Calicut, May 7: Blinding rain and a raging sea set the mood of our entry into Marad, a fishing village in Kozhikode district on the Muslim-dominated Malabar coast of northern Kerala.

Marad is a blot on the history of Kerala’s secularism. Last year on May 2, eight Hindus were massacred by a group of Muslims. It was a planned attack, carried out simultaneously in three areas within less than 15 minutes. Police closed in almost immediately on the mosque, in which the killers, together with innocent men, women and children, had taken refuge. All the men were arrested, and there were no more killings. The police did not, however, discourage about 300 Muslim families from fleeing.

The killings had not, of course, come out of the blue. This was an organised “revenge” for the killing of three Muslims in a quarrel during New Year festivities in the village in January 2002. (Two Hindus were also killed then.)

The police and government were quick to act after the January killings, with relief camps, compensations and a peace settlement based on sustained dialogue between the local community-leaders. Then, suddenly, the May 2003 killings happened, making the over-a-year-long harmony since January 2002 look like a deadly charade. As a result, an absolute failure of trust segregates Hindus and Muslims in Marad .

The Hindus find it incredible that for more than a year, a revenge was being planned while the Muslims seemed to be participating in a peace accord. And the Muslims have now come back to wrecked and looted homes. All the earning male members of their families are in jail now for the killings. So the women and children (withdrawn from the government school) feel even more vulnerable and are being supported by wealthy Muslim organisations, which further segregates them from the Hindus.

There is an air of precarious desolation about the place, with its empty homes, huge red Oms painted on the Hindu fishermen’s boats, the saffron mundus and red tilaks worn by the Hindus to signal their religion, and an RSS flag fluttering above the jagged rocks.

I was in Marad with Hafiz Mohamad, head of sociology at Calicut’s Farook College, and three social workers, who are part of a communal harmony project organised by an international NGO known for its work in Gujarat after the genocide.

The two Hindu fishermen we spoke to — the brother of one had been killed last year — both felt let down by the UDF government, which, they felt, was too mindful of its coalition partner, the Indian Union Muslim League (IUML), to protect the Hindu interest. Their hope lies mainly in the Araya Samajam (a Hindu fishermen’s outfit) and the Hindu Aikya Vedi, who are not only the principal Hindu support groups but also the channels through which the BJP, the RSS and the VHP reach the Hindu fishermen. Praveen Togadia had visited Marad after each riot, but a third visit was prevented by the state.

These two fishermen we spoke to are both eager to have Togadia and Ashok Singhal back in Marad. The men understand Vajpayee’s secular image, but support Togadia’s Hindutva. When I asked them whom they would choose if asked to do so, they answered with a wide, cheeky grin: “Both.”

They both want to vote for the BJP. Its candidate for their constituency (Manjeri), Uma Unni, is from Marad, and has made the riots a poll issue.

The Muslim families won’t vote because their voter ID cards have disappeared from their looted homes. They, too, regard A.K. Antony’s government with mistrust, largely because of Antony’s supposedly soft-Hindutva leanings and his recent statements about the manipulativeness of economically powerful Muslims.

But what struck me about Marad is how it is widely perceived in Kerala as a shameful anomaly. The impeccably gentlemanly district collector (a Muslim) who gave me permission to enter the heavily-guarded village, the orthodox Sunni owner of my hotel, the many academics, students, activists, bureaucrats and housewives I spoke to — all felt outraged by what had happened in Marad and hated to see it being politicised before the elections.

The Muslims of the Malabar coast, flush with Gulf money, are far from being poor and vulnerable. From my hotel window, I can see the hoardings of Bhima Gold and Diamond Jewellery and Gulfgate Hair-Fixing (H.O. Dubai). The local Jamait-e-Islami-Hind office stands prominently behind them. But this emergence has taken place in a state whose secular convictions are still largely embodied in its civil society and administration. That is why Marad, in all its precariousness, remains confined to Marad. The taxi that took me there had three little icons in its driver’s shrine: Christ, Ganesh and Mecca.

Thinking about Marad, the difference between riots and genocide — between Kerala and Gujarat — suddenly became clearer to me.