# "Su Yao's Dazzling Counterattack Chapter 92"
The monsoon rains had turned the backwaters of Kerala into a labyrinth of silver streams, where women in blue *mundu* skirts balanced brass pots on their heads. Su Yao's boat glided past coconut groves to a village where families clustered around *kuttanad* (low-lying fields), and in a thatched hut, a group of weavers sat on coconut fiber mats, their fingers knotting coir into thick ropes.
Their leader, 60-year-old Devi, held up a finished *koorai*—a mat woven from coconut husk fibers, dyed in stripes of indigo and saffron. "This is our *jeevan* (life)," she said in Malayalam, her voice soft as rain. For the Malayali people, coir weaving is both livelihood and legacy: patterns of fish (prosperity) and lotus (purity) adorn mats used in temples and homes, with techniques passed down from 12th-century ancestors.
Devi's granddaughter Meera, 23, showed a ceremonial mat stitched with *onam* festival motifs. "Each knot must face east, toward the rising sun," she explained. "Otherwise, it brings bad luck." The coir is soaked in backwater for weeks to soften, then dyed with plants—turmeric for gold, indigo for blue—using recipes guarded by village elders.
Su Yao's team arrived with seaweed-metal threads, hoping to strengthen the coir. But when Lin presented a machine-woven sample, Devi's husband Madhavan—a lean man with a white beard—frowned. "Coir breathes with the water," he said, poking the rigid fabric. "Your metal suffocates it."
Crisis struck when saltwater intrusion from a cyclone ruined the coir soaking pits, turning fibers brittle. "The sea turned against us," Madhavan muttered, watching women toss discolored husks. With the *Vishu* harvest festival approaching, when new mats are offered to deities, the village despaired.
Su Yao sat with Devi as she dried salvageable coir by the fire. "We'll restore the pits," she promised. Over three weeks, the team helped dig freshwater channels to flush out salt, while learning to spin coir on traditional *charka* wheels. Lin coated metal threads in coconut oil and neem extract, making them blend with natural fibers.
Fiona designed a pattern: coconut palms bending over waves, metal threads mimicking sunlight on water. "It honors your land and our sea," she said. Devi ran her fingers over it, smiling. "The gods will accept this," she said.
At *Vishu*, their mat was laid before the village shrine, metal stripes glinting like river currents. As Su Yao left, Meera pressed a small coir square into her hand—a tiny lotus stitched with a wave. "Our waters now flow together," she said.