Mazhai Kaalam

I have not published a blog post in a fair while. A festive December seemed to have gotten the better of me. So much to write about, more than I can encapsulate in this post alone. Before I engage with the new year before us, I shall discuss the happenings of the months that have passed.

The monsoon is yet to have its fill. It has been raining like hell for the past few weeks. Unusual for the state of Tamil Nadu during this time of year. In some areas nearby to me it has rained with such intensity that has not been seen in over four generations. Chennai’s dry spell seems to be a thing of the past, yet it was no more than a year and a half ago in which the city’s severe water shortage ended. This consistent, persistent, unwavering rain marks the third Indian monsoon I have experienced.

As a bicycle is my main mode of transport – I prefer burning calories over fuel – I have discovered that life without a mudguard is a messy affair. This being no truer than in Auroville, where over half of the roads are still of dirt and mud. If I do not get a mudguard soon, I will end up sacrificing my clothes to the heavenly maelstrom of earth and water that is Mazhai Kaalam (monsoon in Tamil, pronounced as Ma-rai Kaalam — the ‘r’ sound is not found in English but it is closest).

I take no issue with the monsoon. It is a wonderful time of the year. The mud and the puddles one is likely to sink their feet into at times is a small price to pay for the atmosphere it imbues. Where each leaf is awash anew; where countless indefinite droplets sound a music of their own; where coffee becomes an even greater pleasure amidst the cool relaxing air.

Yet with all the pleasures it brings it is quite often a hindrance to work – particularly if that work involves construction. Recently, I observed at a nearby site (not the project I am involved in)  concrete being cast in heavy rain. I initially thought it to be quite bizarre, as I assumed work should immediately halt under such conditions. But here the workers continued, passing bunds of concrete to another amid mud and water. Hardcore…

Later in the day I was to learn that it was a very real mistake to carry out such work in these conditions. In fact, it immediately stopped soon after I had left the site via pressure from a local auditing body.

The lesson of that day was – absolutely do not concrete during rain (much less heavy rain or thunderstorm). A light drizzle one would likely be able to manage, but no more. This sounds like common sense — but as we have all encountered — common sense is often not common enough.

Casting concrete in the rain can result in an oversupply of water in the mixture, potentially causing the cement or sand to leak out of the formwork, weakening the strength of the finished concrete. It is also likely to cause honeycombing on surfaces. This means that when the formwork shuttering is removed, one will see patches of voids trailing the surface of the concrete member. Not only is this visually displeasing – requiring touching up with cement plaster – but signals that the strength of the concrete may be compromised; that the steel reinforcement within has inadequate protective cover; and in extreme cases, the steel itself may be exposed. In the case of the building in question, the concrete work was deemed safe the next day during an inspection by structural engineers. After the de-shuttering the honeycombing revealed was minor and purely cosmetic. Hence, the work was safe to continue.

The previous time I observed concrete being cast was for a roof slab of a building that I am directly involved with designing and documenting. I had been dropped off at the site where I had left my vehicle before sharing a ride to nearby Pondichery. The majority of this day consisted of meeting with the client. 5:30pm was when I returned to the site.

I waltz over to the building under construction to find it still alive with activity. Typically, by this time work should be over. But, since the task at hand involved casting an entire concrete roof slab, the work would not stop until fully completed – even despite the approaching dark.

The absence of the day’s heat made it a comfortable time to be there. The sun far removed. The earth still damp and cool from the rains occurring from the day before. I have not often had the chance to watch a concrete roof being cast, so I chose to remain to see the work to its end.

Nearby stood Mohan, the contractor, 20 paces away from the building. I met with him and began conversing. After escaping the client meeting he spent the better part of the day supervising. Now it seemed his job was already done. He was just watching, like me, without any need of instructing or scolding anyone. I noticed that there were no lights. My curiosity peaked as to what the workers would do once it became truly dark.

Mohan and I have come a long way since the first time we met. We now understand each other. He’s grown an extra ear for my thick Queenslander Australian accent, and I’ve grown another arm to produce all the drawings he needs. He has a comforting presence; that of the patient teacher. A master taught by another master, destined to teach others.

He asked me how long I plan to stay in India. I tell him I am not sure; I go where I am needed. I know that if I do go – I will return at some point. I briefly mention that in another life, I would be certain about staying. But not now. I reveal the key of my past to him, and he does something of the same for me.

He tells me when he was younger he was unable to marry the woman he loved. That her parents made sure of that. Only much later in his life – after eventual marriage and children – his success as one of the best contractors in and around  Pondichery and Auroville, made those parents think twice, thrice or more about their decision. I ask him how long ago was this? He says thirty-five years. I paused at the thought of that space of time. A timeframe longer than my own existence. There is far more to this man than brick and concrete… Far more.

Deep conversations while concrete is cast — I am sure is typical of the job. As the darkness began to obscure all, I noticed the switching on of lights carried by the workers. Except, they were not torches. They were using the lights on their mobile phones. I was amused, although not entirely surprised. The moving lights trailed around the roof like fireflies, as the workers made final touches. They worked like this for another twenty minutes. As they started packing up I said goodbye to Mohan and made my leave, pondering about what the coming rains would wash away.