on this land. While it tried to instruct the audiences about the devastating effects of tidal floods induced by climate change and the impact that it has on the lives of a community, it also gave healing and hope. About 10 of them who finally came to act had no experience of theatre, but they had encountered the real fury of the floods. “We had no idea what to expect but we went as Shajan sir had called us,” says Vilasini.

“The first day I visited the camp I never left,” Sailaja explains. “Because for the first time in my life I felt like I had made strong connections outside my immediate family. I was always lonely. We are all so close now, they are there for me for anything. This work gives me a sense of higher purpose. We have been able to bring our stories to so many more people.”

The play since then has travelled across the country, making the realities of the people from coastal villages of Keralam visible. “When I do theatre, I don't feel alone. Theatre helped me express myself, it helped me connect with others and share my story,” says Vilasini.

“Chevittorma is about the constant uncertainty we face with water logging. At the end of the play, people leave their land and that is what we are seeing in real life as well. I’m very proud of our group because we make people feel what we go through. We have seen people cry after our shows. Now more people know that our land isn’t viable,” says Vilasini.

More than anything else the community theatre remains their group therapy, a way to process their collective trauma of the 2018 flood and rising tidal floods.

PARI's nationwide series on climate change and mental health is supported by the Mariwala Health Initiative. The series will investigate the impact of the climate crisis on the mental and overall health, and livelihoods of people in rural India and rural migrants in urban India.