Stories of the True

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 Stories of the True

Jeyamohan

Translated from the Tamil by

Priyamvada Ramkumar

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 Table of Contents

Dedication
Author’s Note
Preface
Translator’s Note
Aram – The Song of Righteousness
He Who Will Not Bow
Penance of the Goddess
Elephant Doctor
The Meal Tally
A Hundred Armchairs
Peruvali
The Palm-Leaf Cross
Peacock Blue
The Churning Curd
Nutcase
One World
A Note on the Real-Life Characters
Translator’s Acknowledgements
Copyright
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 Dedication

To J. Hemachandran
The first idealist I came upon, the day I opened my eyes
and began to walk.
– Jeyamohan

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 Author’s Note
[From the Foreword in the Tamil Original]

The stories in this collection revolve around the central idea of ‘aram’, the
Tamil equivalent of the Sanskrit word ‘dharma’. Driven by a stirring in the
depths of my being, I wrote these stories in a heightened state that lasted
nearly forty days. The momentum sustained during this time, travel and
routine notwithstanding. Arising from the most fundamental questions of
aram, every one of these stories celebrates the triumph of humanity. That is
the vision these stories have revealed to me. That is the flag I hold up
through them.
As part of this collection, I had also written a story about the late J.
Hemachandran, the many-time MLA from the Thiruvattar constituency and
a member of the Communist Party of India (Marxist). A trade unionist,
Comrade Hemachandran had served as general secretary of several worker
federations, including the organization of rubber plantation workers. But the
story did not feel complete to me. I recall the man who visited my home
when I was all of three, to discuss something with my father. He was
distantly related to us. Ever since, commanding me in a booming voice –
always with the suffix ‘da’ – he bade me to do many an odd job, of which
distributing pamphlets during the Emergency was one.
When it came to me, Comrade was always a stern father-figure. He never
spoke to me without rebuke in his tone. I, for my part, would try my utmost
to dodge him and make my escape. He finally acknowledged me as a grown
man at my mentor and writer Sundara Ramaswamy’s funeral and
exchanged a few words. Then again, if I ever happened to run into him
driving by in his car at the turn near my house, I was sure to be chided for
something or the other.
The majestic look of an idealist – that is how his picture is etched in my
heart. His speech, his laughter, his walk, his appearance, all of it were
characterized by a majesty. In his convictions and in his temperament for
battle too, there was a majesty of spirit that never once abated. I have grown
up listening to the stories of his monumental sacrifices. His radiant image
inspired one of the characters in an earlier work of fiction I wrote, too. I
might write his story another time.
I dedicate this book to him.
Jeyamohan

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 Preface
[From the Afterword in the Tamil Original]
The drive that possessed me on 27 January 2011 at six thirty in the morning
is what created these twelve stories. The first story that came to me was
‘Aram – The Song of Righteousness’. An incident that I had heard about
twenty-five years back had been troubling me for nearly four or five days
prior to that morning. I eventually decided to pen it down as an essay,
together with the attendant questions, doubts and dilemmas. I could not
progress beyond the first few lines until, in a moment of epiphany that
morning, the incident presented itself to me as a story and I started writing
it at once. When I finished the story and came down to help myself to a cup
of tea, ‘The Meal Tally’ took form. I went upstairs immediately and began
to write it. As I wrote, it felt as though the characters from the story were in
my room, gazing at me with eyes that willed me to keep writing.
I wrote sixteen stories in all. My friend Arangasamy felt that two of them
hadn’t quite hit their mark, and my wife Arunmozhi agreed. Two other
stories didn’t find their endings. The remaining twelve are being published
now. Each one of these stories was written in a ‘single breath’ – even ‘The
Palm-Leaf Cross’, which could exceed sixty pages in print. That all of them
are stories about real people is the central thread that binds them together.
I will turn fifty next year. In my middle age, I find myself being tormented
by this question: Have the beliefs that have brought me this far eroded with
time? By the time I turned twenty-four, I had already suffered the harshest
of sorrows that a human being can be faced with. Death, ignominy, loss of
my home, my land, my people and endless wandering. I was literally on the
streets, begging, and I had reached the very nadir, health-wise.
One of those days, I set out to kill myself. I headed towards a railway
track somewhere between Kasaragod and Kumbla. I have written many a
time about that morning – one that presented itself to me as an immaculate,
new dawn. That it could well be the last daybreak I was witnessing made
me see it that way perhaps. In the golden light of that morning, I set eyes on
a worm resting on a leaf, with a body that glowed as if it was made of light.
With a soul made of light. Here is a being for which every moment of this
life is of utmost significance. Death may be right beside it, still, it has its
own creative purpose in this world, a purpose that can be fulfilled by no
other. It was a darisanam, a vision – the revelation of a world view that I
later transformed into my life’s philosophy through deep and sustained
reading.
On that day, I resolved that there would be no more sadness in my life.
That there would be no more bitterness, no more resentment. That I would
not waste another moment heartbroken and hopeless. That there would be
nothing secretive about my life. That that which I am would always be in
plain sight, unhidden. Indeed, I have kept to the resolve ever since. No one
would have seen me discouraged or weary or even physically tired from
that day on. Not even Arunmozhi, who has lived with me for twenty years
now.
Nevertheless, I wondered if the pragmatism that comes with experience
had somewhat altered me. Had it corroded the idealism that I had held on to
so far and covered it with verdigris? A personal letter I received in response
to my essay about the 2G spectrum scandal drew my attention to this
question. The temporal world runs on power. And power is built on wealth.
That wealth is amassed through ethical transgressions is worldly wisdom.
But when I say this, I seem to be throwing idealism to the winds, said the
letter.
The turbulence I speak about now started that very night. I have no desire
to be mired in phony idealism, for it is meaningless to ignore practicalities
and live in a dream. If we approach human history – one that has been
created by the ‘will to power’ – without being conscious of reality, we will
only end up fooling ourselves. I am someone who believes that a historical
sense is fundamental to literature. So I found myself in a state where I
needed to examine how my view of idealism measured against the mighty
torrent of history.
The agitation that churned in me, I well knew, was the consequence of a
desire to be honest, a refusal to make excuses or to hide things from myself.
I also knew that I could not rest until I had an answer. The first story opened
the doors for me. Through the stories of real people who had lived lives
steeped in idealism, through keen eyes that would take stock of them, I felt
that I could well raise the questions I needed to examine. That is the general
character that inhabits each one of these stories.
These stories do not separate the idealism from the lived life. Instead, they
present the dialogue that idealism engages in with the darkness and rot that
surrounds it. Idealism can radiate light on its own strength. It can stand on
its own feet, without leaning on another. No opposing force, no matter how
terrifying, can snuff it out. Above all, it has the ability to spread from one
person to another in uncanny ways.
It turns out that this journey of introspection that started with a
‘nevertheless’ led me to many great things and I’m sure there is more to be
said about them. For now, I only wish to say that I redeemed myself
through these stories.
15 March 2011 J.

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 Translator’s Note

I was introduced to Aram (Stories of the True) in early 2013. I remember

reading the book in a frenzy, as if the ‘heightened state’ in which
Jeyamohan had written the book had somehow transmitted itself to me.
Story after story moved me deeply. ‘Penance of the Goddess’, in particular,
hit so close to home, reminding me of my own grandparents’ relationship,
that I was troubled by it for days. But beyond the immediate emotional
response that the book evoked, what captivated me was the author’s
intimate understanding of human nature and the detail with which he
brought to life the inner world of human beings.
Aram was my gateway to Jeyamohan’s works. As I read more and more of
his writing, I found myself recommending his works to those around me. If
the literary reader is a minority in our societies, the bilingual literary reader
is a rare species. Readers from Indian languages take to reading English
works, but those who begin with English literature rarely make the journey
in the other direction. Why couldn’t I share the stories I loved with those
around me who could not read Tamil? It was a frustrating and annoying
barrier.
It was through one of Jeyamohan’s essays that I learned of the eminent
Kannada writer, Vivek Shanbhag. I read Vengai Savaari, a translation of
Shanbhag’s short story collection, Huli Savaari, rendered in Tamil by a
motley crew, including Jeyamohan. I absolutely loved it. So when Ghachar
Ghochar came out, I got an eager pair of hands on the book and devoured it
in one night. I read the book twice, once for the story and once for the
translation and was blown away by both. That triggered my pre-existing
angst about Jeyamohan’s works not being available in English. How is it
that a master writer’s work had not crossed linguistic boundaries? How
could it have been ignored for so long? Though I began to translate the first
story on a whim, really, I see now that it was a culmination of both a desire
to share and an act of protest.
I started on the journey with no definite goal in mind other than that these
stories must reach a wider audience. I did not think to question if I should
be the one to do it. I did not leaf through the book to study the challenges it
might pose. Looking back, I think it is this ‘beginner’s mind’ that sheltered
me as I navigated these dialogue-heavy narratives, the complexities of
reported speech in dialogues and the poetry thrown in for good measure.
Jeyamohan’s prolificacy is as evident in each individual work of his as it
is in his vast and staggering body of work. He is a writer who sees an epic
in a novel, and a novel in a short story. Some stories in this collection are
nearly as long as novellas and were published as standalone books too (in
Tamil and Malayalam). As a translator, I needed to make the language
journey through the various changes of pace within the length of these
stories – the leaps of imagination, the stillness of introspection, the vigour
of dramatic moments and so on – seamlessly. The profusion and precision
of detail in these stories, of both the external and the internal world, sent me
down many rabbit holes. However, both the form and the detail in the work
are held together by an artistic unity, something that the translation also
needed to do, notwithstanding the inevitable addition of context in the
necessary places.
The more I translated the more I was drawn into the text, and whole new
dimensions opened up to me. As one would expect, the protagonists in the
stories respond to the challenges they are faced with in different ways. But
it was interesting to see how the aesthetic essence (rasa) shifted from one
story to another along with the nature of the character’s response.
Poomedai’s calling as an eccentric activist imbues the story with humour
(hasyam). The searing response of Aachi in ‘Aram – The Song of
Righteousness’ infuses the story with expressive anger (raudram). There’s
wonder (adbhuta) while beholding the idea of One World. Preserving this
changing aesthetic – achieved through both dialogue and atmosphere – in
translation was at once a demanding and thrilling exercise.
At the end of the exercise, though, I still had to deal with the elephant in
the room. The single word title of the book in Tamil: Aram. A complex and,
I’d dare say, untranslatable word. Aram is also the name of the first book of
the three-part classical Tamil masterpiece Thirukkural, perhaps the most
widely translated ancient Tamil text. In the English translations of the
Thirukkural, ‘aram’ has commonly been termed ‘virtue’ or ‘ethics’. While
ethics probably comes closest in meaning, aram seems to me a far more
capacious word than ethics.
I toyed with dharma, the Sanskrit word which is a near-perfect equivalent
of the word aram. It finds a place in the English dictionary. It is a word
most readers will be familiar with. What’s more, dharmam is a word used in
Tamil too, as you will see in the stories. But in general, I’d resisted
substituting Tamil words with Hindi or Sanskrit equivalents, even if they
may be more common or better understood (such as dhoti for vaetti, paan
for betel wrap and so on). It wasn’t just the stubbornness of someone from
the south of the peninsula, but I felt it takes away from the ‘place’ of the
stories to be using terms from a different part of the country.
So I let myself be guided by the stories. What are the dimensions of aram
that the narratives speak of? Undeniably, there are evocations of podhu-
aram or sadharana dharma, a relatively universal code of ethics that is a
requisite to live in harmony with another human being, with society and
with nature. These stories encompass a range of such ethical codes.
Poomedai (‘Nutcase’), for instance, embodies truth; Kethel Sahib (‘The
Meal Tally’), compassion; Garry Davis (‘One World’), non-violence.
However, these stories are not simple expositions of virtue. Reaching far
beyond the understanding of ethics as dichromatic, immutable codes of
conduct, the narratives delve into deeper and more complex internal
dilemmas.
It is in this quest that the stories move from podhu-aram, a collective
dharma, to thannaram or swadharma, the dharma of an individual.
Thannaram varies from person to person for it is a journey of self-discovery
– a journey to realize that which you are. Through these stories, we meet Dr
K, the elephant doctor, who seems to echo Seneca’s view that the wages of
a good deed is to have done it. We meet Howard Somervell who chooses to
give up a comfortable life in England for a life of service in India. We meet
a professor who so embodies the dharma of a teacher, it plunges him in
eternal grief. These personalities have already reached the other shore, so to
say, of swadharma when we meet them. What we witness in the stories,
therefore, is their steadfast adherence to ‘their truth’.
Interweaving these stories are characters who are still on this journey of
self-discovery. The boy who grapples with his adoptive faith with
unyielding honesty, even though he hero-worships the man who converted
him. The writer who contemplates his role as an artist in a seemingly dark
world. The bureaucrat who struggles to find a way to do right by his tribal
mother and many more. These ‘moments of truth’ also stand illuminated
within the frame of these stories.
Thus, the stories hold in tension a truth realized, and a truth to be
discovered. And so, Aram became Stories of the True. Dharma is nothing
but the truth. ‘Yo vai sah dharmah satyam vai tat.’ That is what the
Upanishads say too.
‘You’re translating Aram?’ I’ve had this question thrown at me quite a
few times these past few years. The question, though, would come with
different intonations – one with an incredulous lilt, as if to say how can the
writing, so steeped in regional dialects and references, work in translation;
another with a mild disapproval of my choice, as if to say why Aram, when
there are greater works of Jeyamohan’s out there. Both are valid reactions
of discerning readers and so these questions cannot be dismissed with a
shrug.
Jeyamohan is a culturally rooted writer, a quality that adds great heft to
his writing. Dialect is an integral part of the stories in Aram, no doubt; the
change of caste and place, for instance, is instantly understood in the
original through a change of dialect. So there is bound to be some loss in
translation, more so in a book that’s dialogue-driven. However, I feel the
drama and the essence of the stories are strong enough to withstand this
loss. Then again, when I think of the many great writers I wouldn’t have
read other than for translations, I often feel grateful for what is gained in
translation rather than worrying too much about what is lost.
 The reason I chose to translate this work is also the reason I am greatly
drawn to Jeyamohan’s writing. His writing is filled with an elevating
positivity. No matter how dark the subject might be, his works evince a
deep faith in humanity. It is not merely a disposition but a fundamental
spiritual realization emanating from the author’s personal journey. While
Aram is far more direct, far more simple, as compared to other critically
acclaimed works of the author, it epitomizes this cornerstone of his writing.
In Tamil, the book drew many readers on the fringes into literature.
Eleven years after its publication, I still see at least one new reader writing
about these stories to Jeyamohan every other week. I fervently hope that I
have captured at least some of its magic in this translation. At the risk of
invoking a cliché, translating Aram has been a labour of love and I hope
you enjoy reading it.
Priyamvada
25 April 2022 Chennai

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 Aram – The Song of Righteousness

‘Yes, he’s there . . . please come in,’ said the man at the door. I didn’t know
who he was. ‘Hello,’ I greeted him, as I removed my slippers. He picked up
the slippers in his hands. ‘The dogs carry them away if we leave them
outside, sir, please go in,’ he said.
Beyond the broad stone-paved veranda, the inner courtyard stood draped
in the bleached rays of the forenoon sun. On one side of the long raised
platform that skirted the inner courtyard, I found the old man cradled in a
low easy chair. Balancing a brass box on his lap, he was slicing betel nuts
with a nut-cutter. His glasses had slid down the bridge of his nose and his
face was awash with childlike attentiveness.
‘The writer Jeyamohan is here,’ announced the man who had welcomed
me in, as he followed me into the room. He had to declare it loudly a few
more times until the air reverberated with my name. ‘Come in, come in,’
the old man said, looking up at me. As soon as he gestured towards a chair,
my usher unfolded a metal chair and set it down beside him. ‘He is
Saminathan . . . a retired teacher,’ said the old man, introducing him. I said
hello once again. ‘A very close aide of Janakiraman,’ he said. ‘Please have
a seat,’ he added, with a smile that betrayed a lack of recognition.
The chair wobbled as I sat down, its leg caught in an uneven patch on the
cement floor. Without getting up, I shifted the chair and settled into another
spot. The bamboo beams that ran beneath the pantile roof were ridden with
holes. A bumble bee emerged from one of the holes and whirled about,
droning like a tambura. The old man’s nut-cutter sliced away with a
precision endowed by years of habit. He pinched the betel shavings that
were scattered around like rice flakes and deposited them in a small box.
‘Still in your home town, are you?’ he asked. I smiled, guessing what he
was trying to get at. ‘Yes, I still live in Nagercoil.’ Noticing that he was
reading my lips, I pulled the Dinamalar hanging on the arm of the easy
chair towards me and wrote on the newspaper’s margin, ‘Nagercoil,
Jeyamohan’. In an instant, his eyes widened. He grabbed hold of my hands
and said ‘I’m happy, so happy . . . it’s a great honour.’ The honour is mine, I
wrote. He smiled and shook his head.
‘Did you meet Ravi Subramaniam?’ he asked.
‘I plan to,’ I replied.
‘Dei, Saminadhu, bring that here. Yes, that one . . . Look at him gape!’
Piecing together what the old man was trying to say, Saminathan handed me
his new book of short stories. ‘Paavai has published it. He’s a nice boy . . .
paid me the royalty in advance. Doctors’ bills have piled up beyond belief. I
need money to pay them, right?’ said the old man.
‘He might as well pay the doctors the royalty,’ I said.
The old man erupted with laughter, as though humour was the one thing
he understood with just his eyes, not needing the faculty of his ears.
As he chewed on the betel leaves, his face bloomed into a smile.
‘The betel’s quite the intoxicant, isn’t it?’ I remarked.
He shook his head. ‘The leaf, the nut and the paste need to be in perfect
harmony. Like melody, rhythm and emotion . . . God has a role to play in it.
It must come to be . . . ’
‘Like great poetry,’ I said.
‘Why? Couldn’t you say like great sex? You can say it. I’m not that old
yet.’ He laughed.
‘Well, there’s no third element in sex, is there? It’s all melody and
rhythm.’
‘There is a third,’ he said, shaking his head. ‘It’s the moment. Is there a
single love poem that ignores the moment?’
Saminathan headed out and returned with a jug of coffee from the shop at
the end of the road. He poured out a tumblerful for me and handed a half-
filled one to the old man. ‘Turned cold?’ enquired the old man.
‘A little,’ I replied.
‘I like it that way. If it’s hot, the heat is all one can taste. You lose the
sweetness and the aroma. You can’t admire a lady when she’s running, can
you!’
I laughed. ‘But you admire a horse only when it’s galloping, right?’
‘Never mind, it’s only poetry that has an answer to everything,’ he
conceded with a chuckle. ‘Strictly speaking, I shouldn’t be having coffee at
all. But how does one abandon desire? So, I allow myself half a cup.’
‘Half cups that add up to four or five a day,’ interjected Saminathan.
‘Get lost, Saminadhu,’ the old man said fondly.
I set the tumbler down. ‘Did you get any royalty back in the day?’ I asked.
‘Royalty? Of course not, it was a bad word then.’
‘But I’ve heard that you practically lived off writing.’
‘Lived? You mean existed. I wrote and existed. I “lived” only until I
turned thirty-three. Before that, I’d never step out without at least a hundred
rupees in hand. I was always surrounded by friends . . . fellows who
breathed music and poetry, every last one of them. We’d talk night and day.
And sing. A sheaf of Kumbakonam betel leaves and betelnut slivers were
always at hand. There’d be an endless supply of pure degree coffee. The
sambadams were replenished with pakoda, murukku, seedai and a variety of
other snacks, all day long. In the evening, we’d venture to the riverside and
sing as we sat cushioned against the sand. Every now and then, there would
be some talk of literature in between the singing. What literature? It was all
just gossip and chit-chat. The writer Mouni joined us on many such days.
That man was a peerless gossip . . . right, Saminadhu?’
‘And our man here, ever fearful of gossip,’ Saminathan chimed in. The
old man slapped his thighs and hooted with laughter. ‘This fellow knows all
about Janakiraman’s love affairs. But he won’t tell,’ he said, turning to me.
‘The Kumbakonam of those days was a different place altogether. Music
and literature flowed like a river in spate. Many of the greats are from these
parts, you’d know.’ I smiled. ‘. . . But they were also such rogues, such
rascals. Puckering their lips with a mouthful of betel leaves, the canards
they exchanged could make Shiva himself disown his precious Uma.
Imagine!’
He was getting ready for another roll of the betel. He opened the packet of
slivers this time. ‘What’re you looking at? We use only the slivers around
here. The ripened nut is used once for every four or five times that we apply
the slivers . . . what was I saying?’
‘About chatting by the riverside . . . ’
‘Ah, yes. From there we’d go straight to Rayar Club and have adai or
poori and follow it up with coffee made with cow’s milk. We’d have coffee
even at midnight. There were kutcheris at one temple or another, every day.
No matter which part of the town you were in, you’d hear the strains of the
nadaswaram. We were footloose, all right. There were four or five looms
running at home, all employed in zari work. The thread was sourced from
Nagpur up north, exquisite gold thread. The others didn’t quite know how
to handle it. But in the zari we wove, Mahalakshmi herself would blossom
to life.’
He pressed the betel wrap between his teeth and fell silent. A few minutes
passed before he resumed with a sigh. ‘Everything went up in smoke.
Machines took over up north. There were duplicates even in zaris. Real zari
is made from silken threads of gold and silver. What we have now is mostly
imitation. Like a collapsing tent, everything fell apart in two years flat.
After paying off all the debt, I was left with a few paise and four children. I
knew no other business. No other people. I was literally on the road . . .
isn’t it, Saminadhu?’
‘Yes, Anna,’ said Saminathan.
‘If this motherfucker hadn’t been around, we would have starved to death.
He’d sneak bags of rice or wheat into my home, without my knowledge, the
rascal. I owe this dog so much. Never mind . . . there’s such a thing as the
next life, isn’t it? May I be born as a bull in his stable and pull his cart till
my neck breaks.’ Saminathan had turned away. The lump in his throat
moved up and down. I thought he might cry.
‘That was when I started writing. How does it matter what you write? In
the end, it’s all just words, isn’t it? That’s all I knew. Had I been a woman, I
would’ve become a prostitute. Since I was fated to be a writer, I took this
up. That was the time when the publishing industry was born and was
gathering some steam. Up until then, book sales had depended on the
whims of individuals. It was only after we gained independence, during the
fifties to be more precise, that colleges and schools were set up across many
towns. Government libraries came into being. The Chettiars who’d come
back loaded from Burma got into this trade. They were all related to one
another . . . an uncle here, a brother-in-law there. My publishers were based
in Tiruchi. They were siblings – the Meyyappan brothers. There’s a passing
mention of them in Pudhumaipithan’s stories too. They’d just got into
publishing, along with a few relatives in Madras. What story was that,
Saminadhu?’
Saminathan responded in a trice. ‘The Real and the Imagined,’ he said.
‘Yes. In that story, one of them says, they’ll be better off selling brinjals
instead of books. “Brinjals will rot, you fool”, admonishes the older brother.
See how deep their differences ran over the business of selling books?’ He
spat into the spittoon. ‘But in general, they were good people. They started
a shop in Tiruchi and ran it well. Money was all they ever thought about.
Pure businessmen . . . as they should be. Only then can they survive. Must
they shut up and stand on the road like us? Every living being is fated to
play a certain role . . . don’t you agree, Saminadhu?”
‘Yes, Anna,’ said Saminathan.
‘Come to think of it, this fellow was the one who took me to them. Can
you write, they asked me, and said they’d give me a fixed rate per page.
Even if they had asked me to blow for money, I would’ve kneeled down
right there. That was the state I was in. I said yes. We agreed on a fee per
page. Adaptations were in huge demand back then. Mystery, love, thrill,
you needed everything. A writer who went by the name Genius had written
many such stories. “Hey, can you write like Genius,” asked the elder
Chettiar. “Genius, I am too,” I said. He didn’t get it. Though, he did have
some inkling that to be a writer is to be crazy.’
‘I’ve read many of your novels in my younger days,’ I said. ‘There’s this
man who goes to London to become a barrister. He meets two inseparable
young men – one very handsome and the other deformed . . . ’
‘I must have read something somewhere and reproduced it . . . it was
nothing, really,’ he said dismissively. ‘I used to write two novels a month.’
‘Two novels!’
 ‘Of course . . . sometimes I’ve written three or four a month, too.’
‘How much did they pay?’
‘There was a verbal agreement to be paid per page. In reality, they’d give
me whatever they felt like. Anything from ten to thirty rupees . . . but never
in one shot. If I made a request, they would hand me a rupee or fifty paise
and debit it against my account. In fact, Pudhumaipithan chronicled the
practice of such fifty-paise debits in one of his stories.’
‘Thirty rupees? For an entire novel?’ I asked, astounded.
‘Yes, sir! We had no claim beyond that. We had to write the novel and
sign away all our rights with it. The novel you just mentioned . . . I received
twenty rupees for it.’
‘Wasn’t it a paltry sum, even by the standards of those times?’
‘Indeed. A peon made hundred rupees a month back then. I was working
my fingers to the bone to earn thirty. What could I do? It is fated, right?’ he
said, running a finger across his brow.
‘Those books are in circulation even today . . . ’ I rambled.
‘They haven’t gone out of print in the last thirty-five years. Must have
crossed twenty editions.’
‘And yet they didn’t give you a share?’
Saminathan laughed out loud. ‘A fancy thought! The man’s been telling
you that I fed him . . .’ After a moment’s pause, he said, ‘Anna, there’s a big
story in there, remember? Tell him.’
‘Why go there now?’ said the old man.
‘Look here, Anna. He’s a writer of today, he should know . . . what’s the
harm . . . go on now.’
The old man started preparing the betel leaves once more. His fingers
trembled, rendering him incapable of slicing the betel nut. The nut slipped
from his hand, fell to the floor and rolled away into the inner courtyard. He
opened the packet of betel slivers. For a while he sat with his head bowed in
silence. I was about to say, ‘It’s all right, maybe another time.’
Just then, he drew a deep breath and resumed, ‘Like I said, schoolbooks
were in huge demand at that time. The Congress had come to power. They
had announced that every school should have at least some elementary
books about freedom fighters and national leaders. Soon, books on the lives
of scientists and historical figures like Ashoka and Akbar were in demand
too. The Chettiar brothers had undertaken to publish a hundred such books.
But they didn’t have a writer. They summoned me and asked how many I
could write. There had been a huge fight at home the previous day. We were
surviving on diluted buttermilk, rice and pickle. We were living in a portion
of a house occupied by many families. We didn’t have blankets, and so we
had repurposed old gunnysacks to cover ourselves with. Such was our state.
I had a worn-out vaetti and a worn-out shirt. Thankfully, I had a khaki coat,
with which I could hide the tatters in my shirt. Let’s say it was Krishna
come to protect my dignity. The talk began after dinner. “If things continue
this way, how will we ever see our daughter married,” my wife lamented. I
kept writing without heeding her words. That infuriated her. She grabbed
the papers and flung them away. Enraged, I rose to my feet as though
possessed, slapped her hard and walked out of the house. I went straight to
the Boothanaadhar temple and sat in front of it, all through the damp night.
So, when Chettiar asked me the question the next morning, the answer was
on my lips in an instant. I will write all hundred, I said.’
‘All hundred?’ I piped up.
‘When a dog chases you, won’t you run?’ said the old man, laughing.
‘Yes, all hundred. “Fifty rupees for a book. One hundred books, that is five
thousand rupees. Are you joking?” they asked. “No, I’ll do it,” I said. They
were aware of the pace at which I worked. They asked if I’d be able to
finish them within a year. “Certainly,” I promised.’
‘One book every three days . . .’ I said, thinking aloud.
‘Yes. When I think about it now, I myself find it hard to believe. I have to
send a letter to my son. Seven days have gone by. The inland letter’s lying
here still. I have written four lines. Back then, I wrote like a man possessed.
I would write all night. There were days when I finished a hundred pages in
a single day. My hands would tire and give up. In the morning, the back of
my hand would be swollen like a medu vadai. So my son and daughter
would write for me as I dictated. I delivered one book every three days. I
would go to the press in the mornings, proofread the book and take a quick
nap at the press itself in the afternoon. After that, I’d walk to the library to
gather material for my next book. With a few source texts in hand, I would
head home, have coffee and sit down to write again. The reading and the
writing were done in parallel. Sometimes I would stop only at the break of
dawn.
‘To hell with modesty. I finished within a year. It is a fact. I delivered on
my commitment. When the last book was published, the third edition of the
first book was already in circulation.’
‘I’ve read all of those books. In fact, they released a reprint recently,’ I
said.
‘Yes, they never stopped coming,’ he said with a laugh. ‘In a way, I’ve
donned the role of a teacher and done my bit for the children.’ With a sigh,
he added, ‘But I’ve stopped writing stories. I’ve forsaken literature. I don’t
meet any of my writer friends either. Though, I do bump into
Karichankunju on the road, sometimes. “Motherfucker . . . stop . . . you
sinner . . . stop man,” he’ll holler as soon as he spots me. If he’s far away,
I’d say, “I have a lot of work, sir,” and make my escape. If he happens to be
close by, he’ll grab me by the collar and launch into more colourful
language. What does he have to lose? He makes a handsome sum every
month, teaching the alphabet. He can afford to talk literature. But I’ve lost
everything. One or two novels, four or five stories may make the cut now,
perhaps. Someone has to read them. Someone will . . .’
Saminathan spoke. ‘Pudhumaipithan said it, didn’t he?’ As though
reciting a lesson learnt by heart, he said, ‘There is no light without
darkness. But can light hide indefinitely? Till it appears, there is nothing to
do but wait.’
The old man smiled. I couldn’t remember when I had last seen such a
grief-stricken smile. ‘Years may pass us by, but what of that? Must we be
present when the light dawns?’ finished Saminathan. It must be from
Pudhumaipithan’s story ‘The Letter’, I thought.
‘Go on, Anna. You’re yet to get to the crux of the story,’ said Saminathan.
‘Why go into that, Saminadhu? When the body burns at the pyre,
everything perishes with it – lust, rage, desire, all of it. There’s no meaning
in life for all this.’
‘No, Anna, he should know,’ Saminathan insisted.
The old man looked at me. ‘He’s a different kind of person. Doors open
for him on their own. If not, he will knock them down. His stars are aligned
that way . . .’ he said with a smile.
An interval of silence again. ‘I had only sought a few payments now and
then, and let the remaining sums be in their safekeeping. Had it fallen into
my hands, all of it would’ve been sacrificed at the altar of poverty. Minus
what I had received, I had left close to three thousand rupees with the
Chettiars. Taking courage from that, I arranged my daughter’s wedding.
With a thamboolam of betel leaves, coconuts, and everything else that
custom demanded, I stood in front of the Chettiar to invite him. I informed
him of the auspicious occasion and sought the balance payment. “Three
thousand rupees? Rubbish! Three thousand rupees for writing books?” he
exclaimed. At first I thought he was fooling with me. It took some time for
it to sink in that he was indeed serious. He had handed out only fives and
tens until then. He just couldn’t fathom giving away three thousand rupees
to a writer.’
‘But he had sold a hundred titles . . . ,’ I said in disbelief.
‘Right. His store had doubled and then tripled in size from those profits.
They built a multistoreyed house in Tiruchi and bought parcels of land in
their village. But those are not things that come to mind in such a situation.
“I have debt to the tune of one lakh,” he said. Those were loans taken to
expand the business. The whole godown was crammed with bundles of
books stacked like blocks of palm jaggery. It was wealth – all of it. But
business always starts with a loan, does it not? That’s all he could see. He
was blind to what the loan had earned for him. “If you insist it’s three
thousand, don’t breathe another word. If it’s seven hundred, I’ll consider it,”
he said. “Don’t ruin me,” I begged. Suddenly, tears sprang from my eyes.
“Please don’t ruin my daughter’s life,” I implored him, and bent under the
desk to touch his feet. He kicked my hands away and got to his feet,
shouting like a maniac. “You think I’m a fool? That I’ll pay you because
you fell at my feet? What great work did you do . . . money will stick only
when you toil. You simply copied what others wrote, and for that you
demand four thousand? You think writing is so fucking difficult? Even
children write at school all day, don’t they? It was my money that kept the
fire burning in your hearth all these days, have you forgotten that? You
thankless vermin. I can’t believe I trusted you,” he shouted.
‘A crowd had gathered. “What the master says is right . . . all said and
done, his is the divine hand that fed you for seven years.” Soon enough, the
younger brother arrived and began to abuse me too. That’s when I started
screaming like a fanatic. “You will be ruined for deceiving me,” I cursed
them. The next moment, the younger brother had struck me, even as four
others held me back. “You curse the hand that fed you?! Get the hell out!”
screamed the older brother. I stood in the middle of the road, stunned by it
all. It was evening, and I didn’t know where to go. How could I go home?
The wedding arrangements were in full swing. I needed money, for
jewellery, for sarees. An advance had to be made for the pandal and the
food. I stood rock-still. As darkness descended, I fell at the master’s feet
again and wept. “Out, out,” he cried, as the others grabbed hold of me and
threw me out.
‘They closed the shop at eight, but I stood there through the night. I don’t
know why I stood there or how I stood there. My ears began ringing . . . in
later years, it grew into a bigger problem . . . you may have read the story
“Noises”?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
For a while, he said nothing. The silence was dense and heavy, like
granite. After a few moments, he resumed with a sigh. ‘When he came to
open the shop the next morning, I was sitting on the bench at the entrance.
Tears fell from my eyes as soon as I saw him. All I could do was put my
hands together in obeisance. I didn’t have the strength to utter a single
word. It felt like sand was stuck in my throat. He looked at me for a few
moments, as though he was looking at shit. And then he opened the shop,
went in and sat behind the counter. I don’t know what occurred to him all of
a sudden, but he stepped out and started abusing me. “Motherfucker. Dei . .
. Is it food you eat or shit? Were you born of one man?” he screamed. The
profanity his lot mouthed could well make your skin peel off, you know.
With moist eyes, I said to him, “I have no refuge. I have no way out but to
die.” “Then go die,” he said. He flung a one-rupee note at me and said,
“That should be enough to buy poison.”
‘I sat as though in a trance for some time, and then, struck by an idea, I
strode to the Chettiars’ house. It must have been ten in the morning. Periya-
aachi – the older Chettiar’s wife – was sitting on the veranda in front and
feeding the neighbour’s child some idli. I went and stood right in front of
her, my hands raised in prayer. “Poet, what’s wrong?” she asked. She didn’t
know much, you know. She was barely literate. With folded hands I told her
all that had transpired. I had gone there to see if she could talk sense into
Chettiar. But as I recounted the incidents, I was pushed forth by a strange
momentum. My body felt as though it was on fire, and my limbs like
tongues of flame. I declared that the grace of Saraswathi was upon me. The
words possessed me and my voice grew shrill. All that happened
afterwards, you know, I am still filled with wonder about how I did it. “You
who have snatched away my living, will you and your children prosper?! If
you do, then Saraswathi a prostitute be,” I pronounced. In a flash, I took out
my pen and wrote a verse right there. Grabbing an idli from her plate, I
mushed it up against the paper, plastered the verse on the door of their
house and marched out.
‘As I returned home, I began to slow down, until I was unable to walk any
more. It was more than a day since I had had anything to eat. But the
thought of food only made me feel nauseous. I went straight to the pawn
shop, sold the old watch I was wearing and drank myself senseless. I know
nothing of when I came home and where I slept. My wife had made to kill
herself by jumping into a well. Since it was daytime and there were people
around, they managed to stop her. I lay at home like a corpse. A few tried
nudging me awake, others cursed me, some kicked me. I felt like I was
buried in the sands of the river Kaveri and was watching life transpire
somewhere above. I thought I had died. That thought filled me with such
incredible peace. The heaviness vanished. If you had carried a debt of a
lakh for forty years and one fine day found the money to repay it, how
would you feel? I felt like that. Weightless, like air. Like a wisp of cotton.
That is when I first started hearing voices. As though someone were calling
out my name tenderly – like a mother’s call. I learnt, then, what a beautiful
thing death is. I don’t fear death now. I wait for it with a smile.’
‘What verse was that?’ I asked. I had guessed what it might be.
‘Aram, what else could it be? We have such a tradition, don’t we? Where
the wronged poet sings a song of righteousness, cursing the adversary to
ruin? To be honest, I had only heard about it in passing somewhere.
Karichankunju and I have discussed the grammar of Tamil poetry a little,
but I haven’t learnt the language formally. In fact, that was the first verse I
had ever written. And the last too. I don’t remember the song. I have been
trying to erase it from my memory for the past twenty-five years. But the
last few lines refuse to blur –
. . . clan of the Chettis be slain
And as mounds of red sand, heaped
O Righteousness, rise and reign’
‘What happened next,’ I asked eagerly.
‘I came to know about it only later. Dropping everything that very instant,
Aachi had gone directly to the shop. She had stood in front of her husband
with her hair strewn open and her saree all dishevelled. “You must give the
poet’s money back right now . . . not one rupee less,” she had ordered. Even
now, I get gooseflesh when I think of it. Imagine how she would’ve looked!
In the days bygone, there was a woman who burnt down the great city of
Madurai. Doesn’t she reside in this lady too? Aren’t they born of the same
mould? Shaken, the Chettiar said, “Forgive me, ma, I will pay it back. I
swear, I will return it by tomorrow.” “Give it today, give it right now. I will
get up when you’ve paid him,” she said, and walking to the middle of the
tar road, sat down cross-legged. She had pitch-dark skin and looked an
imposing figure. She was the size of four men. Her face was stained heavy
with turmeric. A blazing red dot of vermilion, the shape of a twenty-five
paisa coin adorned her forehead. A thick wedding thali embellished her
neck, like golden crop on a rich field. She sat in the middle of the road like
a goddess scorned, seething with righteous anger. Who could say a word
against her? She would have sunk her teeth in them and drunk their blood.
Chettiar hastened to the bank, but he didn’t have enough money there. He
ran around for hand loans. He fell at the feet of those he knew. It was
evening when he returned with the money. She was still seated in the
middle of the road, eyes closed, and motionless like an ebony statue. It was
the month of Chithirai and the sun was blazing hot and unyielding. It was
such a scorching summer that year, even the tar on the road was melting
away. Chettiar rushed to our house in a taxi. I was half dead and
unconscious, of course. He set the cash down at my wife’s feet and pleaded,
“Please tell your husband not to destroy my family, Thayee. The light of my
clan is on the streets. Here, this is all the money we owed him, returned
with interest.” Without wasting a minute, he hastened back in the same car.
He stood in front of Aachi, towel tied around his waist in respect, and said,
“Protector of my clan, please rise, my mother. I have done what I had to do,
Thayee,” he wept. They needed four people to lift her up, I was told. Along
with her saree and her petticoat, her skin and flesh had singed and were
stuck to the melting tar.’
The scene unravelled in my mind’s eye in all its vividity. The old man had
been transported to that very moment in time. ‘Kolapodeeea,’ a hawker
selling rice powder for kolam cried from the road. It took me a few
moments to realize where I was. The old man went on, ‘The wedding went
well. The Chettiar and his brother sent a one-poun gold ring as a gift. Ten
days later, Aachi sent for me and I went. I wanted to fall at her feet. After
my daughter’s wedding, my thoughts had changed course. I wondered why
I had gotten so angry. Perhaps it was my mistake to have sought such a
large amount at once from businessmen who were running their trade on
debt, I reasoned.
‘As soon as I entered their house, Aachi received me with palms folded in
respect. “Poet, you must write a song blessing my family. Whatever be the
mistake we’ve committed, you must forgive us. Lakshmi may come and go.
But Saraswathi makes an appearance only once every seven lives, they say.
You are a great man. You stood at our doorstep and shed tears. It’s a sin that
only your words can protect us from.” How she spoke! Her words!
Measured and invaluable, as if parting with coins of gold. Neatly arranged
like a string of pearls. And here we are, writing and rewriting to get a single
paragraph right. What does it mean to have the benediction of Saraswathi?
If there’s fire in your soul, she should arrive at your summoning. That is her
fate. The rest is of no consequence . . . What was I saying? My limbs turned
inert and my tongue withdrew. I collapsed into a chair and hung my head
down. I could not meet her eyes and simply sat staring at her feet. Silver
rings adorned her toes. You know, the toe ring has a special value attached
to it? It symbolizes the glory of the woman in the home. Who says dharma
is only for those who rule? Dharma belongs at home, sir. Not for nothing is
the married woman called dharma pathni. She is the consort of Dharma,
after all. Suddenly a verse sprang to life. I grabbed a paper, wrote an eight-
verse poem and handed it to Aachi. She received it with outstretched palms
and touched it to her eyes.
‘The strange thing is, I remember only the first two lines of the first verse
...
Toe ring dazzling, body radiant as gold,
The beacon of the Chettis sat in penance . . .
‘That’s it. I’ve tried hard to recall the rest of the lines many a time, but
they elude me. Fine, that is all I wrote. The rest, I tell myself, is
Saraswathi’s divine game. Aachi asked me in and rolled out a silk mat on
the floor to seat me. She herself supervised the lunch that was served to me
on a silver plate. On a small tray, she placed three gold coins and five
hundred rupees and offered them to me. She called in the children and made
them receive my blessings. The man who stepped out of their house that
day was not the man who had stepped in. I was reborn. I learnt how potent
the spoken word is. Like Arjuna’s arrow, it is one when drawn, a hundred
when aimed, a thousand when it hits its mark. Isn’t it, Saminadhu?’
‘Aram is not to be trifled with,’ said Saminathan. ‘Righteousness will
hand out death. Isn’t that what the poet Ilango says too?’ The old man
looked at Saminathan as though he was looking at someone new. Then, as if
talking to himself, he said, ‘Yes, righteousness indeed. But it was she who
owned it.’
OceanofPDF.com
 He Who Will Not Bow

My name is Vanangaan – ‘He Who Will Not Bow’. Yes, that’s indeed my
name. If you’d like my name in full, it’s K. Vanangaan Nadar. No, it really
isn’t the name of my family deity, nor has anyone in my family been given
this name before. The name is unheard of in my caste and community too.
Neither have I met anyone with this name so far. Why, I haven’t met a
single person who has even heard of this name before.
My father was the one who named me. From the day he christened me, till
the day he died – for twenty-seven years – he was destined to keep talking
about it. After completing my degree in engineering, I took up a job in
Bhilai. All our names sound pretty much the same to the folks there, but the
Tamilians and Malayalis in the city never failed to ask me about mine.
Four years have gone by since I retired and returned to Tamil Nadu. I live
with my wife and daughter in a house that we built in a suburb of
Tirunelveli. My daughter and son-in-law are miffed that I bring up my name
‘needlessly’. ‘Just say you’re K.V. Nadar,’ they tell me. That’s how they
refer to me. But I don’t. Wherever I go, I use my full name. And if someone
looks up at me with the mildest surprise, I let them in on the story behind
my name.
My father’s name was Karuthaan. ‘Darkie’. Was Nadar attached to it, you
ask? Perhaps you don’t know about the caste hierarchy of those days.
Nadars themselves were of many different kinds. Only those who owned
land and those who came from families of great repute used the suffix
‘Nadar’ with their names. They owned houses with inner courtyards,
capacious front yards, orchards, fields, haystacks and cattle sheds. They
paid taxes to the king.
As for the rest, to be given a name was a luxury in itself. Since my father
was born dark-skinned, he was called Karuthaan. His younger brother had
prominent lips like the sundeli mouse, and so he was named Sundan. The
younger sister was somewhat fair-skinned, therefore, she was Vellakutty. It
was indeed like naming dogs. Not the ones that belonged to caste
landowners. They were well named. I am talking about stray dogs.
My father’s father was Ezhaan, meaning seventh. Perhaps he was the
seventh child. His mother had had nine children, of which only two
survived – you’re right, like a dog litter. I have seen Grandfather’s younger
sister, Kunji, when I was a child. She was a dark, shrunken old lady, but
with a tough body. Though she looked frail and shrivelled, she lived to
eighty. Till the day she died she laboured on, bearing baskets of cow dung
atop her head, making furrows for the banana saplings, balancing palm
spathes of water suspended from a pole across her shoulder for the
vegetable patch. On one such day, while carrying a stalk of bananas to the
market, she complained of an ache in her chest and lay down on the veranda
of a palm jaggery shop. There, with eyes closed and the expression of one
revelling in the gentle breeze, she died.
My grandfather worked at the Karainair’s house for yearly wages. Being a
village chieftain, the Karainair and his family owned numerous fields and
orchards throughout the town. The Karainair had employed two
Kariyasthanairs to manage his estates; Kaippallis to harvest the coconuts
and weave the coconut fronds; Asarichi women to pound the paddy; and
Pulaiyars to cultivate the paddy. All other work fell to the Nadars. Each
such worker-caste group had a leader of its own. Within his egg-sized
dominion the leader was king, with unassailable authority to kill and bury
too. As for the rest, they ranked lower than even the mud beneath his feet.
Every person on the estate was assigned a place in its descending chain of
command. Spit wove its way through, adding definition to the rungs of
hierarchy. If the overseer spat on the wage slave, the slave could not wipe
the spit off until the overseer was out of sight. If the juice from chewed
betel leaf found its way from the infuriated Kariyastha on to the overseer,
he had to bear it with a submissive smile. The Kariyastha had to be ready to
offer a spittoon to the Karainairs if they so much as pursed their lips with a
mouthful of betel leaves. And should the royalty pay a visit to his home, the
Karainair himself had to follow them obediently with a spittoon in hand.
Back in those days, there was no concept of daily wages. Twice a year,
during the harvest season, wages were paid in the form of paddy. If it was
dried well and stored in a pot, one could make it last for two or three
months and dip into it to brew a hot kanji from time to time. One needed an
extraordinary reserve of will to make the paddy last until the lean month of
Aadi. On other days, kanji brewed in huge cauldrons at the master’s house
and doled out alongside a cassava mash and sour-spinach broth was the
staple. That too was served only once a day, for lunch. After the evening
shift was done, whatever the workers managed to forage in the forests on
their way home was roasted for dinner. Tubers were the common find.
Sometimes, a few varieties of spinach. On especially lucky days, maybe a
rabbit or a mongoose or a bandicoot.
It was a life that made it seem as if the stomach was all the body was
made of. The stomach growled ceaselessly, like an evil spirit. I have heard
my grandmother say that hunger is like a house on fire. Throw all you’ve
got at it, in order to douse it. You needn’t stop to think if it’s good or bad.
There really is nothing more cruel than hunger.
My grandfather had begun working as soon as he’d learnt to walk. He had
no memory of a day where he hadn’t been to work. To be beaten, berated,
overworked, to collapse in exhaustion, drop to sleep anywhere, to be
awoken by blows even before the sun rose, and then to head to work again
– that was the life he knew. The only education he received was a lesson in
how to bow to different classes of people. He understood that society was
nothing but a hierarchy of submission.
One day, in the midst of his work hours, Grandfather hid in the bushes to
eat. The harvest had just been made, and so Grandmother had brewed some
kanji the previous day. She had left the remaining gruel to ferment
overnight and had now brought the whole potful with her. Such was
Grandfather’s love for sour day-old rice, which we call pazhayadhu. While
he was gulping down the gruel in haste, the Karainair’s grandson happened
to walk by along with the Kariyasthanair. They were on their way to the
Sastha temple. The grandson was no more than fifteen. As he walked by, he
caught sight of Grandfather eating amidst the bushes.
As soon as he saw the boy, Grandfather clambered to his feet. With
downcast eyes, he clasped his hands to his chest, bowed like a loop of rope
and sank to his haunches. The pot of kanji lay next to him. Who knows
what passed through the boy’s mind, but he picked up some mud with his
toes and dropped it in the pot. ‘Drink,’ he commanded. When Grandfather
hesitated, the overseer who appeared out of nowhere brought his long cane
down on Grandfather’s back and lashed him over and over.
Like a man possessed, Grandfather grabbed the pot and gulped down the
kanji in one go. Gripped by nausea, he curled up his convulsing body and
clung to the ground. The boy kicked up some more mud, this time at
Grandfather, and walked away, laughing. The others around joined in,
echoing his laughter.
My father was working in the fields a few feet away, carrying bundles of
paddy saplings. Seeing Grandfather’s curled and coiled body in the
distance, his mind conjured up a vision of heaped cow dung. He could smell
the putrid stench of the dung pile and even see maggots crawling all over it,
or so he felt. The image kindled in him an unbearable hatred for his father
and he longed for death to swallow the man at once. With that, Father
turned away and walked home, his tears mingling with the damp beds of
paddy beneath his feet.
‘I’m leaving,’ my father announced to his mother that night, within
earshot of his father.
‘Ask him, where to,’ Grandfather ordered.
‘This isn’t my place any more. My food lies elsewhere,’ said Father.
‘Yes, as though there’s someone waiting to feed you. It’s your good
fortune that you get a steady serving of kanji here. Don’t starve to death on
the streets . . . mind your business and just stay put,’ said Grandfather, not
once looking at his son.
‘Why? So I can drink kanji that stray dogs kick mud into?’ needled
Father.
‘How dare you! You sinner! You talk of the master this way? He who
feeds us!’ Grandfather screamed. Enraged, he grabbed a broomstick that
was close at hand and went at Father, beating him relentlessly. ‘You’re not
my son, you ungrateful dog. You’re not my son at all,’ he declared
breathlessly.
His body bruised and burning from the sharp edges of the broomstick,
Father walked out and sat inside a pit meant for planting a coconut seedling.
When darkness descended, Grandmother came in search of him. ‘Let it go,
son. You know his nature. Ammai has roasted tuber for you, come,’ she
said, putting her arm around him and leading him back home. Their hunger
sated by the roasted tuber, they fell asleep. But Father woke up at midnight
and left the house.
They caught him quite easily, though. As he entered the Nattalam
highway, a guard lying on a big haystack spotted him. In the same instant,
the guard’s dog too caught sight of Father. Barking, it got to Father first and
latched on to him. The guard followed behind, tied Father up with a
waistcloth, dragged him all the way to the master’s house and cast him in
the front yard.
When the master awoke and stepped out the next morning, he laid eyes on
my bruised and mud-streaked father. The overseer responsible for Father
was summoned and given twenty lashes with a thorny tamarind broom.
Grandfather was dragged in and buried waist down in a manure pit.
‘Master, Kind Lord, he knows nothing, Master. Please don’t kill him,
Master,’ he wailed.
Master had a daily routine of tending to his pet elephant, the tusker
Kochayappan. They would tether Kochayappan in the front yard every
morning and take him back after dusk settled. In those days it was
considered lucky to have a tusker stand in front of the house, with its ears
flapping. The servant Naanan Nair brought with him a large plate of
jaggery, coconut kernels and an assortment of other eats for the elephant.
Upon seeing that, a thought crossed the master’s mind.
‘Bring the boy,’ he commanded. They brought Father, his hands and legs
bound. Following the master’s orders, they placed a bullock yoke between
the elephant’s legs, hammered it deep into the ground, and secured Father to
it. Father screamed, struggled and squirmed. As though his breath had
stopped the very moment he was cast under the elephant, his body
shuddered of its own accord. In some time, urine and faeces came out of his
body.
The master stood there for a little while, laughing. ‘Leave him there until
evening. Let Kochayappan decide if he should be killed or not,’ he said and
left. Little by little, Father regained calm, and soon enough all his fear
vanished. Till the very end, Father marvelled at how his mind attained such
composure and how every detail of that day was vivid in his memory.
The elephant’s feet resembled the fissured and layered stump of a wild
red-cotton tree; they were round and huge, like felled logs. Its toenails
looked like white stubs left behind by chopped-off roots. As Father kept
gazing at the elephant’s nails, they morphed into a demonic row of teeth,
laughing at him with derision. The underbelly of the elephant towered over
him like the roof of a stone cave. Its penis dangled like a giant plough.
Twice, the tusker stretched its trunk to feel Father. One such time, the
trunk fell on him like a blow and made him shudder. After that, the elephant
ignored him. With three of its legs rooted to the ground, it lifted and moved
its fourth gracefully, displaying the underside of its foot, soft and big as a
cloth bundle. Father observed the elephant as it shifted its feet now and
again and stamped the ground with noisy thuds. When it tore into the wild
sugarcane and beat it against its feet, mud splashed from the grass. ‘Aiyo,’
Father shrieked in fear. It was only a while later that he noticed how the
elephant now dusted the plant against its feet with great care. Dung
thumped to the ground from its rear end, together with hot steam that
smelled of green grass. Moss-coloured urine flowed over the piles of dung
like a mountain stream. Father reeked all over of elephant piss.
In the evening, even after they had taken the elephant away, Father lay in
the same spot. They dragged him away and tied him to a coconut tree. They
pulled out Grandfather, now buried neck-deep in the manure pit, and chased
him away. His skin was peeling off like a cooked heron, for the heat of the
manure had scorched his skin. He beat his chest and wailed. ‘Please spare
my son, Kind Master, Our Keeper, Our Lord, please spare him, Master,’ he
kept hollering as they drove him away.
 Through the night, Father bit steadily into the cords that bound his hands
and undid them. Picking up a sharp stone, he cut all the other cords, and in
the pitch-dark of midnight made his escape. This time, he kept away from
the roads and the by-lanes. Through and through, he stuck to the groves, the
bushes and the fields.
Even as he ran, he was filled with disgust at the thought of his father. He
cursed and spat along the way. He thought about what might happen to his
father the next day. ‘Motherfucker, let him die,’ he told himself. Sixteen
years hence, when they sat together as a family to have pazhayadhu, he was
moved to tears on learning that his father hadn’t so much as even touched it
with a finger since that day – not even when deep in the throes of
starvation. ‘The trodden have but their own body, stomach and soul to
wreak vengeance on,’ Father would say.
From Nattalam – the village where he had lived until then – Father
reached Nagercoil through Karungal and Thingal Sandhai. He was eight
years old at the time, and unlettered. He had never heard of a world outside
Nattalam. Back in the day, these places were connected only by dusty cart
tracks. There were fields on either side of the road, punctuated by the
occasional small town. However, for the most part rock-strewn bushlands
lined the route. Jackals and wild dogs thrived, keeping humans indoors at
night-time.
But there is such a thing as blissful ignorance. It has an unbelievable life
force. In my life so far, this is one of the lessons I’ve learnt. When man
stands without malice, God is compelled to leaven his merciless rules. He
has no other choice. That is the force that helped Father to traverse such a
distance.
I once told Father that, only to be laughed at. ‘Get lost, you ignorant fool.
My whole body smelled like an elephant’s. You think another being would
dare approach once it’s had a whiff of that? How do you think I escaped
from the master’s yard? There were twelve dogs standing guard. My
elephant scent sent them scampering to the corner, tails between their legs.’
That was Father till the very end. No matter the circumstance, he was
always guided by reason.
 Father reached Nagercoil the next evening after walking almost thirty-five
kilometres. Starvation he was quite used to. He had a thin, dark frame that
had endured trials of all kinds. Father himself used to say that when forests
catch fire, there are some sticks that char but do not burn down. People hunt
for these in order to plant them in their fields as stakes. They are strong as
diamonds. No matter what, they neither break nor bend. Father was like
that.
He had no memory of his first impressions of Nagercoil. Or other such
details, for he must have roamed the streets like an animal in search of food.
He was cloaked in mud and slush. On his waist hung a spathe of palm, cut
into a makeshift loincloth. But you had to see Father! It was rare to see men
as handsome as him. In fact, he looked a bit like Denzel Washington. He
had kind, gentle eyes that must have been even more beautiful in his
younger days. Like pebbles in a forest stream, they must have been cool,
dark and lustrous.
Father found some food remains on leaf plates strewn outside an idli shop
near Parvathipuram, run by a man named Ganesan. He scraped and polished
off every bit of food he could find on them, and dropped to sleep right
there. Ganesan was a shrewd businessman. The moment he set eyes on
Father, he recognized in him a veritable workhorse. He took him in and fed
him a large potful of pazhayadhu and leftover curry. Once his hunger was
sated, Father stood upright. He told Ganesan his name but refused to
divulge other details about his life or where he came from, no matter how
much he was prodded. Ganesan soon realized that Father was not the kind
to talk.
Father worked there for four years. His daily routine began with a
furlong’s walk to the stream from which he’d fetch pitcher after pitcher of
water to fill a big wooden drum at the eatery. He would keep at it till ten in
the morning, which was when the breakfast session closed. He’d then
gather all the used vessels, scrub them with sand and ash, and wash them
with the water he’d fetched. Then he’d set out once more to fill the drum. In
the evening, after mealtime was over, he’d scrub the vessels and fetch water
again. It would have touched midnight by the time he finished cleaning the
dishes. He was the one who locked up the shop every day.
Exhausted and spent, he’d fall asleep on the veranda at the back and
awaken to the tolling of the church bells in the morning. For years to come,
Ganesan would relate the story of how, during a heavy downpour, he’d
found Father sleeping soundly even as he was drenched by the rain. Father
never fell ill. Leftovers were his only food. He helped himself to them by
scraping up whatever was left in the vessels he cleaned. No one really set
food aside for him.
Father had left behind the world of beatings and curses. He ate till his
stomach was full and his limbs were now like iron cudgels. ‘Dei, you look
like the statue of our god Maadan, you pube,’ Chellappan of the betel-leaf
shop was known to say. However, Father began encountering new kinds of
insults. He was not permitted to touch cooked food. One day, when the leaf
protecting a mound of cooked rice flew away, Father walked towards the
rice with another leaf in hand. Ganesan rushed to stop him, screaming,
‘Don’t touch it! Get out, you! Get out!’
From that day onwards, Father began to notice boundaries that he hadn’t
noticed before. He was not permitted to sit in front of anyone or in any
place other than in the narrow veranda at the back. No one would hand
anything to him directly, they would leave it on the floor for him to pick up.
‘Get out of the way!’ some would shriek, as they encountered him in the
streets.
Nevertheless, Father was quite happy. He was growing in body and mind.
He learned to read on his own and would read every piece of printed paper
that came his way. He learned some arithmetic too. Then, he learnt the
English alphabet and began reading a few words here and there. When he
turned thirteen, he found work as a server at Ambrose Tea Stall opposite the
Nagercoil High Court. At times, he even doubled up as a cook.
An acquaintance at the tea stall, a schoolteacher who’d met him when he
was around fifteen, spotted him reading a page from a torn newspaper one
day and asked, ‘Thambi, which grade have you studied up to?’
‘Never studied,’ said Father.
‘You’ve never been to school?’
 ‘No.’
He looked at Father keenly for a while. ‘Then how did you manage to
learn English? Did you work for a good-hearted sahib?’
‘No, I taught myself,’ said Father.
The teacher was incredulous, but he had no option but to believe him.
‘Karuthaan, how old are you?’ he asked him another day. Father was
twenty by then. ‘Listen, you can take the first-form exams, all right? I’ll get
you all the textbooks. You’ll need to prepare for just four or five months.’
Within a month, Father had read all those books and committed them to
memory. I’ve forever been in awe of the acuity of his mind. At eighty-two
years, eight months before his death, he approached the newly arrived priest
at our church to learn Latin. Whenever the priest meets me, he says Father
was sure to have become a great Latin scholar if only he’d had two years
more.
Father took his sixth-grade exam – that is what was called the first-form
exam back then – at Scott Christian College and passed in the very first
attempt. While continuing to work at the tea shop, he also cleared the
E.S.S.L.C. examination, that is, the eighth-grade exam. He then paid the fee
for writing the matriculation exam. On account of Father managing the tea
stall responsibly, Ambrose too had reposed a lot of faith in him.
It was in 1921 that Father met a person he came to revere, cherish and
praise every single day, nay, hour, of the rest of his life. It was on the
twelfth day of July, at eleven in the morning, and the sun was blazing
outside. A young man, twenty-five or twenty-six years of age, wearing a
black coat over a white, pleated vaetti and sporting a lawyer’s white bowtie,
entered the tea stall. ‘Bring me a glass of hot chaya, son,’ he ordered, as he
sat down on the bench.
Back then, it was only Nadars who frequented the stall, and lawyers were
a rarity in the Nadar community. The few Nadar lawyers around were
Christians who belonged to the London Missionary Society on Bungalow
Street. They dressed, walked and talked like Anglo-Indians and treated
fellow Nadars more disparagingly than even members of the upper caste
did. This man’s appearance left no doubt that he was from down south,
perhaps from near Vilavankodu. There was a country air about him, both in
his looks and his demeanour. To beat the heat, he’d unbuttoned his coat and
turned his collar up. His coat sleeves were rolled up, resting a little above
the elbow.
‘I didn’t know who he was at that time, but my soul recognized him at
once. To this day, the scene is fresh in front of my eyes – the way he walked
in, the way he sat shaking his legs, the way he sipped his tea while blowing
on it – all of it! From his posture and his gait, it was clear that he was an
untamed Nadar, the real deal! It was easy to imagine him casting his shirt
off and scaling ten palm trees in no time; or standing his ground and
delivering blows if ever there was a fight. The Bungalow Street lawyers
would snigger at the sight of him cupping the glass of tea in his hands,
swirling it this way and that, and blowing on it before having a sip,’ said
Father.
‘Which way is it to Abraham sir’s office,’ the man asked Father after
paying for his tea. That’s when he noticed the book in Father’s hands.
‘What’s that book?’ he asked, with a distinct Vilavankodu twang.
‘Matric . . . I’ve enrolled for the exams.’
‘Oh,’ he said, and left upon getting directions to the office.
His name was A. Nesamony. He hailed from Palliyadi, a village near
Thakkalai. His father’s name was Appavu Peruvattar. After completing a
BA degree at the Maharaja’s College in Thiruvananthapuram and a BL
degree at the Law College, also in the same city, he had registered as a
lawyer at the Nagercoil Bar Council.
Yes, it was indeed him. The man known as Marshal Nesamony and held
in great reverence by the Nadars of Kanyakumari, as their leader, even
today. During his time, he and the Congress Party in Thiruvithamkoor were
synonymous. He was elected to the Travancore Legislative Assembly and
later founded the Travancore Congress to fight for the formation of the
Kanyakumari district and in due course, for its merger with Tamil Nadu. He
went on to head the Tamil Nadu Congress and served as a member of
Parliament up until his last days.
There was great trouble on the very first day that Nesamony went to court.
With papers in hand, he stepped into the courtroom. Seven or eight chairs
and four tripod stools had been laid out there as the seating arrangement.
While the official version was that the stools were for junior lawyers,
custom required that the Nadar lawyers, no matter their seniority, should sit
only on them. Nesamony went straight to a chair and sat down. Upon seeing
where he was seated, the public prosecutor in the case, an upper-caste man,
M. Sivasankaran Pillai, scowled in displeasure and left the court at once. No
one sat beside Nesamony. When he realized that he had been sitting all by
himself for thirty minutes, he figured something was amiss.
Paramasivam, the bench clerk, approached Nesamony and, bending down
to his ear, enlightened him on the matter. Nadars are allowed to sit only on
the stools. That’s the custom. Even the senior Nadar lawyers never use the
chair. The great M.K. Chellappan himself hasn’t sat in a chair to this day . .
. In a trice, blood rushed to Nesamony’s head and he started shouting. ‘Elay
. . . if the oppressed can’t find a place to sit here, how can they expect
justice? You lousy dogs!’ he swore, whisking the stools up and flinging
them out into the front yard. He scoured every room in the building and
threw out every single stool he could find.
Father was at the tea stall when a gumasta came running and announced,
‘That man from Palliyadi has gone soft in the head . . . surely something’s
wrong in the top floor.’ More such reports followed soon. Someone’s going
to get killed, they said. ‘He’s Palliyadi Peruvattar’s son. Youth makes him
forget there’s such a thing as respect . . .’ said an old man. In some time,
Nesamony himself arrived, dishevelled, drenched in sweat and out of
breath. ‘Bring the tea!’ he commanded. As soon as Father served him, he
downed it in a single gulp, flung some coins on the table and left.
Soon, more than twenty rowdies from the Vellamadam region, armed with
sticks, descended on the tea stall in search of the man. They roughed up
Father and questioned him about Nesamony. They combed the entire town
of Nagercoil. Court was adjourned for that day and the whole town was
abuzz with the news. ‘Listen! These men are from Vellamadam. They kill
for game,’ someone said. ‘It’s been a while since we’ve had a sensational
murder,’ said somebody else.
 The following day, Nesamony arrived in Thiruvananthapuram’s famous
Pioneer bus with an army of fifty Palliyadi men, brandishing their sticks
and sickles. Flanked by this army, Nesamony entered the court, brief in
hand. The men waited outside the building. Little by little, a crowd began to
gather in front of the courthouse. Soon, the Vellalar and Nair lawyers had to
escape through the back door.
The court was shut for four or five days. The entire town was taut with
tension. Every house and tea stall buzzed with only one topic. The church
intervened. The bishop went and spoke with the judges. There was some
talk about a petition being submitted to the British Resident. The news
frightened the Vellalar and Nair lawyers. Many who had displayed false
bravado earlier backed off now. While a few briefless juniors continued to
cry foul, all the senior lawyers distanced themselves from the situation.
When the court resumed business, enough chairs had been bought to
accommodate everyone. Nesamony and his crowd of supporters thronged
the street in front of the stall and drank tea. Father was the one who made
tea that day. One hundred and seventy-eight glasses in all.
From that day on, Nesamony grew in stature right in front of Father’s
eyes. Before long, his visits to the tea stall stopped and tea had to be
delivered to his office. If the helper boys weren’t around, Father himself
would deliver the tea. There was a perennial crowd in front of Nesamony’s
office. To deliver the tea, Father would walk past weeping women seated on
the floor and fuming villagers debating angrily, to find a bare-chested
Nesamony, his white shirt and bow tie hanging on a nail, sitting with legs
curled up on the chair, laughing and talking loudly. To talk at the top of
one’s voice all the time was a distinctive Vilavankodu–Kalkulam trait.
There were at least seven or eight people at the office at any point.
Nesamony instructed Father to serve tea to every single person inside and
outside the office. At any rate, it would add up to between two hundred and
three hundred cups a day. It reached a stage whereafter they stationed a boy
at the office to make tea. Whenever Father passed by the office, he would
hear Nesamony’s laughter and his loud Malayalam-laced voice and wonder
if the man ever went to court or attended to his cases. All the same, he was
known as the most successful lawyer in all of Thiruvithamkoor. His mere
presence, it was believed, was enough to win a case.
Upon joining the Travancore Congress, Nesamony contested in the
Nagercoil municipal elections at first, emerged victorious, and established
himself as a leader. Thereafter, his presence became scarce at the lawyers’
office. It was around this time that Father passed his matric examinations.
Chellappan, a schoolteacher who was close to Father, alerted him about
vacancies posted by the British government in Tirunelveli and advised him
to apply. Father had not given any thought to a job till that day. He was
thirty-three years old. Neither had he given any thought to marriage. To
visit the Mission’s local library daily and read was the sole preoccupation of
his life.
‘You’ll surely get the job. It’s unlikely that someone who’s passed
matriculation and as worldly-wise as you will apply for that post,’ said the
teacher. Father applied, but without much hope. He was called to attend an
interview in Tirunelveli. The man who interviewed him was a Brahmin – an
Iyengar from Madurai. He conducted the interview in English. ‘Did you
study at the Mission School?’ he asked. ‘I’ve never been to school,’ replied
Father. Iyengar shook his head, and his face suggested that he wasn’t
impressed.
Father returned, certain that he would not get the job, but in a month’s
time he received the order. Iyengar had ranked him second. He went
straight to Madurai to report for work. After eight months of training, he
was transferred to Tenkasi’s land survey department. All towns were the
same to Father. He knew nothing about Thenkasi. Without delay, he
proceeded from Madurai to Thenkasi by train and reported for work.
At once, he sensed that he wasn’t welcome there. The central office of
land survey was in Thenkasi. As soon as he joined there, he was directed to
go to Ilanji. Not one person at the office welcomed Father with a smile.
When Irulandichervai, the man who’d stamped the seal on Father’s job
order, muttered loudly, ‘Blow on some white cock and you’ll land a job’,
the others had smiled to themselves.
Father reached Ilanji by horse cart. It was when he reached the office that
he understood why he had been posted there. The entire area belonged,
directly or covertly, to the zamindar of Ilanji. No law or justice prevailed
beyond his authority. No matter whom the land belonged to or who had
earned it, if the zamindar so wished, his men would confiscate it and change
the title deed. The officer posted in Ilanji had to be a slave to the zamindar –
that was the accepted norm.
The office was locked. Located by the side of a mud road and tucked
away behind a stone wall, the building was a low-roofed old structure. The
compound was overrun with weeds and scrub, and something like a
footpath led up to the building. Myriads of creepers that had thrived in the
wetness of Ilanji had climbed up the building and enveloped the roof.
Father made some enquiries and summoned the village assistant, Thalaiyari
Sankara Thevar, to open the door. Having remained shut for seven or eight
months, the office was carpeted with bat droppings. Father swept the place
all by himself.
Sankara Thevar gave Father the lowdown on the place on the very first
day. Father went with him to visit the zamindar. Sheltered by a coconut
grove, the zamindar’s bungalow was located in the midst of a huge orchard
on the banks of a rivulet. The zamindar’s office was right at the entrance.
That’s where the accountant – kanakkupillai as his ilk was known – and
others sat. The zamindar would come once in the morning and sign all the
papers before heading out.
There were meshed cages on either side of the long path that stretched
beyond the office, housing animals that formed a part of the zamindar’s
private menagerie. In them, he reared a leopard, four or five bears and
seven or eight pythons. Apart from the big animals, there were civets,
porcupines, wild cats, jackals, wolves, black monkeys and many more such
creatures. The office reeked of their piss and droppings all the time.
The zamindar of Ilanji had a keen interest in hunting. He’d employed a
few Pathani Muslims to source and train the horses he was to take on hunts
into the forest. He also had a few tribal people at hand adept at laying traps
to catch animals. He liked to throw those he disliked into the cages of the
bears or the pythons and leave them in there, overnight. The bears had
mauled many to death, said Sankara Thevar. A little boy, who’d been caged
with a python once, died just of fright.
When Father and Thevar reached the threshold of the office, the
kanakkupillai rushed out. ‘Elay! You’re a Nadan, aren’t you, how dare you
come in . . . stay outside, don’t step on the porch . . . leave your chappals in
the corner,’ he screamed. Father remained standing outside the office, while
Thevar was allowed to sit on the porch. Every day, at eight in the morning,
everyone in the office was served a cup of palm nectar. While others were
served in an earthen cup, Father alone was served in a cup made of palm
leaf. What’s more, he was instructed to throw the cup away after he was
done.
They had to wait there until ten o’clock. After standing for an hour, Father
squatted down on the floor. Sharp at ten, a peon hastened in to announce the
arrival of Zamindar Periyakaruppu Thevar. The peon was liveried like an
attendant at the courthouse. In some time, just like in a courtroom, another
attendant dressed similarly came in bearing a silver staff. ‘Left, right,’ he
marched in, shouting some gibberish in a supposedly English accent at the
top of his voice. A band of two followed, playing the bugle and the drum,
their notes meandering whimsically. Finally, Zamindar Periyakaruppu
Thevar emerged, with four or five more attendants in tow. He was wearing
a British lieutenant’s uniform that had been made to order. A pistol hung at
his hip. White gloves adorned his hands. With his legs immersed in big
hunting boots, he was pushing his massive frame ahead with real effort. As
soon as he arrived, every single person got up, saluted him and shouted
words of praise. Their right hand was extended, mimicking Hitler’s troops.
It was evident that they had been trained to act in this manner.
The zamindar caught sight of Father as he climbed up the stairs to the
office. Father was dressed in a black coat, a white high-collared shirt and a
pleated vaetti. He wore a turban on his head, like a hat. It was the
designated uniform for government officials at that time. ‘He’s the new
fellow. From Thiruvithamkoor, a Nadan,’ the kanakkupillai said switching
to the disrespectful singular when he spoke about Father.
Without warning, the enraged zamindar charged at Father with his cane.
‘Khabardaar . . . fool!’ he screamed, lashing him repeatedly. Thalaiyari was
ordered to tie Father up and whip him. The kanakkupillai intervened to
pacify the zamindar, explaining to him that Father was a government officer
and could not be treated that way. It was only when the zamindar had
somewhat calmed down and let out a stream of invective between heavy
gasps of breath did the reason for his fury become clear to Father.
Evidently, he could not tolerate the fact that a Nadar had stood in front of
him, well dressed.
When the zamindar headed inside, the kanakkupillai ordered Father to
remove his turban and his shirt. The zamindar won’t hesitate to cut your
head off, he warned. Writhing in shame and anger, Father did as he was
told. He remained standing with his arms folded across his bare chest.
Wounds from the caning ran across his body as red stripes. The zamindar
stepped out again and eyed Father with hatred. ‘If you know your limits and
act accordingly, you’ll go home with your head intact, understand?’ said the
zamindar, and spat on Father.
The spit circuiting down his frame burnt Father’s body like acid as he
walked back. He returned to his office and broke down, sobbing. Thalaiyari
Sankara Thevar eyed him with derision. All through that day and the
following night, Father sat motionless in his chair. Random, desultory
thoughts swarmed in his head, but by the next morning his mind was set
like stone.
Father began to stay at the office. The office compound had a pond and a
toilet. He erected a sloping roof at the back of the office and set up a mud
stove. He bought vessels, groceries and wood and started cooking. Peon
Kandasamy came to help him every day. Thalaiyari Thevar came as and
when he pleased, for he occupied himself mainly with the work at the
zamin.
Within a month, Father had gone through all the files. His predecessor, an
Iyer man, had complied with the zamindar’s orders and had managed to
survive eight months. After much pleading, he had secured a transfer. No
work had been done since. Father commenced recording everything with
precision. He tallied the documents with the originals, and when he was
done, wrote a long letter to the zamindar. He bid him to disclose the true
accounts and present the real documents at once, pointing out all the frauds
and the wrongdoings.
Four or five days passed before Thalaiyari Thevar informed Father that
the zamindar’s accountant wanted to see him. Father declined. After a
couple of days, he was informed that the zamindar wished to see him.
Father refused again. He could see how his refusal would’ve rattled the
zamindar’s office.
The following day, Thalaiyari Sankara Thevar came with a fellow Thevar
armed with a spear. ‘Ei, better leave at once . . . it won’t look good if we
drag you there with your hands and legs bound,’ he threatened Father.
Father was furious. ‘Take me if you can! Let’s see if the British Empire
upon whom the sun never sets is mighty enough to protect its servant,’ he
declared.
Thalaiyari was shell-shocked. He hadn’t considered the issue in that light
till then. The dark-skinned man sitting there was a representative of a
colossal white empire! Cannons, helmets, rifles, horses, papers with
insignia . . . he didn’t utter another word. He simply stood there twirling his
moustache for a little while, and then walked back. As he left, he paused for
a moment, turning to look at Father.
The very next day, Father issued an order dismissing Thalaiyari Sankara
Thevar from his job. Around afternoon, perfumed in the faint smell of
alcohol, Thevar waded in, with a stick in hand, twirling his moustache, only
to be handed a yellowing government document by peon Kandasamy.
‘What’s this,’ he asked, frightened out of his wits. He didn’t know how to
read.
‘Nadar has dismissed you,’ said Kandasamy.
Thevar was bewildered. He hadn’t fathomed that such a thing was at all
possible. He charged towards Father. ‘What the hell is this,’ he demanded,
shaking the paper.
‘These are government papers. You cannot rough them up like that,’ said
Father. Thevar’s hand stopped in midair and colour drained from his face.
‘You needn’t report here any more. Go work at the zamin,’ said Father.
 Stunned and unable to express what he’d come there to say, Sankara
Thevar left the office. The following day, he and his wife went up to Father,
crying and pleading. ‘We survive on the precious little this sinner leaves us
after drinking away his earnings. Sami, please don’t push us to starvation,’
the wife cried. The infant at her hip looked on with keen interest. Holding
on to her waist, a buck-naked little boy stared at them as he dug his nose.
Meanwhile, Thevar was stealing glances at them from behind a pillar.
‘All right, I’ll consider it for your sake. I am not one to bring ruin upon
anyone,’ said Father. Turning to Thevar, Father said, ‘But you must report
here every morning. You can leave only when I tell you to. You must do
whatever work is given to you. You’ll be held responsible for everything
that goes on in this office. Do you hear me?’
‘Yes,’ said Thevar.
‘You’ve to address me as “sir”, henceforth. It’s a government order. It’s
written in that paper.’
‘Yes saar,’ said Thevar. Out of the blue, he dealt a crisp salute to Father.
The next day, the kanakkupillai summoned Thevar and took him to task
for not bringing Father over as ordered. Thevar replied with assurance.
‘Look here, I work for the sarkar. Even the sun is at the command of the
sovereign that I report to. You may do as you please outside. At the office,
saar is my boss and I am his servant. If saar tells me to, I’ll chop off ten
heads without hesitation. Then, there’s no point in holding a grudge against
me.’
‘If he says so, will you chop my head off too?’ asked the kanakkupillai.
‘Of course! If saar commands me, I must do it, says the sarkar. You are
nothing. After all, a puny Pillai. If saar orders me to, I will collect the
zamin’s head too, understand?’ said Thevar.
The kanakkupillai’s eyes bulged.
‘The empire that has cast a spell on the sun. See! Here’s the notice.’
Thevar flashed the dismissal letter that Father had handed him in the
kanakkupillai’s face. Pillai didn’t dare open it. Back at the office, Thevar
himself recounted Pillai’s plight to Father.
The impasse sustained for almost a month. When the third notice went
out, the kanakkupillai came in person to the office to see Father, with the
notice in hand. By force of habit, he was about to walk in without waiting
for his turn, but Thevar stopped him. ‘Saar is busy writing, can’t you see?
You may go in when he calls you. Wait here,’ he said. The kanakkupillai
turned pale. Later, when his turn came to speak, the vigour with which he
had marched in was gone. When Father spelt out the issues with the
accounts, he replied, ‘That’s the way it works here. The government knows
it too.’
‘Fine, then I shall write to the government,’ said Father.
‘There’s no such practice,’ said Pillai.
‘But I have a job to do, don’t I,’ said Father.
The accountant was lost for words. ‘Periyakaruppu Thevar is very dear to
the collector. One word is enough to bring him here. Thevar is his hunting
companion, you know,’ said Pillai.
‘How’s that of relevance to me? I will send my recommendation. Let the
collector do as he deems fit,’ said Father. ‘Tell Thevar, I am just doing my
job,’ he added.
Pillai wondered if Father had gone crazy. It seemed to him that Father was
needlessly toying with death. How many they have killed and buried
quietly, he thought. ‘Listen, Nadar. I am saying this as a father to a son, let
this go. Apply for leave and disappear. Get transferred to a nice place,
marry a Nadachi and raise a family in peace. This is a murderous town.
They will hack you and bury your body in no time. Killing a man is but a
game to the Thevar,’ he warned.
Father spoke in a steely voice. ‘I am a man who has risen from a manure
pit. I have seen things far worse than death. There is nothing left for me to
fear in this life. For people like you, accounting may mean many things.
You may do your dance with it. I have just come up and got a grip on
things. I hold on, not just for myself but for the seven generations that are to
follow. If I let go now, eight generations will collapse to the ground, get it?
Go tell them that the Nadar is ready to face death. You may leave now.’
Stupefied, the kanakkupillai sat in silence for a few minutes and then left.
Thalaiyari Thevar warned Father. ‘Saar, don’t go out. They’ll attack as soon
as they lay eyes on you.’ Father stayed put at the office. The following
morning, the zamindar came straight to the office, galloping on his horse.
The huntsmen who accompanied him waited outside. The zamindar was
dressed in an Englishman’s hunting outfit. Father didn’t get up from his
seat; nor did he welcome him. The zamindar rushed up the stairs with a
long rifle and pointed it at Father. His finger was on the trigger.
In that instant, Father felt as if he had died and come back to life.
Gathering himself, he said ‘Shoot me if you will. One has to be lucky to die
as a British officer inside a British office.’ The zamindar lowered his rifle.
‘Shoot me . . . you’re a powerful brute, aren’t you? You have the licence to
murder and maraud, don’t you? Shoot me and leave. But it won’t end with
that. You’re thrusting your hand in a beehive. We will come after you. Wave
after wave of men will be born to come after you. Let’s see how many you
shoot down,’ said Father. When he spoke those words, Father felt as though
there were many thousands of people in the room, hanging on his every
word.
The zamindar had not expected such courage. He was unable to think. His
hands trembled and he lowered the gun. Father took advantage of his
hesitation. ‘You think you can shoot me and escape? I am an officer
appointed to account for taxes. A collector will not be able to close this case
as easily as you think. The Englishman is sure to come after you and have
you hanged. Your own kin will offer witness, send you to the gallows and
share the spoils. Do you realize that?’ said Father.
In some time, the zamindar’s face regained calm. His eyes narrowed with
slyness. ‘You’re a cunning fox. But we’ve been playing with this very
shrewdness for ten generations now. Let’s see. You are an officer only
within this boundary. Step out of here and an elephant could stamp you to
death, or a Thevan walking by might slay you. Let’s see what you do then.’
He hastened down the flight of stairs, mounted his horse, and with hooves
thudding and mud splashing, rode back home.
Father didn’t venture out of the office. Men lay in hiding everywhere,
waiting to kill him should he come out. Thevar apprised him of the
situation. Peon Kandasamy went on leave. But Sankara Thevar stationed
himself at the office, spear in hand. He ate whatever Father cooked. At
night, with a gunnysack for a blanket, he sat watch on the porch without a
wink of sleep. During the day, he slept right there on the porch. The
movement of a lizard was enough for him to spring awake and reach for his
spear.
The vigil lasted twenty-seven days. Not once did Father step out of the
office premises. Thevar, with his stick for defence, would walk to the post
office and back, collecting and delivering letters. He brought the necessary
rations. He always walked upright, for he had the ‘sarkar notice’ tucked
away in his waist band as evidence.
Father waited for days. Death lurked ahead of him, hidden from sight. On
one of those nights, Father had a dream. Nesamony was seated at Father’s
old stall, drinking tea. ‘What’s the matter, son,’ his nonchalant voice rung
out as he pulled back the collar of his coat with machismo. At once, Father
woke up and penned down all that had happened in utmost detail and sent a
letter to Nesamony.
Perhaps Nesamony could draw the attention of the Nellai collector. Or
else he could secure the help of the police. That is what Father had
expected. However, on the fifth day, a swarm of seventy to eighty men
proceeded from Thenkasi to Ilanji, brandishing their sickles and spears.
Leading the procession was an elephant. ‘Victory to the Congress! Victory
to Mahatma Gandhi! Victory to Pandit Nehru! Victory to Subhas Chandra
Bose!’ they roared in unison.
It was afternoon and Father was in the office. Upon hearing the noise, he
stepped out. Thevar stood at the entrance with his sickle in hand. ‘You go
in, saar. No one can get past me,’ he said. Father’s gaze first fell upon the
tusker that blocked the expanse of the gate, like a boulder manifest from the
ground beneath. Then he spotted Nesamony making his way to the front.
‘Thevar! This is my dear lawyer Nesamony!’ exclaimed Father.
‘Who?’
‘Our leader,’ he replied, racing outside. Nesamony scooped up Father in a
tight embrace.
‘You’re born of a man, after all. How you’ve stood your ground! You’ve
shown them what we’re made of! We must stand up for ourselves, always.
Let’s see who dares lay a finger on you when you step outside now. Get on
the elephant,’ he thundered.
Father hesitated. ‘I’m the one telling you. Get on the elephant,’ repeated
Nesamony. As soon as he signalled to the mahout, the elephant lowered
itself and offered Father a bent knee. Father caught hold of its ear, stepped
on its leg and climbed on to its crown. He felt as if he was sitting on a
gigantic boulder.
The tusker got to its feet upon hearing the mahout’s call. Father rose
upwards. For the rest of his days, he kept describing that upward movement
to us with great fervour. How many times and in how many ways he’d
described it! He would have risen no more than three feet up, but in his
heart that journey lasted an eternity.
He kept rising up towards the skies. The earth moved further and further
away from him. The office and its tiled roof sank lower and lower. The
branches of the trees went downwards. The road and all the people on it
sank further below. The incandescent sky came down towards him. He was
enveloped in radiance, the radiance of the firmament, the radiance that
brims and ripples through the clouds.
When the elephant walked, Father felt as though he had become the
elephant. ‘You will understand what an elephant is only when you mount it.
Elephant is power, do you hear me? It’ll make you believe you can destroy
a fort with a tiny pin. There’s nothing more majestic than the gait of an
elephant.’ Father was never satisfied with what he told us. It always felt as
though there was more to it. Father swayed from side to side, as if gliding
through the sky.
With Father atop the elephant, the procession wormed its way through all
of Ilanji town. People lined up on both sides, watching in amazement. The
faces of women bulged through the bars of the windows in every house.
The procession stopped in front of the temple and raised a chorus. It went
around to the community hall and paused in front. The zamindar’s men,
armed with spears, slings, and sickles and baying for Father’s blood, looked
on with terror-soaked eyes.
 The crowd proceeded to the zamindar’s bungalow. Upon seeing them
approach, the gates to the compound had been shut. ‘Break it down,’
ordered Nesamony. On the mahout’s orders, the tusker lifted its front leg
and kicked the gate, which collapsed with a thunderous bang. The elephant
went straight to the zamindar’s bungalow and stopped at the front yard. The
bears and the leopard, having caught a whiff of the elephant, circled
fearfully and restlessly in their cages. The wildcats receded to the corners of
their cages, jumping, recoiling and hissing in fear.
Father stood taller than the roof of the zamindar’s bungalow, and he
kicked at the tiled roof of the building. The crowd roared in appreciation.
After standing there for half an hour, crying ‘Victory to Congress! Victory
to Mahatma Gandhi! Victory to Pandit Nehru! Victory to Subhas Chandra
Bose! Victory to Kamaraj! Victory to Nesamony!’ the procession headed
back with Father still atop the elephant.
Father alighted in front of his office. He felt as though the elephant’s
movements were still reverberating in his body. His thighs were sore and in
pain. When he walked with his legs spread out, he felt as though he was
floating. ‘My gait changed that day. From then on, my walk acquired that
swagger,’ Father would say. After dropping Father off, Nesamony and his
army returned. ‘No one will dare lay a finger on you now. Rest assured,’
said Nesamony, bidding Father goodbye.
Indeed. After that, Father worked in Ilanji for seven years. He made
public the zamindar’s fraudulent records. The lands were surveyed afresh
and given back to their rightful owners. There even came a stage when the
zamindar’s kin came forward to offer every help that Father needed. When
Father walked on the road, those walking towards him gave way now and
joined their palms in respect. They always left space enough for an elephant
to pass by.
‘In their eyes, I was still riding on an elephant. It’s because the elephant is
always in my heart. And in my walk too, you know,’ Father would say. The
elephant attached itself to his name. He himself signed off letters as Aanai
Karuthaan Nadar. Dark-as-an-Elephant Nadar. ‘The man who rides an
elephant cannot bow. Nor can he give way. Do you hear me?’ he would say.
 It was while working in Ilanji that Father married and I was born. While
naming me, that moment on the pachyderm flashed in front of his eyes. He
named me Vanangaan. He Who Will Not Bow. Mother protested. ‘What’s
this, such an odd name,’ she said. ‘Be quiet, that will be his name.
Vanangaan Nadar,’ declared Father. He had handed me an inviolable order
as soon as I was born.
When I was seven months old, Father took me to Palliyadi to see
Nesamony. Nesamony was in the hall, reading a newspaper. Father entered
Appavu Peruvattar’s huge house and stood before his famous son seated in
the hall in front. On Nesamony’s bidding, he pulled up a chair and sat
down, placing me in the great man’s arms. ‘What’s his name?’ asked
Nesamony. Father told him. Nesamony smiled.

OceanofPDF.com
 Penance of the Goddess

It seemed as though Raman was murmuring something. In all likelihood it

was, ‘himagirithanaye hemalathe’, the Carnatic kriti. Balasubramanian
broke into a smile. Seeing him smile, Raman stopped singing. ‘All right!
Forget it,’ he said with a laugh.
‘Well . . . sometimes I think, if we simply connect a gramophone to your
fingers, the most pristine music will surge out . . . ’
‘I get it. Music is at my fingertips but not on my lips, you say.’
Balasubramanian smiled again.
‘You know what was the first question I asked Sharadha on our wedding
night?’ said Raman. ‘Will you listen to me sing, I asked, and she said yes.
That was the end of it. If I ever bring up singing now, she makes such a
face, you know, even the most brilliant musician is sure to choke!’ Raman
laughed heartily and Balasubramanian joined in.
‘I used to sing in my childhood, though,’ said Raman. ‘There’s the smile
again. All those who can’t sing, say that, right?’ he joked. ‘But what a smile
you’ve got . . . whenever I see it, I fear you might stray into politics and end
up in Delhi!’ Balasubramanian cracked up this time. The fringe of hair on
his forehead fluttered in the sea breeze. His long Calcutta jibba and vaetti
flapped in the wind, as though he was aching to fly. Raman’s shoulder cloth
swept up behind him; he drew it in and tucked it under his armpit.
It was noontime. Barring a few couples from up north, the Gandhi
mandapam was deserted. Raman hopped on to the parapet with care and sat
sideways on to the sea. He rested his back against the wall and propped his
legs up. Balasubramanian stood holding the parapet as he looked down.
Waves swelled in a blindingly bright sea. Three or four large fishing boats
sailed forth, like dark spots on the face of the sun.
‘Is that the rock on which the Vivekananda mandapam is coming up?’
asked Raman, his palms shielding his eyes as he gazed at the twin rocks that
seemed to be bobbing and oscillating in a pool of light.
‘Yes, on the taller one by the side . . . I heard it’s been sanctioned. I still
don’t like it that they built the Gandhi mandapam here. They keep
constructing all the time. Why can’t they let the seashore be a seashore?
Why doesn’t anyone think that way?’
‘What’s the problem? They’ve built it well, haven’t they?’ said Raman. ‘It
will be nice to have a temple here. You must visit Calcutta. When I stepped
into Vivekananda’s chamber at the Belur mutt, I was so moved that my eyes
grew moist. What a man! And what a face . . . even if he were the emperor
of the entire world, justice wouldn’t be done to its majesty,’ said Raman.
‘What’s there on that rock at present?’
‘Over there? There’s something like a small shrine. People from the
Amman temple visit it four times a year, to offer prayers.’
‘And the idol?’
‘There’s no such thing. It’s just an impression on the rock face, like a
footprint. A small oval cavity, about one and a half palms in length. The
belief is, it was the impression made by Goddess Kanyakumari’s foot as she
stood in penance on one leg, determined to marry Thanumalayan, the deity
of the Suchindram temple. The locals visit the rock and worship the
goddess by setting up a fire and offering freshly cooked food as oblations.
On full-moon days, they ride out there in a boat and light oil lamps.’
‘Is that so?’ asked Raman. ‘Can we go see?’ he said, perking up.
‘We could . . .’ drawled Balasubramanian. ‘But we’ll have to go in a
catamaran, you won’t like it.’
‘It’ll make me feel sick, won’t it?’ said Raman, abandoning the idea
instantly. ‘But it’s so invigorating just to hear about it. A maiden stands in
penance on one leg, for many, many aeons. And a solitary footprint is all
that remains, bearing witness to it.’
‘There are many such impressions on these rocks,’ said Balasubramanian.
‘Rain and wind weather the soft material on their surface, creating such
cavities,’ he reasoned.
Raman didn’t show any sign of having heard that. After a few moments,
he said, ‘But why should she undertake such a penance? All for a husband?
Time after time he’s taken birth and married her, hasn’t he? Then, why such
a penance?’ Balasubramanian sensed that Raman’s inner equilibrium had
been ruffled. ‘Why, Balu, why must she stand on one leg?’
‘Because that’s what’s difficult . . .’ said Balasubramanian, laughing it off.
‘No . . . her other leg was in midair. Compared to the raised golden foot of
Nataraja, this sounds far more severe, far more intense. The leg that hangs
in midair. As though there’s no place to set it down . . . The goddess with a
leg held aloft – has it been made into a statue somewhere?’
‘I don’t think so,’ said Balasubramanian.
‘If Nataraja sets down his raised foot, an aeon ends; the universe and all
matter, animate and inanimate, will perish – that’s the story. What will
happen if the goddess sets down her raised foot?’ Raman asked.
Balasubramanian fell silent. ‘Nothing at all. She is a mother, isn’t she?’
completed Raman. Lost in himself, he sat staring at the rocks and the sea.
Unawares, he began murmuring ‘himagirithanaye hemalathe’, only to
become self-conscious the moment the words reached his ears. ‘Forgive me,
that was involuntary,’ he said. After an interval of silence he asked, ‘Shall
we go straight to Kazhugumalai from here . . . will you come? Subbu Anna
will be singing at a concert. He’s sent me a letter asking if I’ll come,’ he
said.
‘Let me think it over,’ said Balasubramanian.
‘You know, Subbu Anna is close to me through my guru’s lineage? Close
as in – don’t they say once removed, twice removed – it’s like that, he’s
some sort of relation, many times removed. His guru’s guru was my
Thatha’s guru. His name was Vilakkudi Kittavaiyar. I have heard people
talk of him as a man of extraordinary erudition. They say he learnt music
from the great saint of Carnatic music, Thyagaiyar himself. I don’t know
about all that. But every school of music across Mannargudi, Thiruvaiyaru
and Thiruvarur traces its roots back to him.’
‘Is it?’ said Balasubramanian, with disinterest. It did not please him that
the conversation was headed towards music at that point. But he wasn’t one
capable of halting or redirecting the speech of another. ‘My grandfather’s
name was Seshaiyar. I must say, Thatha was my first guru. He was vast as
the sea. In fact, he was given the moniker sangeetha-gnana-sagaram, “the
ocean of musical wisdom”. Musicians really didn’t make much, back in
those days. The little they made came from what the monastic Hindu mutts
doled out, at their whim and fancy. But just to travel to the Sringeri mutt
and back would cost double their grant. The alternative was katha-
kalakshepam, which was quite the rage back then, as it combined
storytelling with music. Artistes who adapted themselves to the craft made
good money. There were even some who staged around two hundred
recitals a year. I know, because it was my father’s vocation too . . .
‘But my Thatha was solely an exponent of classical music, and did
nothing else. He owned some land. Since those were the times when tenants
honoured their leases, there was no shortage of food. Without a care in the
world, he lived a contented life, bathing in the river Kaveri three times a
day, reciting his daily prayers, practising music and performing at the
temple in the evenings with his own self for audience. Every now and then,
he was invited to Thanjavur or Kumbakonam to sing at concerts and
escorted in a closed carriage to and from the venue. A shawl was the most
common gift. If the host was a big shot, a one-poun gold coin . . . Thatha
would keep talking about it until the next concert. “This is how I sang there
. . . this is how I began,” he’d say, demonstrating it over and over.
‘When I got to see him, he must have been seventy already. Of his seven
children, my father was the youngest. I was told that Thatha was forty-eight
when Appa was born. In my memories, Thatha’s always seated on a striped
jamakalam rolled out on the veranda, leaning against the wall, with a jug of
water, a whole plateful of tender betel leaves, and a canister of betel-nut
slivers next to him. Slaked lime was kept in a parrot-green wooden box,
along with a small tin of tobacco leaves. He always had the tambura by his
side, as though it were an inseparable companion. When I was small, I
imagined that a young girl with wheatish skin was seated with Thatha.’
Balasubramanian smiled.
‘Don’t laugh,’ said Raman. ‘The tambura really did seem like a shy,
reticent young girl. His hands would always be strumming the instrument.
Once he struck the desired pitch, he’d begin to sing softly, his voice one
with the drone of the tambura. He only sang for himself. You said just now
that there’s music in my body . . . and that we can tap it . . . that’s all him.
Back in those days, the village agraharam adjoining the temple, where most
Brahmin families lived, was very quiet. Radios and records hadn’t reached
there yet. A small stream ran through the agraharam – the waters of the
Kaveri. The sound of running water could be heard all day long. Thatha
would capture its pitch in the tambura and sing to it. In the afternoon, a
cuckoo would alight on the mango tree and sing. He would match its timbre
too. Every sound from the outside was music to him. Every one of those
sounds found union in the melody that lived within him, just as the waters
of the town drain into the Kaveri, becoming the very river. That said, isn’t it
the Kaveri that flows into town as water, anyway?
‘The townsfolk considered him a blessed soul. Whenever a baby was
born, it’d be brought to Thatha. “Anna, please bless the child,” they’d
entreat him. He’d take the infant in his lap and sing a few lines of ‘Ra Ra
Devadhi Deva’ – welcoming the child as the lord of lords – before handing
it back. Should the infant’s mother be there, she was sure to tear up and
bury her face in the free end of her saree. They said he must have offered
countless pots of honey to Saraswathi in his previous life. In this life too,
for all of sixty or seventy years, he was unremitting in his worship of
Saraswathi, showering her idol with honey. There’s a temple in
Kumbakonam, the Veda Narayana Perumal temple. Brahma is enshrined
there with his consorts, Saraswathi and Gayathri. Every year on Thatha’s
birthday, which fell in the month of Aavani, he’d hire a carriage, visit that
temple and offer honey to the goddess. When he could no longer move
around, my father took his place. The only year we didn’t keep to the ritual
was when Paati passed away.
‘Thatha lived till eighty, free of pains and aches, untouched by any disease
or disorder. Though his voice shook a little and acquired a mild drawl, its
beauty didn’t fade. He had an erect frame and was thin as a vein. You could
see the bones jutting against the front and sides of a hairless chest and the
veins coiled across his stomach. Till the end, he never wore a shirt. He was
of a wheatish complexion – neither fair nor dark. He had big eyes. Like
those of a temple statue they bulged as though they’d fall out any moment.
Though he was taciturn by nature, his thoughts found expression in his
eyes. Towards the end, his sleep dwindled a lot. In the middle of the night,
he’d wake up, tune the tambura and sing softly, in a way that left you
wondering if it was for real. You’d be transported to some other world – as
though riding a honeybee, you’d soar through a garden of flowers, hopping
from bloom to bloom, drinking greedily the nectar of jasmines and roses
and pinwheels, before landing on the ground again. The neighbours burnt
the midnight oil, just to listen to that music, we were told.
‘In his last days, his vision deteriorated somewhat. I had to take his hand
and walk him to the Kaveri in the mornings. In the afternoons and evenings,
he’d bathe in the stream in front of the house. However, he did not make
any compromise in his daily rituals and routines. They were as orthodox as
ever and had to be done as he wished. If they weren’t done the way he
wanted, he wouldn’t say anything either. He’d simply stop talking and turn
to his tambura. And then he’d relent only when Amma and Appa pleaded
with him, apologized profusely and shed many a tear. My Amma was the
one who had to tend to all his needs. She too served him as she would’ve
served divinity.
‘Yes, Paati was around. I don’t recall seeing her much. She was thirteen
years younger than Thatha. But from her looks you’d think she was past
eighty, ninety, or perhaps more. In my childhood memories, she’s pictured
as an emaciated cow. Her back was so stooped that her upper body was
practically parallel to the ground. Like a cow’s, indeed. If one imagines her
arms to be forelegs, her gait was exactly that of a cow’s. Her face and her
eyes were pointed towards the ground. She had sparse white hair tied up in
a bun the size of a betel nut. She never wore a blouse. One breast always
hung out of her saree and swayed like the udder of an old cow. Scrawny and
shrivelled, she was only the size of a ten-year old. She ate very little. An
idli in the morning, and another in the afternoon. In the evening, a fistful of
cooked rice . . . she wouldn’t sit and eat it all in one go either; it had to be
put in a small canister and given to her. She’d leave it here and there, and
we had to keep handing it back to her. Amma realized that the wiser thing
to do was to buy puffed rice and secure a small bundle of it to her waist.
That became her meal . . .
I had never seen her sit at one place. She was always wandering all over
the house, though she never once stepped outside. Not even to the veranda
or the front yard. In the final decades of her life, she had truly lost her mind.
But I’ve heard that she was well enough back when my Amma and Appa
got married. At any rate, she was not given to talking and met everything
with silence. Appa himself barely remembers her speak. He used to say the
only speech audible in the house was that of the gecko. Her world was all
about attending to the household chores like a fanatic. She’d rise at the
break of dawn, and before there was enough light to see her own palms, she
had to finish washing all the vessels, sweep and mop the entire house and
get things ready for Thatha’s prayers . . . she knew nothing other than
chores.
‘When Amma came into the family, they were faced with the same issue.
There was nothing left to do at home. It’s only proper that the daughter-in-
law should have work to do, isn’t it? However, there wasn’t enough work to
occupy Paati in the first place and so all that was left for Amma to do was
follow her around the house. When my mother had my eldest sister, it was
Paati who took care of everything. All Amma had to do was rest. But that is
when the problem started coming to light. Paati began washing the soiled
baby clothes over and over, like a maniac. If the baby’s waste lay in one
part of the house, she’d clean and mop the entire home. The others were a
bit puzzled to begin with. Paati wasn’t a believer in the idea of orthodox
purity either, to account for such behaviour on her part. They did ask her
what was happening, but didn’t get a convincing response. Little by little,
the problem magnified.
‘Within six months it became evident that there was something wrong.
But then, one of Appa’s younger sisters was still to be married off. They
thought it would affect the marriage prospects of the girl if they dwelled on
Paati’s condition. And so they held their silence. After that, everyone grew
accustomed to her ways. The chief administrator of the local mutt at that
time, a man named Nanavaiyyar, was the one who looked after Thatha’s
worldly affairs. He said, “Never mind, each one of us has our feet planted
firmly on the ground, but she has chosen to raise one up. Forget it. She’s
quite old already, what’s the point in getting her checked now? There are no
complications, right? Let her be.” There ended the matter.
‘She did as she pleased. She’d get up early, around four or four thirty in
the morning, and begin washing herself. It would take her three hours to
finish bathing and washing her clothes. Then, she’d sweep and mop the
house, sparing no nook or cranny. The bars of the windows, the corners
behind doors – she’d wipe all of them, over and over. Amidst all this, she’d
bathe again. Then clean some more. She would bathe at least eight times in
a day. As she was given to wandering around the house, she was locked up
inside the storeroom at night, where a bed was made for her. All through the
night, you could hear sounds of things being tidied from within her room . .
.
‘Thatha did not so much as acknowledge the existence of such a being in
the house. Only on one occasion, in the context of a marriage proposal that
came for my older sister, did Paati’s condition come up in conversation.
“Each one arrives in this world carrying their fate with them like packed
food. There’s nothing to be done. It’s their lot in life.” That’s all Thatha
said. Paati too never crossed the passage leading up to the veranda. I don’t
know when they had last met each other. One morning, when Amma
opened the storeroom, Paati was sitting in a corner, glued to the wall, with
her back to Amma. As soon as Amma went in and touched her, she
understood what had happened. I too ran in and had a look. I’ve never heard
of anyone being seated in death, as she was. Her hunched back, resembling
bamboo bent for a palanquin’s roof, was the only thing visible. The rest of
her – her head, her hands, her feet – were all wedged into the corner of the
wall in front.
‘Appa went and fetched the chozhiyan Brahmin who brought along a
helper and hauled the body out. They could not lay the body on its back as
its arch was still intact. Laid to rest on her side, Paati looked like a sleeping
infant suckling its finger. Amma noticed it when she washed her body – a
scorpion had stung her on her finger; she’d thrust her hand into a hole. It
was a huge black scorpion. Since Paati’s body was small, it couldn’t
withstand the poison. Wracked by some sort of fit, she’d bitten and gashed
her lips . . .
‘When the news was delivered to Thatha, he set the tambura down. He
stared ahead in uncomprehending silence for a little while. “Daasarathe,” he
then muttered, calling out to Rama, and picked up the tambura again. A
pandal made from coconut fronds had been erected in front of the house.
The whole town had gathered there, creating a big scene with their weeping
and lamenting. As though he had nothing to do with the goings-on outside,
Thatha sat with his eyes closed, strumming the tambura, lost in the music
within. When the body was about to be taken away, my father’s eldest sister
approached him and said, “Appa, please come and see her once.” Without
uttering a word, he put the tambura away and got to his feet. He crossed the
threshold, stepped into the front yard and cast a glance at the woman lying
on the floor before returning to his spot. He picked up the tambura straight
away and sat down. They called him again only when they set out for the
banks of the Kaveri.
‘I’ve heard Paati was well versed in music. My Thatha’s father,
Subbaiyar, was a highly accomplished musician too. They say his rendition
of the varnams was unparalleled in his time. The lands he possessed were
gifts from the Thanjavur royalty. He was my Thatha’s first guru. He had
once made a visit to Pathur in connection with some land dealings. This is
the Pathur near Koradacherry. It was home to an ancient temple, which had
been destroyed by then. Though the temple had vanished, the agraharam
attached to it had survived. But it was a cursed agraharam. When my great-
grandfather was riding through that place, a song happened to fall on his
ears. He stopped his carriage in front of the house in question and made
enquiries. That was my Paati’s house. She was six years old then, and she
was the one who’d been singing.
‘Satisfied with the enquiries, he gave his word to her family right then,
that she was to be his daughter-in-law. He hadn’t even seen her. When they
suggested that he see the girl, he replied, “For one blessed with such a voice
and such talent, should looks matter? After all, I’m going to take home
Goddess Saraswathi herself.” They promised to pay a dowry of five pouns’
worth of gold. The wedding took place in their house. But even after the
girl had crossed seven or eight years of age, they were unable to send her to
her in-laws’ place with the promised gold. Those were the times of famine.
It took a lot just to fill their stomachs. The girl’s father had made the
promise in a moment of blind faith, but couldn’t fulfil it. So his daughter
remained at home.
‘Four or five times, Thatha’s father sent his men to enquire after them. He
didn’t get a proper response. “All right, then. This girl is not for you, son.
Your horoscope has something else in store, I think,” he said, and
harnessing a carriage right away, went straight to Pathur. The girl’s father,
who’d gone to cut banana leaves elsewhere, rushed home at once and stood
wordlessly in front of him, his hands folded in obeisance. “It’s all over, sir. I
came to tell you just that,” Thatha’s father declared, and strode back to the
carriage. Just as he was about to depart, Paati appeared on the scene with a
small bundle in hand, ready to leave with him. She didn’t say a word, but
her eyes looked as though they were painted. His gaze fell on her. The next
instant, saying “Fine, get in, my dear child”, he lifted her, placed her in the
carriage and took her home.
‘However, till the very end he didn’t allow the Pathur family to come
anywhere near their house. He refused to accept even the customary gifts
from them. They weren’t welcome to attend births or deaths, he told them
obstinately. Many came to make peace. Unmoved, “She can leave if she
wants, but she cannot return” he said with finality. Paati’s father, on one
such attempt to visit, was waiting by the roadside under a coconut tree. “If
you take her home, don’t bother coming back,” said Thatha’s father. “No . .
. wherever she is, may she live a full life blessed with children. This poor
man’s blessing will accompany her forever like a shadow,” said her father,
departing in tears. That was that. After that, Paati’s connection with Pathur
was severed. Within thirty years, the entire Pathur agraharam vanished
without a trace.
‘Appa used to say that he’d never heard Paati sing. I don’t know why.
Thatha had a peculiar quality. He’d never listen to others sing, he always
sang for himself. “A pond brimming with water doesn’t need to be fed by
streams,” Appa would say. Maybe that was true. Thatha started teaching me
music when I was two. He had more than eighty or ninety students, my
father included. Not one turned out bad. Some of them grew to be
accomplished musicians. Decked in diamond earrings and gold bracelets,
they’d come to seek Thatha’s blessings. I was the only one who turned out a
failure. Music pervades my heart. As you said, it surges in my fingertips . . .
but it never found its way to my tongue. “Devi! How can this be?” Thatha
would pine, with hand on heart. Finally, making peace with the
predicament, he made me learn the violin instead. Then the flute. I couldn’t
get anything right. He gave up after that.
‘Till today, I am unable to explain what happened with me. A long time
later, I had this thought – maybe if Thatha had not taught me I might have
made it. When he taught me, it felt as though the tongue inside me, the
mind’s tongue, folded shut. That is what directs the external one. The latter
flailed aimlessly, while the mind’s tongue was stuck, trembling. Yes. Even
now I can sing, but the two refuse to synchronize.’
‘I haven’t been able to understand why. But there was this incident. Appa
had told Amma about it and she revealed it to me in secret. I now feel they
shouldn’t tell children such things. Maybe that’s been bothering me, I don’t
know. My Thatha’s father died after being confined to the bed for three
years with paralysis. In his last days, he even passed urine and defecated in
bed. He wasn’t just a father, but also a guru to Thatha. So Thatha looked
after him with great care. Paati too tended to him as she would’ve tended to
a newborn.
‘One day, hearing his father mumble something, Thatha went up to him.
The spathe of palm placed under him like a bedpan was now full to the brim
with faeces and urine and Thatha’s father lay flush on the muck. His eyes
were dark and cloudy, like two inkpots. “Adiyei,” Thatha thundered, calling
out to Paati. Paati, who was at work in the kitchen, came running at once.
He removed the bed pan and emptied it directly on her head.
‘I started writing much later, Balu. Music is a cut above everything else, I
admit. It’s pristine. Literature is not as clean as that. It carries with it all
kinds of filth and muck. Like an uprooted sapling, there’s mud clinging to
its roots. Like Kaveri in the month of Aadi, it’s steeped in waste and refuse.
That’s why it inches a step closer to God . . . I don’t know . . . am I babbling
or making sense . . . only intelligent folks like you should tell . . . In fact,
the very first story I wrote was about Paati.’
‘I think I’ve read it . . .’ said Balu.
‘No, the one you’ve read is what I wrote much later in Vikatan. This story
was published in a magazine run in those days by Trilokasitaram. Ku.Pa.Ra.
has also written quite a lot in that publication.’ Raman’s face bloomed into
a smile. ‘The Paati who features in that story is quite different. With a head
full of flowers, sporting an addigai necklace and draped in a silk saree, she
sings at a gathering, melting and dissolving in the melody . . .’

OceanofPDF.com
 Elephant Doctor

I can’t help feeling annoyed when I’m made to answer the phone at six in
the morning. It’s invariably late by the time I hit the bed. In this forest
where, other than in the months of April and May, it’s either raining or
drizzling or cold, the majority fall asleep by 8 p.m. As early as seven thirty
in the evening, midnight’s quiet will have overrun and enveloped the
quarters and the villages.
The problem is, it’s the forest rangers too who turn in by seven thirty. And
so, at any time I please, but past nine, I drive to their camp in my jeep,
round up a few rangers and go for a spin through the jungle. Indeed, I
consider this to be the most important part of my job. Liberated from the
drudgery of meaningless paperwork that otherwise fills the day, it’s only
then that I feel like a forest officer.
The phone fell silent. I turned over. No one calls here in the morning
unless it’s absolutely necessary. Everyone at the department is quite familiar
with the environs of the jungle. Who could it be, was there some sort of
problem? It’s fine, go to sleep, said my brain. Just as sand cascaded down
submerging my thoughts, and my body groped in the void in an attempt to
propel itself upward from the precipice where I was a grass tip away from
losing myself, the phone rang again.
It all came to me this time – the who, the why, and everything else. A
tremor of excitement ran through my body. How could I forget? If, in its
half-asleep state, my mind recalls nothing more than the humdrum of life,
then is that all I am? I picked up the receiver and said hello. Anand was at
the other end.
‘Still sleeping?’ he asked.
‘Yeah, I went to bed late last night.’
It was cold. ‘Tell me,’ I said, as I wrapped the woollen blanket around me,
settled into the chair and leaned back.
‘The Minister of Culture himself phoned me yesterday and asked to meet.
I took the hint and went at once. We met at his home garden and shared a
Scotch. He was very, very impressed. I believe the committee members
were blown away and went into raptures about the old man. He asked if he
could meet him in person. “Of course. He’ll have to come here to receive
his award in any case,” I said. But it seems he wants to meet him in his own
habitat, where he does his work. I’ve assured him that I’ll have it arranged
as soon as he sends word.’
‘What now?’
‘What then? It’s all confirmed, my friend. The list has been approved by
the minister’s office yesterday and sent to the President for his signature. In
all likelihood, they’ll place it on the President’s table this morning. It’ll be
signed by one, or latest by two, in the afternoon. The President doesn’t
come into office after lunch these days, I hear. By four they will have issued
a press release, and it’ll be in the five-thirty news.’
It felt as though the cells in my body were exploding one after another,
like bubbles of foam, and I was shrinking further and further into
nothingness. ‘What’s wrong?’ asked Anand. My voice was trapped in my
throat like a foam bubble. I butted it with my lungs. As though the bubble
had popped, there arose a ‘hello’.
‘Dei, what happened?’ said Anand.
In a low voice, I said, ‘Thanks, man.’ By then, my restraint slackened and
I broke into faint sobs. ‘Thanks . . . I mean it.’
‘Dei, what’s going on?’
I held myself together using every thought I could summon. After I had
expelled a few more sobs, I stuttered, ‘Thank you . . . I’ll never forget it . . .
So much has gone into this . . . Fine . . . let it be . . . how does it matter what
I’ve done? This is huge. Truly huge . . . I’m at a loss for words.’ It felt as
though a water tank had exploded over my head and emptied its cool waters
on me in a torrential cascade. I wanted to stand up, throw my arms in the air
and shout out loud. I wanted to punch something with all my might. I
wanted to dance wildly across the room.
 ‘What’s the matter . . .’ Anand persisted.
By the time I said ‘nothing’, I was laughing. ‘I want to dance like there’s
no tomorrow . . . ’
‘Dance away,’ he said, joining in the laughter.
‘Yeah, right.’
‘I’m over the moon too, to be honest. It was eleven by the time I returned
last night. I rang you the moment I got back. I must have called you at least
four times but you didn’t pick up the phone.’
‘I was in the forest.’
‘Right. That’s why I phoned in the morning. It’s too early, I know, but I
couldn’t stop myself from calling. I hardly slept last night . . . I can’t
discuss it with anyone else either, before it’s made official.’
‘You did a great job.’
‘That may be so . . . but it’s our duty. It’s what we’re paid for. On the
contrary, we end up with trivial and irrelevant work most of the time. It
feels like the opportunity to do something in keeping with our education is
so rare. So, it’s I who should thank you for giving me the chance. I feel a
great sense of fulfilment.’ When his voice faltered, I found it funny.
‘Careful, man, you might cry.’
‘Put the phone down, you dog,’ he said, and disconnected.
For a few moments, I sat with my hands on my lap, not knowing what to
do. It was the first time I was experiencing the weight of a full heart in my
body. It felt as though it would be impossible to stand up. After a few deep
breaths, my mind eased. I got up, lit the stove and made myself some black
tea. I poured the hot tea into a cup, opened the door and stepped out. Like
the sight of one’s own palm in the darkness, the front yard alone was faintly
lit. Night lingered in the dense jungle beyond, but the hum of the forest was
all around me.
The tea turned cold soon. As dawn trickled in into the front yard, I cradled
the warmth of the cup in my palms and watched the pebbles slowly come
into view. ‘Moru moru,’ a soft rustle arose from the tiled roof of the house.
A weasel peeped over the edge. It watched me for a few seconds, after
which it shimmied down the roof, traipsed over the clothes line, reached the
teak tree at the other end, climbed up and disappeared behind it.
I went back inside and brushed my teeth. What shall I do? Protocol
demanded that I wait until evening. But being with him was the only thing
that appealed to my heart at that time. I was certain that it wasn’t the kind of
day to be spent writing the usual inane replies to inane letters. Yes, I must
be with him today. I must take the transistor with me, just in case. Once the
news is out, I should be the one to tell him. And before he even suspects, I
must bow down and touch his feet to my eyes. It’ll be well-nigh impossible
to not be overwhelmed and shed a tear.
At any rate, he shouldn’t know that I was behind this. He should learn
about it in the natural course of things some day. What will he do if he
comes to know? He won’t say a word. Or, as is his wont, he might say
‘thanks much’, without so much as looking me in the eye, all the while
immersed in something else; and then, a few seconds later, he may look up
and smile fleetingly, before turning away again. Then, without rhyme or
reason, he might begin a discussion on Byron or Kabilar. The smile will
suffice. A validation, that I too am a human being. A gold coin dropped in a
beggar’s bowl.
I put on a sweater, wore the windcheater over it, pulled my gloves up and
started the bike. There were ten or fifteen young tourists, in sweaters and
monkey caps, standing in front of the cottages, their bodies contracted in
the cold. It looked like their jeep was yet to arrive. Tourists have no idea
how to honour the quiet that befits the place. Jumping hither and thither like
animated monkeys, they were creating a real ruckus.
I entered the forest path. Water was dripping from the dense canopy
above. The crackle of wheels turning over the leaf-littered path unsettled
the small animals hiding amongst the shrubs on either side of the road, and
sent them scampering. ‘Whoop, whoop,’ a black langur began to cry from
afar, like a drumbeat. It was the sentry. Perched on the highest branch of the
tallest tree, it would keep watch in all directions.
As we neared the tree, the whoops grew faster and louder. The monkeys
on the lower branches scrambled up to the top reaches. Their black tails
dangled from a couple of the trees. There were ten to twenty monkeys,
perhaps. I got the feeling that they were all watching me. When I drove past
the sentry, it let out a soft, evenly spaced call. Upon hearing the call, the
barking deer would have come out of hiding and started chomping on the
leaves again.
I crossed the check dam. Vapour dithered over the spread of water. The
paved stone road beside the dam had been laid around a hundred years ago,
to allow the British to pass through on their horses. Jeeps made it through
with difficulty, but for a motorbike it was impossible. This road leads to a
mountain slope further up, which was where I first met the Elephant Doctor,
Dr Krishnamurthy, four years back. At that time, I was barely two years
into the Forest Service. I had arrived at Topslip after a year in Coonoor,
eight months at Kalakkad, and two and a half months in Coimbatore.
I had spent my first four days at Topslip trying to make sense of the
office. My first real assignment commenced with the news that Marimuthu
delivered when he knocked on my door, catching me before I had left for
work: some forest workers who had gone into the jungle had reported
sighting the carcass of an elephant on one of the mountain slopes. My boss
and my assistants had left for the site at the break of dawn.
By the time I showered, dressed, drove out in my jeep and reached the
site, I was a trifle late. I hadn’t quite grasped the import of the news, and so,
seeing a herd of bison on the sloping meadows en route, I even stopped to
watch them for some time. By the time I reached, after being thrown about
and shaken up by the dilapidated horse path, everyone else had gathered at
the spot.
‘Who’s here?’ I asked Marimuthu.
‘The DFO, saar. It happened that he was right here at the guest house,
saar. The elephant doctor must be here too. He stays at the elephant camp,
further up, and he’s always the first to arrive, yes saar.’
That’s when I heard the moniker ‘Elephant Doctor’ for the first time. I
assumed that it referred to a regular vet that the government had assigned to
the Topslip elephant camp. Even as my vehicle neared the site, a gut-
churning vile stench hit me. That’s when I learnt that stench could
transform into physical matter, into a thick film that one had to pierce
through using the body in order to get to the other side. It was literally
pushing against me and obstructing my progress. As I inched forward, it felt
as though I was inhaling the stench through my every organ. Waves of
nausea swept through me, hammering the whole body. I pressed my
handkerchief against my nose and mouth.
As soon as I got off the vehicle, I ran to a corner, dropped to my haunches
and threw up. I remained in that position for some time, and when I stood
up afterwards, my head was swimming. Resolving not to let on any sign of
weakness, I straightened my shirt, deliberately puffed out my chest and
walked back to the site. The orderlies feel nothing but contempt and
bitterness for officers like me who make it through to the civil services.
While they climb the ladder one step at a time, breathlessly carrying their
burdens and jostling against one another, we swoop in with ease and land
straight on the topmost rung, they think.
That is the truth too. Even though our brain may direct them, we can only
function when we employ them as our arms and legs. While we are
dependent on them, we should create an illusion of their being dependent on
us, and that is indeed what we are trained to do. We are the mere fingertips
of a governing power that descends from above, to touch them. In a way,
we are the ones who surveil them, the tongue tip of the government that
orders them, or the tail end of its whip, perhaps.
Everyone in that tiny crowd that was gathered on a mound had secured
eau-de-cologne-dipped handkerchiefs around their noses. A worker
hastened up to me and handed me a handkerchief too. When I tied it around
my nose, the eau-de-cologne vapours stung my nostrils. It lasted for no
more than a few moments. Then, again, that vile smell . . .
When the crowd parted, I could finally see what was on the other side. It
took me a few seconds to make sense of the scene in front of me. In a
muddy swamp, about twenty feet in length and ten feet in width, an old man
in a hat and gumboots was standing with knife in hand. Black slush
streamed down his mud-streaked clothes, hands and face. It seemed to be a
dung pit.
But within a few seconds, I realized that it was the carcass of an elephant,
several days rotten. They had cut the elephant open and spread it apart like
a dismantled tent. The legs lay stretched out, and its head and trunk were
poking out from beneath the outstretched skin. Like a frothing pit of
manure, the rotting flesh simmered and bubbled in the muddy slush. Before
long, I noticed some movement on the flesh. The mud seemed to be
bubbling and boiling. It was teeming with maggots. They swarmed up to
the old man’s knees before falling off. Now and then, he brushed them off
his forearms and legs while he continued to work.
I couldn’t stand there any longer. I averted my gaze and took a few steps
back. But before I knew it I was flat on my back, as if someone had yanked
the ground from beneath my feet. I could feel a few men, with clamour in
their voices, hauling me up and laying me down inside the jeep. When I
tried to lift my head, I was gripped by nausea. I threw up on the man who
was holding me. My hands, which had clutched his shirt, quivered
uncontrollably. I closed my eyes again, and it seemed like I was in a free
fall.
‘Take him to the room and have him rest,’ said the district officer. They
made me lie down in the back seat and drove me away. When I tried to
open my eyes, the canopy raced backwards like a mossy expanse of water.
The light that pierced through the canopy flashed in my eyes and jolted me
awake. I sat up in a trice. I folded my legs up on the seat and stared at the
floor. I mistook a cigarette butt for a worm and shuddered. I dusted the seat,
my shirt and everything else in a bid to get rid of it. Unconvinced, I took off
my windcheater and gave it a good shake. Even so, I could not get around
to wearing it again.
I came back to my room and lay down on the bed.
‘Shall I make some tea, saar?’ asked Marimuthu.
‘No,’ I answered.
My body was still racked by nausea. I closed my eyes and willed my
thoughts in a myriad other directions. But the image of the cut-open,
spread-out, gigantic black carcass was all that unravelled in my mind’s eye.
Bones sticking out of a dark sludge of flesh, like branches that refuse to
decay. Curved ribs. I turned over. No, think about something else,
something else . . . then again . . .
Eventually, I must have drifted into sleep. Convinced that I was drowning
in a pond of maggots, I awoke with a scream and, startled, sat up on the
bed. Drenched in sweat, my body was trembling. I got to my feet, opened
my suitcase, took out the bottle of Teacher’s whisky, broke open the seal
and searched for a glass. I settled for a teacup that was near me, poured the
whisky, mixed in water from the jug and pushed it down in urgent gulps.
My body convulsed and I sat with my head hung low. I drank some more. It
was four times my usual quantity. My stomach simmered like a pouch of
acid. When I hiccuped, the burning bitterness of acid surfaced in my mouth.
Unable to bear the weight of my head, my neck gave way. I lay down on
my back. The roof, with all its tiles and beams, descended towards me,
stopping at a distance where I could have touched it, if only I held out my
hand. My limbs lay disconnected and lifeless, as if removed from my body.
Like lacquer, sleep sealed my eyelids shut. My mouth was still bitter,
though, and I considered getting up and drinking some water. But the
thought and the body remained as they were, as if they had nothing to do
with each other.
When a worm wiggled up, inch by inch, and caressed my face, I woke up.
It was midnight. The door was closed. Marimuthu had come by and spread
a mosquito net over me. When I got up, my legs wobbled like rubber. To
prevent myself from falling, I held on to the wall and walked to the toilet. I
continued to walk along the wall to the kitchen. They had left some food for
me in there. When I removed the lid of the food tray, hunger reared its head.
I carried the tray, as it was, to the dining table and began to eat. When I
scooped up my fourth handful, the rice seemed to be teeming with white
maggots. I threw up all over the food. I dumped the plate in the sink,
washed my mouth and went back to the room. In a sudden fit, I got up and
thumped my head furiously. I wished to drive off in my car, through
Pollachi, through Tirunelveli, all the way to Nanguneri and bury my head in
my mother’s lap. I shook my head. Tears rolled down from my eyes when I
told myself ‘I’m dying, I’m dying’.
In a frenzy, I got up, mixed water in the remaining whisky and gulped it
down even as my stomach, chest, nostrils and ears burned and more tears
streamed down my face. I sat on my bed, waiting for sleep to arrive. I felt
worms crawling all over my hands and legs. The cold touch of every worm
turned hot as fever against my dry skin, making me shudder. A bed of
worms. I fell amongst them and was swallowed without a trace.
The following day, as soon as I got to the office, I asked around and learnt
all I could about the Elephant Doctor. Everyone there had his or her own
story to tell. Dr V. Krishnamurthy had arrived at Topslip thirty years before
as a veterinary doctor attached to the forest department. His job was to
provide medical attention to both wild and domesticated animals. But over
time he had become a specialist vet for elephants. Once it was established
in the Tamil Nadu Forest Department that he was the most knowledgeable
veterinarian on the subject of pachyderms, it came to be that he had to
attend to every elephant-related problem, anywhere in the state. So much so
that he soon became the sought-after medical adviser for elephants, not only
in India but also in many other countries around the world.
They said that Dr Krishnamurthy must have operated on more than one
thousand elephants. He had delivered three hundred or more elephant
calves. He had performed hundreds of autopsies on elephant carcasses. In
fact, it was he who had developed the procedure that is in use today for
performing these autopsies. He had placed orthopaedic metal implants in
the animals on more than ten occasions, with great success.
The system developed by Dr Krishnamurthy to tend to the elephant’s
well-being has since become a manual for the Indian forest department. In
fact, I’m told that it is a modified version of this very manual that is in use
for the rhinoceroses of Kaziranga. For elephant lovers and elephant
researchers the world over, he’s Dr K. Hundreds of books have been written
about him. Harry Marshall, a world-renowned wildlife documentary maker,
made an eponymous film on him for the BBC. Dr K is a living legend.
Two weeks later, when I was heading to the elephant camp, Dr K was
driving towards us in his jeep. As I tucked my vehicle to the side to make
way for him, he smiled at me, turned to Marimuthu and said, ‘You’re
nowhere to be seen these days?’
 ‘I will come by, aiya,’ replied Marimuthu.
‘Bring some ginger when you come,’ he told Marimuthu and so saying,
flashed another smile at me and left. An oval face with no moustache. Thick
tufts of grey hair abutting a forehead that extended into a bald pate. A
becoming nose. The eyes of an enthusiastic young boy. Hair sticking out of
the ears. Deep lines on either side of his small mouth adding a real intensity
to his looks. But his smile, adorned by perfect teeth, affectionate.
It occurred to me – only after he had left – that I had neither greeted him
nor returned his smile. ‘Cha,’ I cursed myself and bit my tongue.
‘Saar?’ said Marimuthu.
‘Nothing, just an ant,’ I replied.
‘Yes saar, these flowers are full of ants. If they fall on us, they could bite
quite badly. It can cause a real swelling, even though they are tiny, yes saar.’
In the weeks up to this meeting, I had been thinking only about Dr K. I
had pictured him with great clarity in my mind’s eye. But when I did meet
him, my presence of mind had gone for a toss. Suppose a picture in a book
were to smile at you out of the blue? That was the kind of shock I got.
What would he have thought about me? According to the rules, I am the
higher-ranking officer. Could he have assumed that I was putting on an air
of authority? Would he have been hurt? But his face seemed to suggest that
he couldn’t care less about such matters. I wanted to meet him again, just so
I could convey the regard I held him in. I was about to ask my driver to turn
the jeep around, but I couldn’t summon the courage.
Ten days passed. In that time, I had apologized to him many hundreds of
times, in many hundreds of words. Still, it felt as if I was not capable of
meeting him and talking to him in person. A couple of times, I had driven
up to his quarters, only to turn back. I was unable to understand my own
hesitation. Everyone in that forest felt nothing but fondness and affection
for the Elephant Doctor. In fact, it was from him that many obtained
medicines for their fevers and wounds. I had seen aged Adivasi women
wrapped in old woollen blankets visit his quarters every morning to collect
medicines with bottles in hand.
‘They don’t have any sickness, saar. They go there to eat the bread and the
sweet flour that the Elephant Doctor gives them, yes saar,’ said Marimuthu.
The office clerk, Shanmugam, chimed in. ‘That’s true, sir. He’ll enquire
after them, and when these women lament about something, he will listen
patiently and say a few comforting words. That’s why they go there. But he
does have a lucky hand, no denying that. When I got a boil on my leg, he
was the one who drained it and applied some medicine for it to heal.’
‘It’s all cattle medicine, saar,’ piped up Marimuthu.
‘Yov!’ I let escape an irreverent exclamation.
‘It’s true, sir. It’s pretty much the same medication for man and animal.
He gives us a smaller dose, that’s all. Sometimes, he’ll even give a water
injection and send the folks away with dry ginger, pepper or some such
herbs,’ said Shanmugam.
‘The Elephant Doctor gives medicines to the elephant itself, what’s the
big deal about giving it to a tiny human being? Is the elephant bigger or
man? Yes saar,’ said Marimuthu.
One day, when Dr K was driving by, I saw children from the workers’
quarters running behind his jeep, crying ’lephantlocter, ’lephantlocter. He
stopped the vehicle and asked a question of each of the kids. They twisted
and fidgeted, squinted their eyes, scrunched their brows and stuck to one
another as they answered him. Every now and then they giggled and
gurgled with laughter. I turned off the engine of my jeep and remained
there, observing the scene until he left.
Every story about Dr K painted a picture of his simplicity and dedication.
But it was indeed those images that stopped me from meeting him. Perhaps
I would feel like he was watching me from a time in history that I did not
belong to? As though Ashoka or Akbar or Gandhi were talking to me. How
could I possibly handle that? I felt I did not possess the necessary words as
yet. So, I began to construct in my mind the conversations I was to have
with Dr K. A myriad imagined motifs. In a few days, I began to revel in the
exercise and was lost in it.
I had assumed that I would end up meeting him serendipitously, and so it
happened. I had stepped out of the jeep one day, stopping to gaze at the
forest, when, hearing a sound like the whoosh of a huge winnow, I looked
up. Amazed to see the great hornbill, I moved forward without thinking. It
flew ahead and settled down on the branch of a tall tree. Even though I
knew enough about the bird, I had not seen one before. It was a bird that
resembled a bald-headed man dressed in a white vaetti and a black coat. I
recalled the caricature of Thuppariyum Sambu, the bumbling detective. It
was the size of a huge turkey.
As it came flying in to rest on the branch, the staggering span of its black
wings was in full view. With a beak that seemed as if a big wooden spoon
had been upturned on its head, ‘yaaw’ it cried. I knew that the great hornbill
always travelled with its mate. The one above was the male bird. So, the
female had to be somewhere below.
My eyes roved, scanning the area. I spotted the bird hiding amongst the
bushes and I moved sideways to get a better look at it. I scarcely know what
happened next. It seemed like an electric shock had passed through my
body. My forearms, no, my entire body felt as if it was on fire. I was in such
a state that I couldn’t tell if it was an itch or a prickle or a burn or an ache.
As soon as I spotted that plant, I knew it. The leaf resembled that of a
hibiscus, only thicker and with fine, tender barbs. A stinging nettle?
I didn’t know what to do. A stinging nettle is small, but reaching higher
than my waist, this one was a tall plant with big leaves. A poisonous plant,
perhaps? It felt as if the itch was intensifying with every passing second.
More than the itch, it was fear that made me panic. I went straight to the
quarters nearby and sought Marimuthu out.
‘Let’s show it to the Elephant Doctor, saar,’ he said.
‘No, let’s go to some other doctor.’
‘We have to go into town, then. He’s right here. He’ll see you within five
minutes and give you an injection . . . that’ll do. You’ve come from the city,
right . . . we are locals . . . these things do nothing to us, yes saar,’ he said.
Before I could refuse, he got behind the wheel himself and drove me to Dr
K. Perhaps that was only for the better, I thought. Now, I had a natural
reason to visit him. The sick do have a right to visit the doctor, don’t they?
But my heart was racing. Excited at the prospect of seeing Dr K, I even
forgot the itch for a little while.
 As expected, Dr K was at the tin-roofed shed that was his clinic. There
were four or five deer circling agitatedly inside a cage. Outside, a rather
despondent elephant was eating giant wild grass, tearing into the bundle and
then rolling it up by beating it against its leg as though it had all the time in
the world. A mahout was sleeping on a bench beside the elephant.
Dr K was on his haunches, scooping up something in a pipette with great
concentration. When my presence caught his eye, he looked up, smiled and
then resumed working. ‘Doctor saar, you there? The nettle stung the
officer,’ announced Marimuthu. ‘He’s gone into the forest by himself, saar,
don’t know what he was thinking. These things don’t happen to us, saar.
You see, he’s new . . . it’s itching too much, Mari, he complained to me. I
told him that this doesn’t happen to us, you must see the Elephant Doctor at
once. So, I brought him here . . . yes saar,’ he said.
The doctor turned to me. ‘That plant is native to this jungle. It’s another
variety of the nettle that you find in the city. If you’d like, I can give you an
anti-allergenic injection. If not, just keep washing the affected areas in cold
water. Either way, it will resolve in an hour’s time.’ As he spoke, he put the
pipette in a small fridge, closed the door, and then came to inspect my
hands and hip. ‘It’s nothing . . . it’ll subside in an hour’s time, and
tomorrow it’ll be gone without a trace. Did you scratch it?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
He smiled. ‘Shall we do this? Try not to scratch. It will itch, but observe
the itch closely. Keep watching what happens. Why is your mind so
anxious? Why are you so desperate to set it right? Think about all that . . .
game? I can give you an injection, of course, if you insist,’ he said.
‘No. I don’t want it. Let me give this a shot,’ I said.
‘Good. Come in, let’s have tea.’
‘What’s wrong with these deer?’ I asked.
‘It’s some sort of infection . . . that’s why I asked for them to be brought
here. We’ll know in a few days. I just took a sample. I have to send it to
Coimbatore to get a culture done . . . Are you from down south?’ he asked.
‘Yes, near Tirunelveli . . . Nanguneri.’
‘That’s my mother’s ancestral town too. It’s one of the Nine Tirupathis,
the deity there has a wonderful name as well. Wait . . . Makara
Nedunkuzhaikathan . . . the lord who wears fish-shaped earrings.’
‘Thenthiruperai,’ I said, naming the town that was home to the temple.
‘Yes . . . have you been there?’
‘Many times. It’s a lovely temple.’
‘Indeed, it has a lovely agraharam too, which has somehow retained its
quaintness. Please sit down.’
He began making tea for me. As he lit the stove, he continued, ‘To
observe pain is a great practice. No meditation can equal it. Pain reveals
everything – who we are, how our mind and intellect function, all of it.
What is pain? It’s a state that’s just a little different from our normal state of
being. But our mind yearns to go back to that erstwhile normalcy . . . that’s
the problem with being in pain. Half the pain will disappear if we begin to
observe it. Of course, there are severe pains too. Of the kind that goes to
show that man isn’t so great after all and he is just another animal.’
He sat down with the tea. I had never had such delicious black tea before.
‘The truth is, man is the weakest of all animals. You’ll tear up if you see the
majesty with which other animals bear their illness and pain. Even if there
be deathly pain, an elephant will not howl or wince. Its eyes alone will
contract and its body will quiver at the odd place. If the elephant permits,
one can operate on it without a drop of anaesthesia. That’s the extent of its
patience. What a being. God has made it in a truly creative mood.’
I had heard from many that by the fourth sentence, Dr K will have
somehow brought the elephant into the conversation. I broke into a smile.
‘It’s not just the elephant. The leopard, the bison, indeed, all of them, are
like that. They know,’ he said.
‘True, I’ve seen a cow give birth. All she’ll do is lower her head a bit and
roll her eyes.’
‘Yes, for they know that that is life too. It is only man who resorts to
screams and forever scrambles in search of pills and powders. He pops in
whatever he can lay his hands on and makes way for the next illness . . .
man’s a pathetic being. Do you read?’
‘Yes.’
 ‘You should read Gandhi . . . he’s the only thinker who has the power to
impact the ideas of the present generation. He has something original to say
about every topic there is. My favourites are Gandhi and Aurobindo. And
then I read whoever else I can lay my hands on,’ he said as he handed me
another cup of tea. Out of the blue, a shudder ran through my body. I did
not want to hold the teacup. It seemed as though its outer surface was
covered in dirt. I closed my eyes for a second. An expanse of crawling
maggots swam into view.
Chee, what a stupid thought! He’s a doctor. He knows how to sanitize his
hands. Also, it’s been nearly a month since he did that autopsy. No, there
could be residues lodged in the nooks of his nails. What am I thinking?
What has happened to me? I fingered the small black dot on the porcelain. I
just could not bring the cup to my mouth. Did he notice it? This is a mental
illness. No, he has no revulsions. So, he might have poked into some
animal’s flesh even a little while ago. Did he wash his hands? Yes, he did.
But . . .
I shut my eyes tight and gulped down the entire cup of tea. The heat
burned my throat and gullet. ‘Oh my . . . ’ said Dr K. ‘Has it turned cold
already? Let me make another one. I do like my tea hot, but you seem to be
worse than me.’ As the tea went into me and coursed through my veins, a
different thought spread through every pore of my body. Why should I be
repulsed? Doesn’t flesh and fluid make up my body too, just like the
animal’s? Mucous, acid, faeces, urine . . . I am the same, after all. Still . . .
‘You fainted the other day, didn’t you?’ said Dr K.
‘Yes, sir,’ I said, awed by the knack with which he seemed to be reading
my mind.
‘For thirty years, I’ve been fighting to autopsy every animal that dies in
the forest. No matter how decayed the carcass might be, it has to be done. It
was not like that earlier. You see, of all the deaths of large animals here, one
in three is murder. Committed by humans . . .’ he said. ‘Earlier, by the time
we could identify the infection, half the population would be wiped out.’
‘What if it’s decayed beyond retrieval . . . ?’ I asked tentatively.
‘There will certainly be some form of evidence. There’s a method to find
out . . . I devised it.’
‘I know, doctor,’ I said.
‘You were terrified by the worms, weren’t you?’ said Dr K. ‘The very
sight of worms scares most people. If ever we observe why there is fear, we
can get past it. When we stop and take a close look at fear, at disgust, at
doubt, they will simply wither away. Have you noticed a particular type of
beetle in this place, a black one, the size of a tamarind seed? I’m sure it
wouldn’t have spared your house, ’ he said.
‘Of course, I’ve practically been living with it. I find it in my food too. It’s
become a routine to scan the food and pick out the bug before I eat.’
Dr K laughed. ‘What you saw the other day was the larva of that beetle.
The beetle is the adult, and the larva the baby. How can you be disgusted by
a baby?’
I sat still, unable to respond. ‘Every worm’s a little baby. Can’t walk.
Can’t fly. It simply crawls about. It knows only one thing, that is to eat. So,
it keeps on eating. Little children are like that too . . . If you equate what a
baby eats with its body weight, you will have to drink thirty litres of milk
every day . . . ’ said Dr K. ‘That’s the order issued to it. To eat all that it can,
as quickly as possible, and find a way to become big . . .’ He smiled and
said, ‘Does it sound like crazy philosophy to you?’ I said no. ‘Well.’
I spent the entire day talking to him. I am yet to come across another
conversationalist like him. Comedy, philosophy, literature, science . . . he
would leap from topic to topic. And I would sit there in a reverie, imagining
I was James Bond, leaping from a car on to a helicopter, flying off, jumping
into a boat, climbing ashore and wheeling on a bike before speeding away.
From that day on, I began to visit him at least three days in a week. He
would hand me many a book, and never tire of discussing them.

•
In his company, I began to get used to the animals. I climbed up a Kumki
elephant by stepping against its foot, sat on its crown and went for a ride,
traversing the branches of the forest trees. I marvelled at how the elephant
instinctively calibrated its height to include the man on top. When Dr K
bandaged the leg of a bear, I held it for him. I went about collecting samples
of deer dung in polythene covers. In less than a month, my eyes too had
adapted to seeing worms as newborn babies of insects.
It was mind-blowing to witness the maniacal lifeforce in those pudgy,
plump, soft worms that wiggled and chomped away fanatically. I wondered
if they were tiny flecks of white flame, and in that instant the universe
seemed like an atomic expanse suffused with an unfathomable
magnificence. The thought covered me with goosebumps. A life form that
had been handed a solitary decree: to eat. And within that tiny fleck resided
wings and eggs. Conquering the dangers produced by every living moment
marched forth a collective consciousness, eternal and beyond imagination.
Man should not clash with insects, Dr K would say. The biggest blunder
that man makes is to view each insect as a separate entity and contrast it
with himself. Insects have a collective intellect and a collective sentience.
Crores and crores of insects. It’s a monstrous swarm that is renewed every
single day. Seen in that light, the swarm is many times larger than the
human agglomerate. It is not a solitary insect that clashes with man’s
insecticide, but the entire super-swarm. And, the remarkable insect-
consciousness that is the core of the collective. It will effortlessly vanquish
the insecticide within a few months, and march on.
I would often pick up a white worm in my palm. When it wriggled and
crawled its way up my hand, it would evoke the same paradoxical
excitement that’s kindled when holding an infant in your arms. Here is a
very delicate, a very elementary life form. Yet, there is boundless potential
and great capacity sleeping within. It is the representative of a supreme
magnificence. Sometimes, I would bring the worm close to my lips and
look into its eyes – eyes that had no necessity to look at anything other than
food. But I felt the worm knew me. It was a tiny electron of an eye. And
through it, the insect super-swarm was looking at me. I would smile at the
worm. ‘You may even gobble me up in order to grow,’ I’d feel like telling
it. ‘But that’s okay. You and I, we are equals on this earth.’ I would feel like
petting it . . . my little darling, my sweet pea . . .
Dr K had an extraordinary interest in literature. Amidst an exacting daily
routine – made so by not disappointing even a single Adivasi woman who
sought him out, by not putting off the treatment of any animal to the
following day – he wrote research papers in eminent international journals
that came to be lauded by the entire scientific community. The journals that
contained his articles were neatly arranged in his wooden almirah. While
the other essays in the journals were composed in abstruse scientific
language, Dr K’s were written in a pithy, invigorating style, laced with light
humour and dashes of poetry. His favourite poet was Lord Byron.
When Dr K and I were driving into the forest one day, he raised his hand
for the jeep to stop. At the spot he noiselessly pointed to, we could see the
ears of a sennai – a rust-coloured wild dog – amongst the bushes. I sensed
that it was watching us. Dr K then pointed to a different spot. Another
sennai. Within a few minutes, the entire scene grew clear. Six sennais, in six
different directions, were guarding something in the middle.
‘Either their leader or a mother that’s just given birth lies there, unable to
move,’ he said. Planting his eyes on that spot, he instructed me in an almost
inaudible whisper, ‘Stay here. Don’t move. And don’t raise your hands. Let
me go take a look.’
‘Alone?’ I asked.
‘It’s all right, they know me.’
‘No, doctor, please . . . I’m told that the sennais are very dangerous.’
‘Yes. But this is my duty.’ Opening the door with care, he got down, and
walked towards the dogs.
A draught of cold air passed over me. Slowly, I placed my hand on the
small pistol that I had in my pocket. Its coldness comforted me. Dr K
climbed up the slope and approached the dogs. From within the bush, the
lead dog lifted its head, folded its ears in front and looked at him. As the
doctor went closer and closer, it lowered its head, pushed its nose out and
observed him. I saw the other dogs closing in on Dr K without a sound. In a
few minutes, the six dogs had surrounded him.
Dr K went up to the lead dog and stood still. For a few minutes, both he
and the dog stood motionless, as if in silent prayer. Then, the dog crouched
close to the ground and approached him in what was almost a crawl. It
extended its neck and sniffed him. Suddenly, it backed up, and after a few
seconds moved forward once again and smelled him. ‘Hoo, hoo, hoo,’ it
howled, as if to say something. The other dogs in the bushes straightened up
and lifted their heads.
The lead dog crept up to Dr K and licked his boots. Then it lifted its
forelegs, leaned on him and sniffed his hand. I noticed its body language
change. It twisted and turned, wiggled its body and wagged its tail, like a
pet dog that was welcoming us. Still wagging its tail, it walked by Dr K’s
side and looked up at him before it scampered a little distance ahead,
lowered its ears, raced back towards him, and then scampered ahead again.
It was apparent that it was treating him like a special guest. It was
deliriously ecstatic about his arrival. It was at a loss to know how to
celebrate that honour.
The movement in the bushes betrayed the wagging tails of the rest of the
dogs. In some time, as one of them took the place of the lead dog, the others
went back to their original lookouts. I could see Dr K crouch down and peer
at something in the bush. Then, he sat down on the ground. All I could hear
was the ‘kuv kuv kuv’ of the dog that lay there, whimpering like a pup, as
though it was trying to say something. Half an hour elapsed before Dr K
returned. He got into the car and said, ‘Let’s go’.
‘What happened, sir?’ I asked.
‘Their leader is injured.’
‘What kind of injury?’
‘Must have been a leopard. It’s ripped apart the flesh on the right leg. The
bone may be fractured too . . . ’
‘What shall we do?’
‘Nothing. That’s their life, their world . . . we need to watch out for a
couple of things only. First, if a human has done something to the dog. If so,
we need to find the culprit and punish him. Second, we should check if it’s
an uncommon infection. If it is, we need to take action immediately . . . ’
‘So, we just leave it like this and go . . . what if it dies?’
‘It won’t die. But that dog will not be the leader any more. In all
probability, the dog that showed me the way will become their leader.’
 ‘Can we not give it some medicines?’
‘What medicine? Our usual antibiotics? Are you aware of how resistant to
infection wild animals are? If we were to get them accustomed to
medicines, just as in the city, we’ll end up opening a primary healthcare
centre every three kilometres in the forest too.’
I sighed. ‘The way that dog identified you was amazing . . .’
‘What did you think dogs were made of? Such a divine animal . . . man
thinks he’s the big boss. And that animals have no soul, no intellect. In his
foul, petty mind, he’s created a heaven, a god; apparently, there’s no place
for animals there. Nonsense . . .’ Dr K’s face turned red. ‘There’s a poem of
Byron’s. “Epitaph to a Dog”. Have you read it?’
‘No,’ I said.
With a flushed face, he continued to stare into the forest until, all of a
sudden, as though chanting a mantra, he began reciting ‘When some proud
Son of Man returns to Earth, Unknown to glory, but upheld by birth . . . ’
Those lines remain etched in my memory in the form of his face.
But the poor Dog, in life the firmest friend,
The first to welcome, foremost to defend,
Whose honest heart is still his Master’s own,
Who labours, fights, lives, breathes for him alone.
It’s occurred to me many a time that those lines are indeed the credo of Dr
K’s life. With eyes made resplendent by a soul moulded only of friendship,
with a tail formed of friendship, with ears dripping with friendship, a bark
resounding of friendship, a nose moistened by friendship, a dog stood in
front of my eyes. ‘I am for you,’ it said. ‘I am you,’ it said. ‘You can place
faith in me, equal to that which you repose in any god,’ it said. ‘For, if there
is such a thing as God, I am the drop that trickled over from its
effervescence!’
Right next to it, completely oblivious to its existence, stood a
contemptible human being gazing into the horizon, yearning for something.
He was me. A man in search all his life. For power, for pleasure, for labels.
And for that, he schemes, he parades, he smiles, he utters a thousand
meaningless words. ‘Man, vain insect!’ I heard Byron’s roar in the forest
that day, from Dr K’s crimson, incandescent face. With drums of thunder
reverberating, the entire firmament pointed a finger at Man and said, ‘Thy
love is lust, thy friendship all a cheat, thy tongue hypocrisy, thy heart
deceit.’
My heart yielded and my eyes filled with tears. The very thought of ‘I’
made me cringe. I felt as if my entire body reeked of filth. I should peel
away the ‘I’, just as I would discard a soiled shirt, and race through the
pristine, verdant expanse on four legs. This air, this sunlight, will not shun
me as alien, they will embrace me. Out there, there will be pain, there will
be disease, there will be death. But there will be no depravity. Not even an
iota of depravity. ‘Who knows thee well, must quit thee with disgust,
degraded mass of animated dust!’ Breaking into sobs, I stopped the jeep.
Without bothering to look at me, Dr K sat there, motionless, like hardened
flame.
Should you wish to witness man’s depravity, like a daily slap in the face,
you must come to the forest. Most tourists who come here are educated and
in ‘good jobs’. They carry fried snacks and liquor bottles all the way from
their homes. Throughout their journey in the forest, they keep drinking and
eating. They vomit. They pierce the tranquillity of the mountain ranges with
their blaring horns. Blasting their car stereos as loudly as they can, they
jump about and dance. They scream obscenities at the lofty hills.
They disrespect every creature of the forest. They split guavas, fill them
with red chilli powder and feed them to the monkeys by the roadside. They
throw stones at deer. If an elephant were to cross their path, they loudly
honk their horns and frighten it. But the thing I fail to understand, no matter
how many times I think about it, is why they throw empty liquor bottles
into the forest with such fury. I have stopped vehicles, inspected them,
made those in possession of liquor bottles step out, yanked my belt off and
given them a blood-splattering lashing. I have made them sit in front of the
office in biting cold, in nothing but their knickers. Even so, there was no
stopping the bottle shards that piled up on either side of the roads in the
forest.
Among all animals, bottle shards are the most hazardous to the elephant.
The bottom of an elephant’s foot is like a bag of sand. Invariably, the hurled
bottle will have dashed against a tree and broken into shards that remain at
its base. If the elephant, with its great bulk, steps on the shards, the glass
will penetrate straight into its feet. Just a couple of steps, and the shards will
plunge further in. After that the elephant will not be able to walk. Within
two days the wound will form pus. Maggots will enter it, pierce the flesh
and transport the pus inside. If they manage to reach any of the critical
blood vessels or bones, the elephant will not survive.
With its swollen, bloated feet oozing pus, the elephant will meander
through the forest for many days. When it reaches a state where it’s unable
to walk, it will stop and lean against a tree. When a being that’s ordained to
drink thirty litres of water, eat two hundred kilos of food and walk fifty
kilometres every day is rendered immobile, it will emaciate and become
unrecognizable within five days. Its spine will start to protrude. The
cheekbones will bulge out. The flapping of the ears will decrease. The
crown will drop further and further. Slowly, the animal will plant its trunk
on the ground and stand, inclining forward. Gradually, its crown too will
reach the ground. The following day, it will have fallen sidelong, its
stomach sticking out like a boulder. With just its tail and trunk circling in
the air, its eyes opening and closing, it will begin to tremble. Other
elephants will soon surround it, shake their heads and trumpet. Then, the
elephant will die.
Even after the final movement of the trunk is seen, the herd will stand
around for days, wailing. Eventually, it will abandon the elephant and
migrate to a whole new site, many kilometres away. Owing to the thickness
of the elephant’s skin, no animal will be able to eat it until its body
decomposes. The sennais, the first to get to the decayed elephant, will tear
into and eat the mouth and the buttocks. Then, the vultures will descend.
Cackles of hyenas from far and wide will arrive in search of the carcass.
The emperor of the forest, whose brain has one hundred and seventy times
more neurons than man’s, will be reduced to mere white bones on this earth.
One day, we received information about an elephant roaming the forests
of Mudumalai with a swollen leg. I decided to accompany Dr K on the trip.
The Kurumbas had already located where the elephant was in the forest. We
picked them up and entered the forest in our jeep. We followed what was an
erstwhile horse path. Stopping the vehicle after we had driven a long way
in, Dr K and I walked down the forest slope. Two forest officers armed with
guns and a couple of Kurumbas carrying other paraphernalia accompanied
us.
Clearing the piercing leaves of the wild bamboo out of the way, Dr K
walked on. The knotted roots that ran along the ground made us trip. I held
on to the trees as I walked. Even though he was nearing seventy, Dr K had a
nimble body. The forest was to him as ocean was to fish. In some time, the
faint scent of elephants drifted through the air. Evidently, the pachyderms
had already taken note of us and we could hear their gentle rumbling. As we
descended further, beyond a stream lined by clumps of bamboo, amidst a
meadow stagnant with mossy sunlight, we saw a herd of a dozen elephants.
When I let my eyes rove, wondering if there might be more elephants, I
spotted six of them grazing in a bamboo bush. On a closer look, I sighted
four baby elephants too. Dr K took out his instruments and assembled them.
There was one that resembled a small airgun. It had a dart for a bullet. He
observed the wounded elephant keenly through his binoculars. I could see
that he was estimating its weight. The dosage of the tranquillizer would
depend on the weight of the elephant.
I watched him work, utterly lost in himself. Once he had readied his
devices and picked them up, he said, ‘Please wait here . . . I’ll go and have a
look.’ By then, I knew better than to argue with him. ‘The elephant’s
standing at the foot of a huge tree. If it falls down, it’s sure to get hurt. I
have to draw it closer to the marsh. The other elephants will have no idea of
what I’m about to do. So they will resist,’ he explained.
‘Will the elephants know that this injury was caused by humans?’
‘Definitely, they know it very well.’
‘What do we do then?’
‘We’ll see.’
Dr K went down the slope with caution, crossed the stream and stepped
into the marsh. Depressions formed by the firm steps of the elephants, deep
enough for the leg to sink in, were planted densely all across the swamp. He
stepped on their periphery and quietly walked towards the elephants. The
huge matriarch standing amidst the herd roared. Upon hearing her, the other
elephants trumpeted too. One of the elephants turned towards Dr K and
flapped its ears vigorously. Violently shaking its head, it advanced towards
him. Dr K did not move. It shook its head even more, and rumbling as if in
warning, took a couple of steps forward.
When the elephant shakes its head, it is issuing a warning; it is declaring
that it will attack. I heard my heart beating in my ears. I wished to get to my
feet, run to the doctor and stand beside him. If the elephant were to maul the
doctor right in front of my eyes while I watched and did nothing, if it fell on
me to carry his corpse back, I would never forgive myself. But I was unable
to move. My mouth felt empty, as if my tongue had dried up and
withdrawn.
Dr K stood still for a few minutes. The elephant too stood still. All the
other elephants were observing him with their entire body, or so it seemed.
Dr K walked further ahead. Now the elephant closed in, but it did not shake
its head. Instead, the animal lowered its crown a good few inches. That was
a warning sign too. Dr K walked at a steady pace and stopped right in front
of it. The elephant stood quietly. Time wore on. I could not understand what
was going on. It felt like many hours had passed.
Before I knew it, the elephant retreated. The big matriarch looked at Dr K
again, roared and tucked its tail in. Then, one by one, the elephants climbed
uphill and headed into the bamboo thicket on the other side of the slope. I
stood watching incredulously, until the swirl of the last of the elephants’
tails had disappeared into the green foliage. Dr K put his hand up, signalling
to us to join him. Stepping into the stream, we descended the slope.
Upon seeing us, the wounded elephant shook its head in anger and tried to
move forward. Then, it trumpeted softly and remained where it was. The
doctor bid us to come closer. The forest officers stopped where they were
and only the Kurumbas and I went ahead. Suddenly, the elephant lurched
towards us, causing the tree against which it had been leaning to shudder.
Its hind leg was swollen to twice the size of its other legs. It was practically
dragging the injured leg along, in order to move.
As soon as it took a few steps forward, Dr K shot at it. Once the bullet had
lodged itself in the soft flesh above its shoulder, the elephant shuddered and
turned immobile. The flapping of its ears paused, only to resume again
rapidly. Gradually, the flapping decreased. Having bent its foreleg a little,
the elephant swayed. In a trice it slumped sideways and crashed on the
marshy ground below. Its trunk flailed on the grass, as though it were a
creature with a life of its own. The elephant lifted just the tip of its trunk
and sniffed us with its quivering nostrils before it turned motionless.
Dr K sat down beside the elephant and briskly set to work. I assisted him.
I could sense the elephants standing in the surrounding bamboo thicket,
watching us with keen eyes. I felt their gaze on my back, like an icy-cold
wind. If, at some point, the elephants got the feeling that we were doing
something wrong, what would happen?
One half of a beer bottle was lodged well into the elephant’s foot. Pus had
formed around it and maggots had infested the pus, rendering the wound
scabby, like a tiny beehive. Dr K cut through the scab and pus poured out,
as though a big pot of curd had broken. White worms wriggled within the
minute, honeycomb-like cavities. With a small axe-like implement, the
doctor scooped out all the flesh that had been infected. As the worms
crawled up my hands, I flicked them away. Once the abscess of pus had
been removed without a trace, the doctor carved out the flesh around the
bottle using a knife, spread the wound open and pulled the bottle out. I was
flabbergasted. If was almost as long as my hand.
‘No more than a week . . . it’s fortunate,’ said Dr K. After he pulled out
the bottle, more pus began to ooze out. Dr K scooped out all the flesh in
that area and threw it out. The smell of pus faded away and was replaced by
the smell of blood. Once the blood had seeped out, bathed the wound red,
bubbled and overflowed, Dr K took out some cotton, the size of a cushion,
soaked it in medicine, pressed it into the cavity, packed it tight and taped it
with a huge roll of gauze. The gauze stuck to the elephant’s foot like glue.
He pinched small eversilver clips on to the canvas-like skin of the
elephant’s leg, tightened the bandage and secured it with the clips. Next, he
scooped up some black mud, slapped it over the bandage and spread it out.
Finally, after pinning a signal ring to the elephant’s ear to help locate it
again, we got to our feet. Our clothes and hands were covered in blood and
pus. We brushed off the worms, collected our things and left. By the time
we reached the stream and were washing our hands in it, the elephants
began to return one by one. Bellowing, they descended back down and
milled around the wounded pachyderm. After the grand matriarch had
caressed the huge-looking bandage on the leg of the fallen elephant with her
trunk, drawing her inspection to a close, she let out a soft trumpet. The
others followed suit. Some of them extended their trunks to the puddle of
blood and sniffed at it. One of the elephants stood gazing at us, its ears
pushed forward.
‘It won’t disturb the bandage, will it?’ I asked.
‘It understands,’ said Dr K. ‘The elephant doesn’t like the colour white,
though. If we had not smeared the bandage with mud, it would be poking at
it restlessly.’
‘Will it heal?’
‘In all likelihood, it’ll be back to its old self in just fifteen days. The
elephant’s resistance to disease is astounding. The simplest of antibiotics
will work wonders,’ he said.
While we were returning from Mudumalai to Topslip, Dr K said, ‘What a
divine being. If there should come a day when there are no more elephants
in Tamil Nadu, what’ll our culture amount to? If that should happen, we
might as well throw the entire Sangam literature into the fire.’

•
It turned out that Dr K was at home. Standing under a large teak tree beside
his quarters was Selva, a gigantic Kumki elephant. Selva, who was grazing
his boat-shaped white tusks against the tree in an attempt to split its bark,
stiffened his ears upon seeing me, lifted his trunk ever so slightly, sniffed
me and said good morning with a ‘bmmm’, before going on to flap his ears
again.
I was surprised to find the doctor there so early in the day. When he heard
me slipping off my sandals, he poked his head out. ‘Come in, come in.
What brings you here at this hour?’ he asked.
‘I should be the one to ask that question. How come you’re home at this
time?’
‘I arrived just this morning. There was a surgery scheduled on a Kumki
named Raman. He had a huge boil on his thigh. Aged fellow. We’ve known
each other for thirty years. A balanced guy, has a good sense of humour too
. . . I think he’ll pull along for another ten years, easily.’
I sat down.
‘Tea?’ asked Dr K.
‘I’ll make it,’ I said.
‘Just for yourself, then. I’ve had mine.’
As I was making tea, I realized that my hands were shaking. I thought I
might let the cup slip. He noticed my agitation and said, ‘Fallen in love, is
it?’
‘What, no,’ I said.
He got up to stretch. ‘Generally speaking, Sangam poetry is known for its
evocative descriptions of nature. But I must say, Kabilar takes it a step
further. Hear this, ‘ ’
‘What does it mean?’ I asked.
‘An elephant that’s frightened by the sparks that fall from the torch of a
Kuravan who guards a millet field will be startled by shooting stars too.’
I smiled.
‘It’s not just the elephant, all animals have an intuition about such things.
If you bring along a toy gun a second time, the monkey will figure it out. If
you play the sound of another elephant from a tape recorder, the elephant
will know at once . . . What’re you doing? You aren’t listening . . .’
‘It’s nothing.’
‘No, you’re not your usual self. What’s the matter?’
‘It’s nothing, really.’
‘Tell me,’ he said, looking me in the eye.
Unused to keeping things from him, I spilt everything in a rush. It was a
thought that had arisen two years ago, that he should be awarded the Padma
Shri. To start with, I had gathered all the information I could about him and
had made an official representation to the Ministry of Culture. His name did
not even feature on the list that year. No one had given it any attention.
So, the next time, I began ‘lobbying’. Three of my friends were working
for English-language magazines. Seven or eight of them were employed
with the central government. I lobbied diligently all through the year. I
utilized every friend I had to the hilt. Once I had stepped into it, numerous
avenues presented themselves. Just as Dr K knew his way through this
forest, my feet knew their way through the circuitous paths of bureaucracy.
I had taken it to the very end.
Truth be told, Dr K’s personality was my greatest ally. I managed to touch
with ease the conscience of those who lent me an ear, even if half-heartedly,
by painting a picture of Dr K’s spirited personality. I presented it as an
opportunity for them to do a meaningful deed in an otherwise trivial life. I
nudged them to the discovery that their soul was yet to turn to chalk; that
deep inside it was still beating faintly. Acting on this was a chance for them
to realize that they were still decent human beings capable of good deeds.
In this manner, the proposal had inched up, one step at a time. And at every
step, someone or the other had gone into raptures about Dr K. From
somewhere far away, they were bowing down to touch his feet with respect,
they said.
Only a few more hours now. ‘I wanted to be with you in that moment, sir,’
I said.
He did not dismiss it with a laugh, as I had expected. Nor did he drown
himself in work, disinterested in what I had just told him. He sat there with
eyes fixed on me for some time. Then, with a deep sigh, he picked up his
book.
‘What is it, doctor?’ I asked.
‘What?’ he said. The harshness in his eyes wilted me.
‘You haven’t said anything,’ I said in a faint whisper.
‘Well . . .’ he began, and then said, ‘It’s nothing.’
‘Tell me, doctor, please.’
‘It’s just that . . . ’ said Dr K ‘I did not think you’d be so interested in
these power games. I expected something else from you . . . anyway.’
‘Doctor . . .’ I began.
‘I’m not arguing, I’m no good at that . . . let it be,’ he said with a severity
that I had not seen in him before.
‘Please tell me, doctor,’ I pressed.
After a moment’s thought, he said, ‘Look, in my time here, I’ve seen at
least forty or fifty officers come and go. No one stays here for long. They
leave for the city at the drop of a hat, citing one reason or another. Once the
forest is out of sight, it’s out of mind too, and then it’s reduced to mere data
in their heads.
‘I’ve ruminated over why this happens. There’s only one reason. There’s
no room to wield power in the forest. Man savours authority in one of two
ways. He can either direct it at those below him, or look at those above and
climb up, little by little. Both are games of great thrill, but this forest has no
place for either. Only on a stupid piece of paper is the forest under your
authority. In reality, it is you who’s under the authority of the forest. You
see that fellow standing outside like a mountain – Selva – you think he’s
under your control? In this forest, he is king. The six-foot white tusks on his
face – they are his sceptre. If the king lives in harmony with man, it only
means that he is merciful and is favourably disposed towards us.
‘In this forest, there is no way for you to climb further up. When you’re in
here, it will always seem like your peers are getting ahead of you in the
race. That’s why you run away. You shirk the responsibility you have
towards the forest and leave. I thought you’d be different. Well . . .’ He
shrugged, got to his feet and paced up and down the room. Then, with a
flash of anger, he said, ‘Look, this title . . . what’s that, Brahmashree, is it?’
‘Padma Shri,’ I said in a quiet voice.
‘Fine – that. What do I do with it in this forest? Shall I go out and show it
to Selva? And say, look, from now on you better show me some respect,
I’m a Brahmashree?!
‘Only if you understand this forest can you accomplish something here. If
you must understand the forest, you should live in it. In order to live here,
the first thing to do is to fling away everything that belongs in the outside
world – wealth, fame, power, all of that – and be here like these monkeys,
like this elephant. You should have no family outside of them. Go, man, go
on and look outside. That Selva standing there . . . what kin can be dearer
than him? His majesty, his compassion, his heart, devoid of any sort of
depravity, expansive as the ocean . . . once you know that, which human
will matter to you? The prime minister? The president? If you value the
elephant knowing you, will you accord so much importance to a piece of
paper handed to you by a few idiots in Delhi?’
I was seeing that blood-red hue on his face after many days. Just as when
he had recited Byron’s poetry in the jeep, he was now ablaze, like flame
manifest. ‘Man, vain insect!’ I heard Byron’s cry, like the roar of a gigantic
tusker. I sat with my head hanging low. In a trice, I got up and made to
leave. ‘Wait . . .’ Dr K called out from behind. Seeing me hesitate, ‘I’m
sorry,’ he said.
My eyes welled up. I lowered my head and composed myself. ‘I didn’t
think of it that way, doctor,’ I said, struggling to get my voice out. ‘I wished
to take you out to the world. Before I arrived here, I had not known that
there could be a life as blessed as this. I didn’t know that I would be
witnessing such a new and refreshing world. Believe me, doctor. What can I
say now . . . but . . . wherever I may be, I’ll live in a way that will make you
proud. I will never betray these four years that I have spent with you. I
promise, doctor.
‘The thing is, until I came here and happened to meet you, I was quite
clueless. I didn’t learn any of this in school or college. The only ideal that
has been handed down to me and my generation is to get a job, earn money
and become big, isn’t it? Take me for instance. All I used to think about in
school was getting good grades and going to America. I used to think that
making a living out there is the measure of success . . . There are lakhs and
lakhs like me on the outside, sir. A whole generation without ideals. A
generation that has no idea what sacrifice means . . . a generation that has
no inkling that there are indeed sublime joys in this world.
‘You know the guy who comes here, drinks, throws up, breaks beer
bottles and leaves shards of glass for the elephant’s feet . . . he has grown up
in this very society too, doctor. He works in IT companies and in
multinationals. He earns a salary of a lakh of rupees a month, speaks buttery
English, and so he thinks he’s a born genius. For better or for worse, this
country, this forest, and everything else, is in his hands, isn’t it? Let at least
a small fraction of his lot know that there exists such a magnificent life, that
there exists such a heavenly world – that was my intent.
‘Doctor, I am sure that the present-day youth are by far the most cursed
generation our country has seen. Those who stand in front of them today are
cardboard men. Phony faces bereft of any dream or idealism. Those who
have merely “won”. Those who have attained wealth, fame and authority
through dubious or corrupt means. An entire generation surges forward,
looking up to them. I thought that I should tell these youngsters, “Look . . .
there’s still a place in our society for idealism.” I thought I should tell them
that there still exists a scrap of earth for Gandhi to live on. Even if ten of
them pay attention, it is good enough, isn’t it, doctor?
‘I’m not shameless enough to think that I’ll be honouring you by thrusting
some stupid award in your hands. I wanted to do something for you. I
thought about what I can do to show you that my generation and I have
taken note of you. I wanted to lay something at your feet as gurudakshina,
my dedication to you as my teacher. Anand joined in too. That’s why we
did this. If it was wrong, I apologize.’
As I went on talking, the right words had found me and my mind eased.
Once I was emptied of words, I sat down and lowered my eyes.
Dr K broke into a laugh. ‘Okay fine . . . enough now, Shakespeare . . . I’m
heading out, are you coming?’
Like a shook-up tree branch shedding its snow, I lightened up at those
words and found myself laughing when I left with him. We took Selva to
the elephant camp. That Selva was itching to leave was evident from his
briskness when we got him ready. As soon as he reached the camp, seven or
eight voices rang out, welcoming him.
‘He’s a real tusker, a Casanova,’ said Dr K. I smiled. The moment Dr K
entered the camp, forty-eight trunks rose above their heads in a royal
welcome. Nuzzling and playing with the elephants, he dissolved into his
work. He inspected every elephant and drew up instructions. I wrote them
down as he spoke. In between, there was Shelley, some Kamban, a bit of
Paranar, and a little banter about the American Society of Naturalists. In the
afternoon, without bothering to wash anything more than my hands, I had a
roll of chapatti. There was chicken in my roll. Dr K was a staunch
vegetarian.
I had forgotten about the radio until the evening. At four thirty, Selvaraj
came in search of me. ‘Sir, someone from Delhi has been trying to reach
you on the phone . . . I asked them to call at the doctor’s house.’ I got into
the jeep at once, went straight to Dr K’s and phoned Anand. As soon as he
answered the phone, he said, ‘Sorry, man . . . I don’t know where to begin.’
Once I heard the words, I realized that my mind had been preparing me for
that on my way here; all the same, my entire body went limp and my heart
grew heavy. Unable to stand any longer, I sat down in the iron chair. ‘I’m
told that the minister had already included some other name on the list
yesterday . . . looks like he had called me over and sweet-talked me just to
test how invested I was in this. A cunning fox . . . I didn’t ever imagine this.
They’re giving out these awards to random actors . . . sorry, man . . . there’s
always next time . . .’
‘It’s okay . . . it’s not your fault.’
‘Dei . . . that old fox . . .’
‘A fox won’t behave like this . . . talk to you later,’ I said and put the
phone down.
I sat down, holding my head in my hands. Dr K would not give a damn. I
did not even have to tell him. Still . . . as I returned to the camp, I kept
thinking about it. What was it that was wringing me out, as though I was
being churned inside a machine? What had I expected? Did I not know that
this is how they would go about it?
But I must admit that in my heart of hearts, I had indeed expected
something else. I’d assumed that such extraordinary idealism was sure to
kindle the goodness that lay frozen in the unknown recesses of men. That
belief was Gandhi’s strength too. All idealism thrives upon that singular
characteristic. Had I attempted to put it to test in the present times? Did I
think that the moisture of that wellspring endures somewhere, even today?
I stopped on the way back to the camp, got off my jeep and stood gazing
at the grasslands. The green was resplendent. Flapping their wings of light,
tiny insects whirled round and round. The verdure filled my eyes. Green
implies moisture. Moisture implies life . . . what random thoughts.
Suddenly, my heart grew turbulent and smashed against the barriers I had
erected, breaking them down. Standing there in solitude, I cried my heart
out. Stirred by the act of crying, self-pity rose forth. I wept more desperate
tears, like a man squeezing out the final residues of the emptiness in his
heart.
Eventually, I fell into a deep silence. When I became aware of it, I heaved
a sigh of acceptance, returned to the present and got into my jeep, only to
feel as exhausted as a man who had run a mighty distance. I drove straight
to the elephant camp and went up to Dr K who was measuring a small calf.
As soon as he turned and glanced at me, he knew it. ‘What, has the balloon
been pricked?’ he asked and, laughing, added, ‘So, shall we focus on work
then?’
Being around him brought me back to normal within a few minutes. There
was work to keep us occupied until dusk fell, after which we both returned
in the jeep. On the ride back, Dr K kept talking about a new research paper
that he was about to write. There came a stage in man’s life when it became
necessary to domesticate elephants, he said. It would have been impossible
to lift heavy loads without them. Without the elephant, there would be none
of the imposing temples of Thanjavur. But man does not need the help of
the elephant today. We live in the age of mechanized cranes, many times
mightier than the elephant. Today, the elephant is reared as mere
‘decoration’ or for religious rituals or as an attraction at zoos, he argued.
‘We must ban the rearing of elephants in our temples. Most certainly,
temples are not places for elephants to live. The elephant’s eye needs to
feast on green leaves and trees. Back in the day, they treated the elephant as
a royal escort, but now they think they can rear an elephant by simply
feeding it “blessed” temple food. They place ten paise on the elephant’s
trunk, the vile idiots. Utter nonsense. If you truly know your place, won’t
your hands quail at the thought of throwing that scrap of metal at the
elephant? No other being has faced as much ignominy, indignity and
privation as the temple elephant . . . without a doubt, this must be banned.
‘Some will oppose it in the name of religious tradition. But, one hundred
years ago, when the practice of dedicating women to the temple was
banned, that was the very reason given by those who opposed it. The
elephant should be free. He is the emperor of the forest. Keeping him in the
city as a porter and a beggar is shameful for all of humanity. If we tell our
men this, they will not understand. What does he know about the forest? He
enters the forest only to drink and fornicate, doesn’t he? We have to talk
about this in European journals. If they tell him, the Indian man will listen.
Even now, they are his masters . . .’
As soon as we reached home, Dr K handed me his voluminous thesis.
‘Give it a read. I was working on it this morning too.’ Seventy typed pages.
I began reading it. Dr K had gathered a ton of information over many years
of effort. He had gathered data on two hundred elephants residing in various
Indian temples and had tabulated everything there was to know about their
physical and mental health. The corruption that abounded in their upkeep
was the main challenge. They were given food that fell woefully short of
their requirements. For the most part, they ate what they received from
devotees as alms. Even in some of the well-known temples, what reached
them as feed were used banana leaves and the leftover food of devotees.
It had grown dark. ‘Are you leaving?’ asked Dr K. ‘You’re welcome to
sleep here. You look tired.’ I had considered that too. Since I had stayed
with him on many such days, a bed and a woollen blanket were reserved for
me at his place. I lay down and read further. Dr K rustled up dinner in no
time. We ate in silence while the wind howled outside, whirling through the
trees. ‘I don’t expect that they will bring about a ban right away. This is a
democratic country. Sloths inhabit our courts. It will take a long time. But
let’s make a beginning, they will catch up some day . . .’ said Dr K.
‘Until then, I have another plan . . .’ he went on. ‘I wish to take the temple
elephants out to the jungles nearby, at least once a year, and keep them there
for a month. Just a month in the forest will suffice, the elephant will recover
dramatically. It is a wild animal, and so it pines for the forest in the depths
of its being. It will be rejuvenated once it sets eyes on the trees, the shrubs,
the water . . . Did you read the report? The temple elephant is under so
much stress that many of them have severe diabetes. If their foot gets
wounded, it never heals.’
Dr K had put together an action plan too, to submit to the government. It
contained elaborate instructions for the temple elephants’ rehabilitation in
the forest, their return, the costs, the sharing of responsibilities, et al. It was
a thorough report, as was usual for him, with not even an error the size of a
needle’s eye. ‘The plan I had submitted to the Paris Zoo laid the foundation
for this.’ In that moment, I couldn’t help wishing that he had received the
honour. It would have taken him further. It would have added even more
weight to his words.
I hit the bed by ten that night. As soon as I lay down, the emptiness and
self-pity returned and smothered me like cold air. I was afraid that I might
tear up again. I closed my eyes and gave way to desultory thoughts. Before
any of those thoughts could take wing, tiredness lulled me to sleep. When I
opened my eyes again, the room was lit up. Dr K was putting on his
sweater.
‘Doctor,’ I cried, getting up.
‘There’s some noise outside and the smell of elephants too,’ he said.
‘A herd, you think?’
‘They don’t come here ordinarily, there must be a reason,’ he said, picking
up the torch.
I got up and put on my sweater. We wore our boots and stepped outside.
Darkness hung spotless, like a gigantic black curtain. In a while, a few spots
appeared on it. Before long, the spots merged to form the sky above,
illuminating the outline of the forest. Then the clumpy foliage of the forest
trees emerged, embossed against the darkness.
By then, Dr K had spotted the elephant. ‘A calf,’ he said. ‘Won’t be more
than two years of age, I think.’
‘Where?’
‘Look . . .’ It took me a few seconds to spot the baby elephant in the
direction he was pointing. It seemed as tall as me and we could see the
white of its tiny tusks. We could even see the flapping of its ears. ‘It won’t
travel alone at this age,’ said Dr K. ‘Come, let’s check.’ If we flashed our
lights, we couldn’t have seen into the distance and so we proceeded in the
darkness. Within a few minutes, we were able to see even the tips of the
grass blades.
The baby elephant trumpeted softly, lifted its trunk and sniffed at us.
‘Easy, easy,’ said Dr K.
The baby elephant moved forward, one step at a time. It seemed to be
limping.
‘It’s injured,’ I said.
‘Hmm,’ said Dr K.
The baby elephant stopped and howled like a Jersey cow before limping
forward again.
Dr K instructed me to wait and went up to the elephant. As soon as he
went near, it swung its trunk like a pendulum, shook its head from side to
side and welcomed him. When he went and touched its tusk, it placed its
trunk on his shoulder. The trunk slithered down his body like a heavy snake.
‘Come,’ said Dr K. I went up to them. He patted the baby elephant and
quieted it down. It extended its small trunk beyond him, in an attempt to
inspect me. I stepped back. ‘We have to make him lie down. But we won’t
be able to convince him now,’ said Dr K. ‘Go and get my kit.’ I ran to the
room and brought his big medical case.
Dr K stuck an injection in the elephant’s mouth. For a little while, in a
manner typical of baby elephants, it swung its trunk from between its
forelegs and then all the way forward, and rocked its body back and forth. It
rolled its head from side to side and tried to examine me a few times. Then
its movements waned. It slumped into a seated position, lay down on its
side and stretched out its legs. With a hiss, breath escaped from its trunk
and hit my chest.
‘Light,’ said Dr K. I shined the torch. Just as we thought, a beer bottle
again. This time, the bottom of the glass could be seen poking out from the
foot. Since the elephant was relatively light in weight, and perhaps because
the incident was still recent, the glass hadn’t sunk in fully. The doctor got
hold of it and pulled it out. Blood drenched his hands. ‘I don’t think there
are any broken pieces inside,’ he said, feeling the outline of the glass.
All the same, he put his hand in and felt the flesh with great care. ‘Quite
clean. He’s lucky,’ he said, as he dipped the cotton in medicine, pushed it
inside and taped up the wound. ‘He will wake up in an hour and return to
Mudumalai in the morning,’ said Dr K.
‘To Mudumalai?’ I asked.
‘Yes, he’s come from there, after all. You’ve seen him.’
‘This fellow?’
‘Yes, about a year and a half ago. We took out a bottle shard from an
elephant’s foot, just like today, remember? This fellow was standing under a
big mulberry tree that day. He was a very small baby then. Looked like a
buffalo calf . . .’
‘How do you know?’
‘Why, wouldn’t you recognize a man you may have seen there that day?’
Dr K got to his feet, rubbed his hands with cotton and threw it into a paper
bag.
‘How far he’s come in search of you . . . amazing!’ I said.
‘Poor thing, he’s been in terrible pain.’
I’ve heard a lot about the elephants’ capacity to remember and track down
things. They can go as far as three hundred kilometres even, in search of
something. They do not forget even the minutest of details. All the same, I
could not fathom how they had managed to find us when, in fact, we had
driven back from Mudumalai that day. Perhaps they had registered our
scent from within the bamboo forest. Perhaps they had visited us earlier to
check where we lived.
Even so, a baby elephant making it this far was simply astonishing. When
we reached the threshold of the house, Dr K paused and peered intently into
the forest. Faint, shadowy movements formed within the darkness. We
could see an entire herd of elephants standing there. I was about to flash the
light in their direction. ‘No,’ said the doctor. I spotted the elephant with the
handicapped leg by its somewhat crooked gait. The elephants stepped
forward and stood in a semicircle, flapping their ears.
Dr K turned away. ‘They’ll come and fetch him, let’s go,’ he said. All of a
sudden, the trumpeting of more than twenty elephants united into a
thunderous uproar. A shiver ran through my body and my eyes welled up.
Choking, I stood still, my mind emptied of words. The elephants lifted and
flung their trunks forward, trumpeting in unison, again and again. Yes, the
divine dundubhis were booming! The celestial drums were thundering!
Decked with dark rain clouds, the sky was replete with the smile of
elephant-faced celestials.
‘Come,’ said the Elephant Doctor, as he stepped inside.

OceanofPDF.com
 The Meal Tally

‘Kethel Sahib’ is not a name you would have heard of. Back in the day, he
ran an eatery at Thiruvananthapuram’s Chalai Bazaar, near the place where
Sree Padmanabha Theatre is located today. During the sixties and seventies,
if there was anyone in Thiruvananthapuram who had not eaten there, they
must have been vegetarians.
The eatery ran until Kethel Sahib’s passing in 1978. At present, his son
operates several restaurants across the city, and his relatives run another
shop at the very same place. Even today, the eatery’s fish curry and kozhi
kuzhambu taste just the same. Mubarak Hotel is what the restaurant’s called
now. People still throng the place and brave long waits to eat there. Kerala
teems with meat lovers who believe that a trip to Thiruvananthapuram
counts only if they’ve dined at Mubarak Hotel. Even so, Kethel Sahib’s
eatery was something else. You’ll understand only if I tell you about it.
Located in a narrow alley, Mubarak Hotel is a mere tin-roofed shed even
now. Back in the day, it was a just a stall with a thatch roof and measured
no more than fifteen feet by eight feet. Open on all sides, the stall had a
bench and table made by securing bamboo poles together. It was pleasant
and breezy there during the summer months, but when it rained the wind
would drive in a generous drizzle. Doesn’t it rain most of the time in
Kerala? Nevertheless, Kethel Sahib’s eatery was crowded all the time.
Did I say all the time? When did Kethel Sahib ever keep the shop open all
the time? He would open at noon and close at three in the afternoon. Then,
he would reopen next at seven in the evening and close by ten at night.
Right from eleven in the morning, in the narrow veranda in front of the
eatery, at Rahmat Vilas – the tailoring shop on the opposite side – and in the
yard in front of the godown of K.P. Arunachalam Chettiar & Sons
Wholesale Departmental Store, a crowd would queue up in wait. Half of
them would buy a newspaper, either the Mathrubhumi or the Kerala
Kaumudi, and read while they waited. Debates would follow about
Kaumudi’s editor K. Balakrishnan’s fiery political columns. At times, they
would turn into heated arguments too.
All that lasted only until the gunny purdah that hung at the entrance was
rolled up as a sign that Sahib was about to open the eatery. At once, the
crowd would squeeze in and seat themselves. Kethel Sahib looked like a
demon. Towering over seven feet, he had pillar-like arms and legs, and a
face ridden with pockmarks. One eye, rendered cloudy by the pox,
resembled a cowrie shell. The other eye was small and red, like burning
cinder. He wore a white knitted cap and his moustache-less curved beard
was dyed red with henna. Held in place by a broad green belt, a chequered
lungi hung from his waist. Though he was a Malayali, Kethel Sahib could
barely speak the language. Arabi-Malayalam was what he spoke. However,
to hear his voice was a rare event in itself. If you did happen to hear it, it
wouldn’t be more than a couple of sentences. The moment he uttered
‘Fareen’ in his deep voice and turned into the shop, the crowd would line
the benches.
But there was really no need for a welcome. The aromas of chicken fry,
kozhi kuzhambu, roasted prawns, charred karimeen and mathi-fish stew
would have coalesced into an invitation already. Truth be told, I’ve tried
every restaurant there is in the city, but the aroma of Kethel Sahib’s food is
not to be found anywhere else. ‘There’s an arithmetic to it, boy,’ Vasudevan
Nair would say. ‘If one man buys the produce, another delivers it, and so
on, the food will have neither flavour nor fragrance. Kethel Sahib would
hand-pick not just the fish and chicken, but the rice and other ingredients
too. If there was even a grain of deficiency in their quality, he would reject
them. The prawns were delivered all the way from the backwaters of
Chirayinkeezh, just for him. A Mappillai named Paapi would arrive in his
boat, dragging the net of fresh catch along, making sure to keep it in the
water. Sahib would haul the entire catch straight to the kitchen . . . Son,
honesty adds its own flavour to the food, all right?’
Whatever be Sahib’s methods, in the fifteen years that I ate at his joint,
not once did a dish fall short of the benchmark of ‘outstanding taste’. How
do I make you see what I mean? It wasn’t just honesty that imparted this
quality to the food. There was certainly some arithmetic to it. At Sahib’s
eatery, the kuzhambu and fry were served piping hot, straight off the stove.
Sahib would estimate beforehand the crowd that was to arrive, and
accordingly mount the ingredients. Apart from Sahib, his bibi, their two
sons and a couple of helpers were the ones who cooked, all of whom
accepted his authority implicitly. Sahib, on his part, could judge the taste of
the food with just the smell. Anyway, this is all mere talk. What I should
say is, there was a fairy inhabiting the place. All right, not a fairy, a djinn.
Not a djinn from Arabia, but from a Malabar village. A djinn that had drunk
from the waters of the river Kallayi.
Kethel Sahib’s forefathers were from Malabar. Once, when the song
‘Kallayi puzha oru manavaati’, penned by Yusufali Kechery, eulogizing the
bride-like beauty of the river Kallayi was playing on the radio, his son
remarked, ‘Isn’t that Father’s river?’ But for that, I know nothing about
him. He never did talk. Someone might’ve had to hypnotize him to make
him talk. His family had migrated to escape the clutches of poverty, and
Sahib was rendered homeless at a very early age. Till he turned twenty, he
sold tea from a big kettle that he carried by hand. And that is how he got his
name. Before long, he started selling fried fish at a street corner and set up
the food stall in due course. ‘I haven’t had a good cup of chaya ever since
the man stopped selling tea,’ Nair once remarked. Kaumudi Balakrishnan –
the man himself – would come all the way to Chalai Bazaar from
Kazhakkuttam to drink Kethel Sahib’s tea, they said.
Sahib did not lack anything. He had a big house in Ambalamukku. A joint
family. Seven or eight shops in the city. He had married away three of his
daughters. He had set up shop for his three new sons-in-law, too. You won’t
be surprised if I tell you that he’d earned it all from his eatery. But, if I tell
you about his business model, you’re sure to be wonderstruck. Sahib did
not charge for the food – a practice he’d held right from the days when he
sold tea. There was a tin donation box at a corner at the front of the shop
concealed by a small reed screen. Once you had finished your meal, you
could deposit whatever amount you wished to in the box. Or not. No one
would keep an eye on you. No matter how many days you skipped paying,
no matter how much you ate, Kethel Sahib never paid any attention to it.
That’s how he had been, even when he had roamed the streets as a
shirtless tea boy, clad in khaki shorts and a round cap. He kept a small box
next to him, where you could drop in some change, if you so wished. You
couldn’t ask for the price, nor would he tell. Some rogues and ruffians did
make mischief with him, at first. They deposited folded paper in the box.
They took away the box itself. They drank tea for months together, for years
together, without ever paying up. It didn’t seem like Kethel Sahib so much
as even remembered their faces.
There was this one time when Kethel Sahib slapped a man. A poor
woman, who looked as if she had migrated from some village in Tamil
Nadu was eking out a living by winnowing spices on the streets. She
stopped to drink tea that day. At the same time, the notorious ruffian
Karamana Kochu Kuttanpillai, an upper-caste Nair, had also ordered a glass
of tea, and his gaze fell upon the woman. Goodness knows what went
through his mind, but he grabbed the woman’s breast and started squeezing
it. Incited by her screams, he tried to carry her away into a side street.
Kethel Sahib got to his feet and, without saying a word, slapped Kochu
Kuttanpillai right across his face. The whole street would have heard that
sound. As blood oozed from his ears, nose and mouth, Kuttanpillai
collapsed to the ground and lay there like a corpse. Kethel Sahib went back
to selling tea, as though nothing had happened.
Kuttanpillai’s men carried him away. He spent eighteen days in the
hospital but never walked again. He went deaf and his head trembled all the
time. He had frequent bouts of the fits too. Seven months later, while he
was bathing in the Karamanai river, he succumbed to one such attack and
disappeared into the waters. They could only retrieve his bloated corpse. A
faction emerged, questioning how a lowly Mappillai could strike a pristine
Nair. Chalai Mahadevar Temple trustee Ananthan Nair let them have it:
‘Piss off and mind your own rotten business. If you forsake what’s just, you
may well be fated to die by the hands of a Muslim, or from the bite of an
ant too . . .’ No one in Chalai Bazaar dared speak to the contrary once
Ananthan Nair had declared his view.
The first time I ate at Kethel Sahib’s eatery was in 1968. I am from
Osaravilai, near Kanyakumari. My father was an accountant at a rice mill in
Kottaram. I was a good student. After I passed my eleventh grade, I was
advised to enrol in college. With Appa’s income being what it was, I
shouldn’t have even dreamt of it. But a maternal uncle of mine lived in
Pettah, in Thiruvananthapuram. He ran a mediocre printing press. His wife
was from Thazhakudy. Needless to say, they were related to one another
even before they were married. Appa held my hand all the way as we
boarded a bus, alighted at Thampanur and walked to Pettah. It was the first
city that I laid eyes on. With coconut oil oozing from my hair and mingling
with the sweat on my face, clad in a half-length vaetti that stopped short of
my shin, a shirt crumpled from having been stored in a pot, and with feet
unshod, I walked in a trance.
Mama had no choice, for Appa had looked after him when he was a child.
I enrolled for English literature at University College, and Appa left with a
full heart. Before leaving, he pressed one rupee into my hand and said,
‘Hold on to it, don’t spend it. Mama will take care of everything.’ Turning
to my Mami, he said, ‘Subbamma, from now on, he’s not just a nephew to
you, but a son too.’ To this day I wonder if Mama’s heart was in it. That my
Mami wanted none of it became evident that very evening, at dinner. When
all of them sat down to have a meal of appalam, poriyal and sambhar, they
did not invite me. After they were done, they left some food for me in the
kitchen, in an aluminium vessel. It was rice doused with water and sambhar.
I was only too familiar with shame and starvation, so I put up with it all.
The more I bore Mama and Mami without complaint, the worse they
became. All the chores around the house fell on my shoulders. I had to draw
pot after pot of water from the well and carry it to the house, sweep and
mop the house every day and escort the two daughters to school. The elder
one, Ramalakshmi, was in eighth grade. I had to teach her mathematics and
complete her homework too. After all that, I had to wash the kitchen before
I could turn in. In return, they accorded me some space in their veranda and
provided me soaked rice and pickle, twice a day. Mami was a perennially
disgruntled woman. She grumbled about me to anyone who paid a visit to
their house. They were being reduced to debtors thanks to the food I was
eating, she would complain. Whenever she saw me open a book, she would
fly into a rage and scream her head off.
I did not write about any of this to Appa. My two younger brothers and a
younger sister were still at home. On most days, a kanji brewed with the
black, broken rice separated out by the winnowers at the rice mill had
formed our meal. As far as I can remember, the daily kuzhambu was but a
broth made from koduppaikeerai, a variety of spinach that grew by the
stream. With not even a whiff of coconut, it was a plain broth, made by
blanching spinach and churning it well in tamarind-soaked water along with
some green chillies. But when in the throes of hunger that aroma was
enough to make me salivate. If, some day, Amma drummed up enough
courage to buy twenty-five paise worth of mathi-fish, every corner of the
house would be filled with fragrance. She would make an exception that
day and cook good-quality rice too. The whole day the thought of the
mathi-kuzhambu would possess us, as though it were a meditation of sorts.
No matter how hard we tried, we could not divert our minds from it. At the
end of the meal, Amma would soak up the kuzhambu that remained at the
bottom of the vessel with some rice, clean it out and roll it into a ball. Just
as she’d be about to drop it into her mouth, my little brother would stretch
his hand, asking for a share of that too.
The college fee was overdue. I tried telling Mama about it discreetly at
first, but after many failed attempts, I had to ask him straight up. ‘Write to
your father . . . I’ve only promised food and lodging,’ he said. I knew it was
useless to write to Appa. After a week had passed, the college
administration demanded that I drop out. I could attend classes after paying
the fee, they said. I roamed around like a madman. I went to the
Thampanoor railway station and sat there all day, listening to the rattle of
iron. I died many deaths on that railway track. That is when Kumara Pillai,
a fellow student, showed me a way out. He took me along to the K.
Nagaraja Panickar Rice Mandi in Chalai and signed me up for the job of
accounting for rice bags. I had to report there only by five in the evening,
but I was to keep tally until midnight. One rupee a day, was the salary. I
obtained an advance of forty rupees and used that to pay the fee.
It would be one, or perhaps, two past midnight by the time I reached
home. I would wake up only at seven in the morning. The recess during
college hours was the only time I had to study. Even so, I did well. I had
developed the practice of paying keen attention in class. All the same, there
was never enough time. It would take me forty-five minutes to get from
University College to Chalai Bazar, even if I cut across the secretariat and
hastened through Karamanai. If the last class of the day happened to be
Shanmugam Pillai’s, it would go on until four thirty. And then, if I reached
the godown late, Paramasivam would’ve already arrived to keep tab,
defeating the very purpose of my getting there. Goods arrived at the mandi
four days a week. Dropping a day meant losing a fourth of the week’s
wages.
They did not pay me at the end of the first month. Panickar credited all
fifteen rupees that was due to me against my advance. When I woke up in
the morning the following day, Mami placed a notebook in front of me and
disappeared inside. It was an old notebook. I turned the pages over. It
contained a running tally of every meal I had had there, since the day I
arrived. At the rate of two annas a meal, a sum of forty-eight rupees was
debited against my name. My head spun. I willed myself to go up to the
kitchen. ‘Mami, what’s this?’ I asked.
‘As though we can feed you for free . . . you’re earning now, aren’t you?
It’ll be honourable if you pay. For you and for me,’ she said. ‘If there’s
something wrong with the accounts, let me know. I’ve kept a meticulous
tally from the very first day.’
Tears welled up in my eyes and a lump formed in my throat as I stood
there wordlessly. After some seconds had passed. ‘I didn’t know of this,
Mami . . .’ I ventured. ‘I don’t make all that much. I have fees to pay. Books
to buy . . .’
‘Look here, why must I feed you for free? I have two daughters. If I’ve to
get them married off tomorrow, I’ll have to cough up cash and gold, don’t
you know? A tally is a tally. Only then will it protect your dignity. And
mine.’
‘I don’t have the money now, Mami. I’ll pay you back, little by little,’ I
said in a feeble voice.
‘How do I trust that you’ll pay?’ she questioned.
I said nothing. That very evening I left their house. I went straight to
Panickar’s godown and stayed there. Panickar too was happy that he had
found an unpaid watchman. Mami held back some important books of mine
as collateral for the dues.
I was happy enough at Chalai. I would take a dip in the Karamanai river
and follow it up with four idlis at Elisaamma’s idli shop. Then straight to
college. I would skip lunch. In the evening, after I was done with work, I
would have a puff biscuit or tea and then lie down for a while. My
calculations allowed for only one meal a day. Hunger was a constant.
Whenever I pondered over something, it would eventually end with the
thought of food. I could never take my eyes off a fat person. How much
would they eat, I’d wonder. A whiff of payasam was enough to make me
enter the Chalai Mahadevar temple. The fruit and the payasam they’d offer
to devotees on a strip of leaf would save me the day’s spend on idlis. More
often than not, I’d find something to feed myself – like sundal from the
Sastha temple or turmeric rice from Goddess Isakkiammai’s. And yet, the
money I made was not enough for me. Before I could return the advance,
the next term’s fee fell due. Then again, I had to save five rupees a month to
give to Mami. I needed to retrieve my books from her before the exams.
My eyes began to look sunken. I became frail and turned into this person
who could barely walk. My head would swim while drawing up the
accounts, and I’d plummet to unknown depths before surfacing again.
There was always a bitter taste in my mouth and a shivering in my limbs.
To walk up to Pettah in order to attend college would take me around an
hour. My dreams were filled with food. A wounded dog lay dead on the
road one day. My plight was such, you see, that I imagined lighting up a
stone fire behind the godown, cooking the dog meat and eating it. My
mouth watered and I drooled all over my shirt.
 That was when Coolie Narayanan told me about Kethel Sahib’s eatery.
That one did not have to pay sounded incredible to me. I asked around, and
everyone said it was true. Don’t worry about paying, they said. I was unable
to summon the courage to go there, but the thought of Kethel’s Sahib’s shop
was ever present in my head. Four or five times I had gone and stood
outside, simply stared at it and headed back quietly. The aromas that wafted
from the shop drove me crazy. I had had fried fish only two times until then,
on both occasions at the house of a well-off relative. A week later, when I
had scraped together three rupees, I went to Kethel Sahib’s eatery with the
money in hand.
As though I was up to some mischief, my body was all a-flutter until
Sahib opened the shop. I went in with the crowd and sat in a corner where
no one would catch sight of me. There was such a din. Sahib was serving
rice at gale force on overturned lotus leaves that served as plates. He ladled
out steaming red samba rice with a big colander and poured rich-red fish
curry over it. Some of us got kozhi kuzhambu, and others fried kozhi
kuzhambu. It did seem as though he took no note of anyone. But on a closer
look, it became obvious that he knew everyone. He didn’t stop to ask
anybody for their preferences. He himself decided how much fish and meat
to serve, and went about it without uttering a word of hospitality. He served
all the food himself. It was only for the second helpings of kuzhambu that a
boy assisted him.
When he reached where I was sitting, he looked up. ‘Here for the first
time, Pillecha?’ he asked. I was tongue-tied, in awe of how he’d guessed
that I belonged to the Vellalar caste. He pushed a mound of rice on my leaf
and poured the kuzhambu over it. A big leg of fried chicken. Two pieces of
fried fish. ‘Eat,’ he roared, and turned away. I had no doubt that it would
cost me more than three rupees. My limbs began to shudder. The rice
choked in my throat. All of a sudden, Sahib turned around. ‘What’re you
doing there?! Eat, Pillecha!’ he thundered, admonishing me. I gulped down
many fistfuls. The flavour seeped into every pore of my body. Flavour!
God, I had forgotten that such a thing existed in this world. Tears fell from
my eyes and streamed into my mouth.
 Kethel Sahib approached me with a melted-ghee-like substance in a small
cup. He poured it over my rice and served me some more kuzhambu. ‘Mix
it up and eat, stupid . . . it’s fish fat,’ he said. It was the fat extracted from a
river fish. A yellow liquid rendered by making a cut in its gill. It lent a
unique flavour to the curry. Soon enough, unaccustomed to such quantities
of food, my stomach felt clogged. But before I could think, Sahib had
served another colander of rice on my leaf. ‘Aiyo, no!’ I exclaimed. His
colander came down hard on the hand I had stretched out to stop him.
‘Saying no to food, you cadaver! Eat, bloody Iblees,’ he scolded. My hand
radiated with genuine pain. When I looked into his bloodshot eyes, I
thought Sahib might beat me if I were to get up. I knew he wouldn’t like it
if food went waste. When I finished eating, I was unable to get up. Holding
on to the table for support, I walked out, threw the leaf away and washed
my hands.
As I neared the box, I went weak in the knees. I felt that Kethel Sahib was
keeping an eye on it, from somewhere, from some unknown angle. On the
contrary, he was attending to others in the crowd. I noticed that many of
them left without depositing any cash while others who did, looked
unperturbed as they dropped in the money. With trembling hands, I took out
the three rupees I had and dropped it inside. Eyes and ears sprouted on my
back, expecting to hear a voice. As I made my way out quietly, my body
began to shed its heaviness. It felt as though a cool breeze was sweeping
through the street. Covered in gooseflesh, I walked in a daze, oblivious to
everyone and everything around me.
I did not dare to venture that side for the next four or five days. When I
managed to rustle up two more rupees, emboldened, I went to Kethel
Sahib’s eatery. It was only when he brought out the fat and poured it on my
food, just like the previous time, that I knew that he had recognized me. The
same stern voice, the same curses, the same body-bursting amount of food.
This time around, I was quite calm when I deposited the money. When I
went again three days later, I had seven rupees on me. I was due to hand it
over to Mami that evening. My plan was to eat two rupees’ worth of food.
To eat more than that was, according to me, the height of wantonness. But
the flavour did not allow me to stop. Kethel Sahib’s fish curry and chicken
fry had invaded even my dreams in those days. Why, I’d even penned a
poem on them on the back of my notebook. When I finished my meal, the
question of leaving without paying reared its head.
However, the very thought of not paying turned my stomach and I could
not eat any further. As though I was submerging a ball in water, I had to
push the food down my throat. I began to feel faint. I got to my feet, washed
my hands and walked away, lifting my cold, heavy legs with effort. Was my
head spinning or my bladder full or my chest seizing? I couldn’t tell. Better
pay up, said my mind’s voice. I neared the box. I could not walk past it.
There was a ringing in my ears. When I reached the box, in a trice, I
dropped all seven rupees in and walked out. It was only when a draught of
air hit me as I stepped outside the shop that I realized what I had done. Half
of a month’s earnings had evaporated in a flash. How many debts I owed!
There were only eight days to go, to pay the college fee. What had I done?
It was the height of stupidity.
My heart sank and relentless tears rolled down my face. It felt like a
terrible disillusionment, or a death too near. I went to the godown and sat
down. As there was enough work to take hold of my mind and body until
midnight, I survived. Otherwise, in the delirium of the moment, I may well
have thrown myself on some railway track. It occurred to me later that night
– why should I cry? I can keep eating at Kethel Sahib’s till I exhaust my
money’s worth. Comforted by that thought, I fell asleep.
The following day my classes finished by noon. I went straight to Kethel
Sahib’s eatery, sat down and ate, savouring the food as though I had all the
time in the world. The man kept serving more and more food on my plate.
‘Dei, eat up, you donkey!’ he’d shout, if I paused but a little, assuming that
I was about to get up. As I washed my hands and walked out, I found
myself converting plausible excuses into words, should Kethel Sahib
question me. But he paid no attention to me. I felt cheated when I stepped
out of the place. All of a sudden, I felt annoyed with him. The man thinks
no end of himself, I thought. That everyone pays out of their own sense of
morality makes him appear like a large-hearted person. After all, he
survives only because of those who deposit zakat in the box, for Ramzan.
His generosity is not selfless, is it? Surely, it’s the money begotten in this
manner that’s become his house and his wealth, is it not? How long will he
put up with not being paid? Let’s see. I didn’t know why I was vexed, but
the annoyance had permeated my body like an itch.
I was still annoyed when I went there the next day. By then, I knew that
Kethel Sahib would not question me. But if I were to notice even an iota of
difference in his gaze or demeanour, I resolved that that would be the last
time I visited the place. If he entreated me a little more than usual, that too
was a sign that he did notice, that he did keep tally. But Kethel Sahib went
on serving me food at his usual pace. He poured me my usual share of fat.
‘Eat the chicken, Pillecha,’ he said, placing a half-chicken on my leaf. He
followed it up with some fish. Was he really a part of this world? Was this a
Mappillai or a djinn? It was a bit frightening too. When I was about to have
my last course of rice, he served the blackened dredges that remained in the
wok after frying, along with a charred chicken leg. I had always tried not to
let on how much I enjoyed this dish. It didn’t surprise me, though, that he
knew it nevertheless.
As I mixed the powder into the rice, my heart caved in. I could not hold
back my tears. No one had served me food with such affection until then.
Amma found it impossible to ration among all of us the kanji she made
from a single cup of rice without swearing, cursing and bristling with
irritation. Here was the first human who cared if I ate to a full stomach. The
first hand that served me without keeping tab. They talk about the hand that
feeds you; they talk about carrying to the grave the memory of the maternal
hand. With a wrist adorned by an amulet, stubby, parched fingers and a
hairy forearm – wasn’t this bear-hand the true hand of a mother? From that
day on, I did not pay Kethel Sahib. Hand on heart, it wasn’t because I
thought of it as an expense. It was because I thought of it as my mother’s
food. Not just for a day or two, but for five whole years I did not pay Kethel
Sahib a single paisa.
I would have one meal at the shop every day, either lunch or dinner. That
by itself was sufficient for me. Four idlis to top it, and I’d be done for the
day. My limbs gained strength. My cheeks glistened. My moustache
thickened. My voice deepened. My gait acquired a hint of swagger, my
speech became assertive, and my laughter confident. I grew into something
like a manager at the mandi. It became my responsibility to procure
supplies and distribute them as needed. I was even able to save up and send
some money home every month. I not only cleared my BA in first class but
I finished at the top of my class too. I enrolled in the MA programme at the
same college, took a room on rent at Chalai, above Arunachalam Nadar’s
shop, and got myself a good bicycle.
I ate at Kethel Sahib’s, every day. With every passing day, the
conversation dwindled, so much so that I began to doubt if he even noticed
me. But when his hefty hand stretched over my leaf to serve the food, I
knew that it was a mother’s loving hand. That I was born in his lap and had
suckled at his breast. The hardship at home abated when my younger
brother, Chandran, finished school, got his driving licence and joined the
Government Transport Corporation. I visited home once in a while. Amma
would buy good quality rice, make some fish kuzhambu and serve it with
her own hands. But, conditioned by countless years of poverty, she didn’t
really know how to serve. Her eye couldn’t help measuring the rice that was
left in the pot or the kuzhambu that was left in the pan. While serving the
rice or kuzhambu, she would always tilt back half of the contents of the
ladle into the vessel. If one asked for more kuzhambu, her ladle would draw
only a few drops. Either her hand or her heart had shrunk. As she heaped
the salai pulimulam and samba rice on my plate, I would feel sated by the
fourth mouthful. After that the very act of taking the food to my mouth
would be such an effort. ‘Eat, son,’ Amma would offer a weak word of
encouragement. With a shake of my head, I would rinse my hands over the
plate.
I came second in the university when I finished the MA degree. Soon
enough, I got a job as a lecturer in my college. When I got the order in
hand, the same afternoon, I strode to Kethel Sahib’s eatery. It wasn’t open. I
went to the back, drew aside the gunny purdah and peeped in. In a large
bronze wok, Kethel Sahib was stirring some fish kuzhambu. His face, his
hands, his thoughts, were all centred on the kuzhambu, as though it was a
kind of namaz. It did not feel right to interrupt him, so I left. Later that
afternoon, as he served food on my leaf, I looked up at his face. Nothing in
it said I was special. I needn’t tell him the news, I thought to myself. It held
no meaning for him.
I left for my home town that evening. I couldn’t tell if the news made
Amma happy. Her face was set in such a way that everything found
expression on it as worry. Appa alone asked. ‘How much will you get?’
‘I’ll get something . . . ’ I replied trying to brush off the question.
‘Two hundred, tops?’
Needled by the petty-minded clerk I saw behind that question, I said,
‘Seven hundred rupees, including the allowance.’ Up until my last breath, I
will not forget the malice that flickered for an instant in Appa’s eyes. He
had retired without ever making more than twenty rupees a month. Only my
brother pranced about with real enthusiasm. ‘You’ll have to teach in
English, right? That means you can speak well . . . will you speak like an
English dorai?’ he said with effervescence. Incensed, Amma retorted, ‘Let
the celebrations be. Better save up and find a way to marry off your sisters.’
Once she had latched on to a virtuous cause, an intense bitterness found
direction through it. ‘Did you not see what’s become of those women who
cavorted about? I saw that Thazhakudy woman at Shanmugam’s wedding.
Looks like a mould-ridden, dried fish now . . . what a dance she danced, the
wretch . . . God wreaks vengeance in his own time, doesn’t he?’ she said.
‘Woman, do you even hear yourself? That fellow over there – your son –
he’s grown into a man on the food she parted with. You should have some
gratitude, you know . . . some gratitude,’ said Appa.
‘Gratitude? For what? A measly bit of rice and kuzhambu? Add up the
cost and throw it in her face, that’ll take care of it . . . or else she may well
arrive here claiming some other kind of tally . . . the wretched wench,’ said
Amma.
‘Shut your stinking mouth,’ yelled Appa seething with anger and a fight
ensued.
I went to Thazhakudy the following day. Two years had passed since
Mama had died. He had developed a fever, all of a sudden. I had stayed
with him at the hospital all through. Bacteria had seeped in from a wound in
the gum and made its way to his heart. He passed away on the third night.
Once the final rites were completed, we went through the press’s accounts.
There were loans of close to two thousand rupees. The landlord demanded
that the press be wound up. With the three thousand rupees that remained
after selling all the machines, Mami returned to Thazhakudy, where she had
some share in her family’s property. She took a house on possessory
mortgage. Ramalakshmi had not studied beyond the eleventh grade and the
younger one was in her eighth grade. Mami was shaken. As the days went
by, the panic caused by dwindling money settled on her face, and I watched
her become frail, parched and shadow-like. Whenever I came home, I
would visit them for the sake of civility, say a few words and leave after
placing a ten-rupee note on the table.
Mami wasn’t home when I paid a visit that day, only Ramalakshmi was
there. She looked rather washed out herself. A veranda, a hall, a makeshift
kitchen – that was all there was to the house. A rolled-up straw mat hung on
the clothes line. The floor had been swabbed with cow dung. A Ranimuthu
novel lay on a small table. Ramalakshmi went out through the back,
borrowed either tea or sugar from the neighbouring house and made me
some black tea. She placed the tumbler on the table and went and stood near
the door, concealing half of herself. I gazed at the parting of her hair. She
was a smart girl, but mathematics had eluded her. It had taken me more than
twenty days to teach her compound interest back when we were in
Thiruvananthapuram. I didn’t know what to talk to her about. She was a
different person now.
Ten minutes passed. I got up, ‘I’ll take leave,’ I said.
‘Amma will be here soon,’ said a soft voice.
‘It’s okay, I have to leave,’ I repeated.
Placing a fifty-rupee note on the table, I stepped out. While making my
way out through one of the side streets, I spotted Mami coming from the
opposite direction. She had rolled up an old saree, placed it on her head to
form a base and stacked a palmyra basket on top of it. She looked at me
blankly at first. It took her half a second more to recognize me. ‘My son!’
she cried. I helped her set the basket down. It contained bran. Evidently, she
was pounding paddy for wages, and bran was the daily wage. She must
have been on her way to sell it. ‘Come home, son,’ she said, grabbing hold
of my hand.
‘No . . . I’m running late, I need to get back to Thiruvananthapuram
today,’ I said. ‘I’ve got a job . . . at the college.’ She didn’t quite
understand. The incessant grind of poverty does blunt the mind.
Then, suddenly, she grasped what I had said. ‘My word! Stay blessed my
son, stay blessed,’ she said, grabbing hold of my hands once again. ‘I
thought I must wait until you get a job. I don’t have anyone to go to, son. I
don’t have even a few paise to give to anybody. See, we’re feeding
ourselves by pounding paddy for utter strangers . . . If the bran doesn’t sell,
we douse our evening hunger with the raw bran, son . . . But I did feed you
during the good days. You became a man on my rice and kanji, didn’t you?
For eight months, even if you say two meals a day, I’ve served you rice and
curry nearly five hundred times, yes? Your mother won’t see that now. Even
if she does not feel gratitude, I’m sure you do . . . Son, Ramalakshmi has no
one but you. The poor thing thinks of you night and day . . . Please give her
a life, my darling . . . If you don’t feel gratitude for the food you ate, know
that you’ll pay for it in many, many lives to come.’
When I took leave of her and boarded the bus, my lips felt bitter, as
though they had tasted neem fruit. Throughout the ride back, I kept spitting
out of the window, desperately trying to rid my mouth of the taste. I
returned straight to Thiruvananthapuram. I’m certain the bitterness would
have pervaded my body had I not let myself drown in the bustle and
euphoria of a new job. When I received my first pay cheque, I sent it to
Amma. In response, she wrote a letter. ‘Subbamma was here. She spoke to
your Appa. Your Appa’s heart is not in it either. Listen, we don’t need that.
Let’s gift a hundred or a thousand for the girl’s wedding in return for
whatever they’ve done for us. We need not owe anyone a debt for food.
Enquiries from good families are pouring in these days. They will provide
enough and more. In fact, one such alliance has come from Boothapandi.
Shall I proceed?’ she asked. I lay thinking all night. Fed up, I fell asleep.
When I woke up, I had my decision. I wrote back to Amma saying,
‘Proceed. The girl should be a little educated.’
I had already registered myself in a twenty-thousand-rupee chit fund run
by Canteen Saminatha Iyer in my first month in the job. The instalment was
five hundred rupees a month. I bid for the pot, at a deduction of four
thousand. Iyer handed me sixteen thousand rupees, rolled up in a sheet of
the Mathrubhumi. Hundred-rupee notes, all of them. Never before had I
touched that much cash. A strange terror gripped me and my hands
prickled. I brought the cash to my room and sat staring at it. Not even in my
wildest dreams had I thought I’d make so much money. This was enough to
buy a small house in the suburbs of Thiruvananthapuram. I smiled to
myself, observing the wondrous ease with which my mind and my hands
became accustomed to the presence of that cash.
In the afternoon, I went to Kethel Sahib’s eatery. As soon as it opened, I
walked in and began depositing the cash in the donation box. When the box
filled up, I asked Kethel Sahib for another one. ‘Dei, Hameed, change the
box,’ he ordered. Once his son replaced it, I started depositing the cash
again. After I had finished depositing all the cash, I washed my hands and
sat down to eat. Kethel Sahib spread a leaf and placed my favourite prawn
fry on it. He then served the rice and poured the kuzhambu. I was certain
that there’d be no change in him. He didn’t say a word. Further away, two
boys sat almost glued to each other. They were pale Nair boys, with lifeless,
mouldy skin and washed-out eyes. They were gulping the meat that Kethel
Sahib had served for them in vigorous mouthfuls. As Kethel Sahib served
another piece of meat, one of the boys leapt up shouting, ‘Aiyo! Don’t!’
Kethel Sahib thumped him on his head, ‘Eat, you son of a cadaver.’ It was a
lusty blow. Frightened, the boy sat down without demur. Perhaps chilli
powder had gotten into his eyes, for they were watering while he ate.
Kethel Sahib served the chicken, the kuzhambu, the fish and the prawns,
one after the other. I waited, expecting to catch his eye if only for a fleeting
moment. Shouldn’t my mother know that I had made it? But, as was usual,
his eyes did not meet mine. When he came around to serve the fish, I stared
at his hefty, bear-like hands. As though it were only his hands that belonged
to me. As though they existed only to fill my stomach.
I left for my hometown that day. In the succeeding month of Aavani, I
married Ramalakshmi and brought her home.

OceanofPDF.com
 A Hundred Armchairs

It was Kunjan Nair who delivered the news that Amma was on her
deathbed. It was in the evening, just as I was about to leave the office. I was
hurriedly signing the last few files that remained. Ramani was standing in
front of me. It was when I had signed the last file, said ‘Tell Raman Pillai to
check this once and send it out. It’s best if it goes out today’ and put my pen
down that I noticed his head bobbing beyond the saloon doors. ‘What is it,
Kunjan Nair,’ I said. His eyes darted towards Ramani. I signalled to Ramani
that she could leave and nodded, bidding him in.
After he had watched her leave, Kunjan Nair bowed just an inch, and in a
tone imbued with mystery and solemnity said, ‘I have something to tell
saar. I don’t know how to say it . . . I heard about it this morning. I cycled to
Kottar at noon, to see for myself. There’s a problem . . . I saw the person.
Unconscious. In a hopeless state . . .’
Though I had guessed by then, a ‘who’ escaped me involuntarily. ‘Saar’s
ammai. They’ve dumped her in the Kottar shed, along with the beggars. On
the bare floor without a mat even. Clothes are all bedraggled too. I told an
attendant to get a straw mat and lay her on it. If I’d had some spare change,
I would’ve asked him to get some decent clothes for her.’
‘Where?’ I asked, getting up. ‘Saar . . . the Kottar big hospital. Hospital,
as in, not a real one. There’s an old building near Kazhudhai Sandhai, right .
. . with a few run-down sheds? There, in the third shed, she lies by the last
pillar on the outer veranda. A brother-in-law of mine runs a tea shop there.
He was the one who told me.’ I secured the pen to my shirt, placed my
glasses in their case, put the case in my pocket and started out.
Kunjan Nair came running after me. ‘No . . . if saar goes there now . . .
don’t, saar. Won’t look good. Every stinking tongue out here is wagging
already. Why should we give them more fodder? So far, I haven’t breathed
a word to anybody. Filthy mouths, all of them. You shouldn’t get caught in
this . . . let me take care of it. It’ll be handled behind closed doors. All you
have to do is give me the necessary cash. Saar, you go home. Don’t let on
that you know.’
‘Nair, go home. I will take care of it,’ I said sharply and stepped out of my
room.
As I walked through the aisles of the office while making my way out, a
pair of eyes sprang open on my back. Eyes that were born the minute I had
donned an officer’s white shirt. With mocking smiles spread across their
faces, every one of the office staff looked up at me and then into each
other’s eyes. They moved their lips in a silent conversation. Nair, who was
following after me, said something through hand gestures and pursed lips,
causing Ramani to cover her mouth, duck and giggle.
I got into the car. Kunjan Nair leaned in and asked, ‘Saar, shall I follow on
my cycle?’ No, I replied, and started out. When I entered the road, I noticed
my hands ease on the steering wheel. That’s when I realized how the
rigidness in me had lasted until Kunjan Nair had disappeared from view, the
office had retreated into the distance and I had descended into the bustle of
the road. I let out a sigh and relaxed myself. I wanted to light a cigarette,
but I knew there wouldn’t be any – neither on me nor in the car. Shuba’s
rules. I smoked too much, she said.
I stopped near the Chettikulam junction and bought a pack of Wills Gold
without alighting from the car. When I exhaled the smoke, it felt as though I
was exhaling my anxiety along with it. The policeman at the Chettikulam
junction stiffened when he saw me and offered a salute. The car entered an
underpass and reached the Kottar crossing. Another turn, and there was the
Kottar Hospital. Kazhudhai Sandhai lay beyond it, I’d heard, but I’d never
been there.
When my car stopped in front of the hospital, the attendants who were
standing outside with palpable excitement turned on their heel. There arose
scattered sounds of a crowd being regulated. Of rebukes. Of a few running.
A couple of doctors emerged from the building and hastened towards my
car.
 ‘Good evening, sir,’ greeted the middle-aged one as I got out. The other
doctor was a young man who greeted me in a faint whisper.
‘I’ve come to visit a patient here,’ I said.
‘Here, sir?’ said the doctor. ‘It can’t be, sir . . . here . . .’
‘It is here.’
‘Sir, only those picked up by the municipality land up here . . . beggars,
Narikuravas and the like.’
‘Hmm. Where’s shed number three?’
‘I’ll show you, sir,’ he said, and walked with me. ‘They are hopeless
cases, sir,’ he said with trepidation. ‘We can’t really treat them. We give
them some food, some general antibiotics . . . and wait to see what happens.
Some get better, the rest die within four or five days. The funds are meagre,
sir. Neither do we have any staff. Other than the scavenging Thotis, none of
the staff touches these creatures . . .’
I walked silently. ‘It’s terribly crowded now, sir. It’s the rainy season, you
see. All those that lie here and there in the damp, catching a fever or flu,
end up here. They’re like animals. If one goes down, the other one will not
care. They simply abandon them. The scavengers collect them all and dump
them here . . .’ All over the compound, stray dogs lay in a variety of poses.
‘Grr,’ a rust-coloured mongrel growled at me even as it licked ticks off
itself. Dogs roamed through the verandas too.
There was not a trace of wood anywhere in the building. It was a tile-
roofed shed that had been constructed a long time ago for some forgotten
purpose. Through the fissures in the broken tiles, pillars of sunlight filtered
in. The red floor tiles, now weathered, cracked and displaced, were full of
potholes. Heaped like garbage, people lay in the cavities, with manure sacks
or tough palm mats, the kind used to pack jaggery blocks, spread beneath.
Stray dogs ambled between them.
Wrinkled and shrivelled geriatrics formed the majority. There were a few
women too. Deformed bodies. Smashed, misshapen, sunken, wilted faces.
While many were unconscious or fast asleep, the few who were awake
shrieked, groaned and flailed their limbs about. A gut-churning, nauseating
odour pierced the air. A concoction of rotting human flesh, decaying
clothes, urine and excrement. ‘Vmmm . . .’ the flies took off and circled
before settling down again.
I covered my nose with a handkerchief. ‘These are all nutcases beyond
redemption, sir . . . they’ll die in the very place they’ve been tossed . . .
nothing can be done,’ said the doctor. There were no staff in the vicinity.
Noticing my searching look, he said, ‘The Thotis come once in the
morning, clean up and dispense medicines. That’s it. They won’t come in
the evening . . . they’ll be out cold, stoned.’ Evidently, the doctor was
offering up a self-justifying excuse.
In the third shed, I caught sight of my mother lying beside the last pillar.
Sprawled on her back, she lay on a palm-straw mat, practically naked. Her
dark belly was distended and had tilted to one side from its own weight. Her
hands and legs were swollen, stretching her wrinkled skin into a shining
smoothness. Her breasts had slumped to either side, like filthy bags. Her
mouth was open, revealing a solitary black tooth and leech-like gums.
Grimy, matted hair was plastered to her head, like cow dung.
‘What’s wrong with her?’ I asked.
‘The thing is . . . actually . . . we are yet to find out, sir. It’s been four or
five days since she was brought in. She’s not been conscious. Must be sixty
or seventy years old,’ he replied. ‘The medicines are reserved for those
who’re conscious.’
I stood staring at my mother. Amma was more than six feet tall. In her
younger days she sported big, white teeth in a dark, round face. She was
large-limbed and had firm, palmyra-nut-like breasts. A loud, sonorous
voice. Little kids would scurry home in fear if they saw her on the streets.
One evening, carrying me on her hip, Amma was returning from a stream
behind the Pidari Amman temple. As she passed through a narrow alley, her
breasts heaving in a naked torso, the village doctor, Krishnankutty Marar,
who was walking towards us, all alone, shuddered and raised his hands in
prayer. ‘Devi! Amma!’ he exclaimed, trembling, as he stood rooted to the
spot. I have relived that scene with great clarity, many a time and from
many different angles. As Amma had just gorged on something she had
found somewhere to the point of dullness, she did not pay any heed to him.
With heavy steps reverberating through the ground beneath, she had walked
past him.
‘Is this in connection with some case, sir?’ asked the doctor. All of a
sudden, my lips turned to stone. Life did not reach them. I tried for a few
seconds to bring life into them, then moistened them with my tongue and
shook my head. ‘If you’d like, we can take her to the main hospital, sir . . .
they had picked her up from the bus stand . . .’ He glanced at Amma’s
bloated stomach. ‘I think she hasn’t urinated for four or five days. Her inner
organs are failing one by one. I doubt if we can help her, but if we drain the
urine and bring down the ammonia a little, there’s a chance that she may
regain consciousness. If there’s some information you need, we can make
her talk.’
‘Mister – ’
‘Manickam, sir.’
‘Mr Manickam. This–’ I spoke as if I had plunged a knife through my
own heart and was twisting the iron blade in. ‘She’s my mother.’
‘Sir?’ said the doctor, puzzled.
‘She’s my mother. She ran away from home . . . has some mental issues . .
.’ I said.
Speechless, he stared, now at me, now at my mother, for some time.
Recovering, ‘I’m sorry, sir . . . actually . . .’ he began to explain.
‘It’s all right . . . please do this for me now. Change her clothes right away,
provide the necessary treatment and get her ready. I will take her to a
private hospital . . . call for an ambulance as well,’ I said.
‘Sure, sir.’
I pulled out my wallet.
‘Sir, please . . . we will take care of it . . . It’s an honour . . . Sorry, sir . . .
but hope you understand our predicament . . . I’m doing what I can within
this system.’
‘Okay,’ I said, and returned to the car.
Within ten minutes, the doctor was back. Hastening up to me, he said,
‘They’ve cleaned her up, sir. We can drain the urine right away and
administer an injection . . . but there’s no hope, sir.’
 ‘All right, all right,’ I said, lighting a cigarette.
He stood beside the car and leaned further in. ‘Sir,’ he said in a subdued
voice.
‘Yes?’
‘Sir, I’m doing whatever I can, sir. I don’t claim to be faultless. But there
isn’t anything I can do, sir. They bring these beggars here just as they would
bring garbage to the landfills.’
‘Okay, please go and do what needs to be done,’ I said. I didn’t know why
my voice acquired a needless harshness. Perhaps it was the bitterness I felt
towards myself.
All of a sudden, the doctor’s voice faltered. ‘Sir, I’m an SC, sir –
scheduled caste. I’ve come through the quota system. There’s no place here
for someone like me. They look upon me with disgust, just as they would
look at an insect. It’s been eighteen years since I joined the service . . . I am
a senior, sir. But to this day I’ve never been given a job where I can sit and
attend to patients with dignity. Throughout my service, they’ve either made
me do post-mortems . . . or this . . . There is no one from the upper castes
here . . . the junior guy is also of my ilk . . . they make the both of us . . .’
He snivelled, unable to speak further.
I was possessed by an overwhelming urge to get out of the car, push him
to the ground, stamp on him – again and again and again – and mash him to
a pulp that would dissolve into the earth. My arms and legs shuddered, as
though an electric current were coursing through my body. The tip of the
cigarette quivered and ash fell on my thigh. He wiped his eyes and
continued, ‘It’s a cursed job, sir . . . If I open a clinic of my own, the upper
castes don’t come to me. Even the well-off from my own caste don’t come
to me. In my town, they call me the Scavenger Doctor. Had I put in as much
effort into any other profession, I would have lived with dignity. I dreamt of
being a doctor and studied night and day, sir. Now they have turned me into
one amongst the scavengers.’
I sighed and pressed my eyes with my fingers. ‘Manickam,’ I said after a
little while. My voice was muffled, sounding strange even to my own ears.
‘Manickam,’ I repeated, ‘you will meet with the same fate in every other
line of work. Even if you make the civil services and become like me, what
of that? I am my department’s scavenger.’ The doctor’s jaw fell ajar.
Resolving to end the conversation there, I threw the cigarette away. But
words flowed forth in spite of me, like pus from a wound.
‘This body that you see, the blood that courses within it – all of it is
steeped in begged food. I will not forget that. Neither will those who
handed me alms . . . If I must forget it, I should be cut open, drained of my
blood and transfused with new blood . . . perhaps a lion’s or a tiger’s or a
hyena’s, some such fine blood . . . that . . .’ I stopped, suddenly emptied of
words ‘. . . please go . . . go and get my mother ready . . .’ I said, raising my
voice. When the loud voice fell on my ears, I became conscious of myself
and, cringing, ran my fingers through my hair.
I watched the doctor walk away stunned and deflated, and lit another
cigarette. Why did I tell this man about begging? What will happen to the
image he carries of me? Surely, it must have shattered to pieces by now. He
does not feel an ounce of self-worth. Now, he’ll begin to consider me as one
amongst those like him. And so, he’ll have no respect for me either. The
cigarette tasted horribly bitter. Contrary to habit, I was chain smoking.

•
When I sat in front of the eight-member civil service interview panel, the
first question I had expected was about my caste. I sat there listening to my
heart beating, letting my sweat-lined fingers slowly slip off the glass-topped
desk. The room reverberated with the hum of the air conditioner, with the
rustling of papers and with the screech of the swivelling chair as one of the
panellists shifted. He looked at my certificates once more and said, ‘Your
caste?’ He glanced down again, read out ‘Scheduled Tribes . . . Nayadi . . .’,
and then looked up to say. ‘Well?’
I’ve never been allowed to forget my caste, not for a single day or a single
moment, ever since I was an infant. Nevertheless, it was only when I
memorized Diwan Peishcar Nagam Aiya’s ‘Travancore State Manual’ for
the civil services examination that I learnt about my caste. Nagam Aiya had
written his manual in 1906, but the British had written manuals even prior
to that about the regions they ruled. J.H. Nelson’s manual about Madurai is
a classic. Nagam Aiya’s manual about Thiruvithamkoor was written in the
same fashion too – with the same factual objectivity and detail, the same
clear style, the same arrogance.
Nagam Aiya wrote extensive accounts about all the castes in
Thiruvithamkoor. The legends about the origins of each caste, details about
their migration if it was a caste group that had settled in the region, the
traditions and customs of the caste groups, their place in the social
hierarchy – he dealt with it all. He describes the typical physical appearance
of the caste groups too. Following in Edgar Thurston’s footsteps, he
attempts to define their facial features using the length of the nose.
Like Nelson, he too believed that each caste group had behavioural traits
unique to itself. Imposing, unrestrained Nairs, lazy, intelligent Vellalars,
supremely hard-working but arrogant Nadars, intoxicated and scheming
Ezhavars . . . he goes on describing them in this manner, unencumbered by
the awkwardness of modern democracy. His is a documentary record
evidencing the impressions that the ruling class of the time, or the Brahmin
community, carried about each caste.
In that manual, the caste that is accorded the shortest description is mine.
‘Nayadis. A branch of the nomadic Kuravas. Since there’s a belief that it’s
polluting to even lay eyes on them, they cannot move around during the
day. The practice that once existed, if anyone did see them, was to raise a
ruckus, surround them, stone them to death and burn them on the spot.
Therefore, through the day, they stay huddled like pigs, inside pits that they
dig up in the forests and the thickets. At night, they get out and hunt. Since
it is believed that they are another form of Goddess Moodevi, the goddess
of misfortune, leaving bran, leftover food and the like as charity, outside
houses, continues.
‘They eat anything they can lay their hands on. Rats, dogs, a variety of
insects and worms, and dead animals. They eat all types of tubers in raw
form. They cover their genitals with the spathe of the palmyra tree. They
are generally tall and of very dark complexion. They possess long, big
teeth. The language they speak sounds like Tamil. They have no knowledge
of any craft. For the most part, they do not have any belongings. Since they
do not have a fixed place of residence, they do not build huts. There are
approximately fifty thousand of them in Travancore. There is no
contribution to the government’s exchequer from this group.’
I told the interview panel what Nagam Aiya had described in his manual,
as though reciting it. Another member of the panel eyed me keenly and
asked, ‘What’s the present status of your caste? Has it progressed?’
‘No, to this day, most survive by begging and scavenging food. They still
live on the streets and in the open.’
He looked at me and said, ‘But you have made it to the civil service.’
‘I received the help of a great man.’
‘Like Ambedkar?’
I looked him in the eye and said, ‘Yes, like Ambedkar.’ A brief period of
silence followed.
The third person on the panel turned to me and said, ‘Now, for a
hypothetical question. An incident that takes place in your jurisdiction as an
officer requires you to pronounce judgement. There’s justice on one side,
and on the other are people of your caste. What will your decision be?’ It
was apparent that the others were unsettled by the question. A few chairs
creaked. My fingers, my earlobes and my eyelids bristled under a rush of
hot blood. I knew the answer that I ought to give. But in that moment, I
thought of Swami Prajananda.
In an assured tone, I said, ‘Sir, what’s the meaning of justice? Do law and
tradition alone determine justice? Justice is built on an underlying value, is
it not? Equality is the grandest and holiest of all values. If you place a
Nayadi on one end and any other human being on the other, based on the
dharma of equality, the Nayadi will indeed be the one to have suffered
grave injustice. Whatever he may have done therefore stands justified.’
As the bodies unwound slowly, the chairs creaked again. Some crossed
their arms. The one who had asked the question said, ‘Mr Dharmapalan.
Murder? What if it’s murder he’s committed?’ I could not stop myself from
saying that line there. ‘Sir, even if it be murder, it is the Nayadi who is the
victim.’
 The room was suffused in silence for five whole minutes. Only the crisp
rustle of paper was audible. Then, letting out a sigh, the first panellist asked
me a few questions to test my ‘general knowledge’. The interview ended. I
thought my fate had been sealed. All the same, my heart was heavy with
nothing but contentment. When I went straight to relieve myself, it felt like
I was ejecting the very acid that had simmered through my body. Little by
little, my limbs cooled down. I looked in the mirror and washed my face.
While combing my hair, the agitation I saw in my face forced a smile out of
me.
I went straight to the canteen at the top floor, ordered a coffee and sipped
on it, sitting by the glass window, at the glass table. Below, in the
nethermost depths, the heads of cars appeared like cockroaches. Humans
walked perpendicular. Like green bouquets, a few trees rustled in the
breeze. The light from a car on the road flashed in my eyes and
disappeared. Someone came and sat down next to me. I did not recognize
him at first. Then I realized that he was my panellist, the one who had posed
the question about justice.
‘I am Naveen Sengupta,’ he said.
‘Hello sir,’ I said, extending my hand.
He shook my hand while sipping on his cup of tea. ‘There are interviews
in the evening too. We’ve taken a small break,’ he said. My gaze stayed on
him. ‘You’ve been selected. With the exception of one panelist, everyone
has awarded you top marks.’ I was not expecting that. I stared at him
blankly. ‘This is a government secret as of now. I’m letting you know for
you seemed quite tense.’
‘Thank you, sir.’
‘It’s all right. I asked that question casually. We pose such questions to
every candidate and expect only a routine response. The answer you gave
was very, very inappropriate from an administrative standpoint. But you
said it soulfully. You expressed it with passion . . .’ He took another sip of
the tea and said, ‘I thought that no one else would give good scores for that
answer. But except one, all the panellists have awarded it great scores . . .’
He chuckled and said, ‘It must’ve been for the same reason that I rated it
high.’
I looked at him quizzically. ‘I wanted them to see me as a compassionate
man, a man of progressive thought, overall, a modern man. In other words,
for the same reason that I don’t wear religious symbols, or eat beef and
drink liquor. It’s hard for Bengali and Punjabi Brahmins to shed this
mindset . . .’ He drank the remaining tea. ‘But a Yadav does not suffer from
such conflicts. He can simply be a regressive, casteist guy.’
‘Okay,’ he said, getting to his feet. ‘You may contact me for any help that
you need. And I will try to be as progressive as I can.’ With a sudden laugh
he said, ‘That’s only as long as you do not attempt to marry my own
daughter.’ I broke into a laugh too. He was a double-chinned, plump-faced,
small-eyed man. With a hint of Mongoloid features. He slapped my back
and said, ‘Young man, it will fall on you to face many complications. There
will be countless heartbreaks and moments of weariness. It is more likely
that you will regret choosing this line of work. Still, congratulations.’
He walked a few paces before turning around to ask, ‘Who was the man
who supported your education?’
‘Swami Prajananda, the disciple of Ernest Clark, who was a disciple of
Narayana Guru . . .’ I replied.
‘Ernest Clark? A white man?’
‘Yes, he was British. He came to visit the Theosophical Society and
became a disciple of Narayana Guru. After his guru passed away, he ran the
Narayana Mandir, an ashram in Thiruvananthapuram. Around 1942, he
went to Coimbatore and established a gurukulam there . . . He started a
magazine called Life, to enable dialogue around Narayana Guru’s Vedantic
philosophy . . . I have only read about all this,’ I said. ‘Prajananda was with
Ernest Clark in the gurukulam at Thiruvananthapuram. After his demise,
Prajananda ran it for some time.’
‘Is Prajananda alive?’ asked Sengupta.
‘No, he passed away.’
‘Oh,’ he said.
‘His real name was Kesava Panickar. Ernest Clark bestowed the saffron
on him and christened him Prajananda.’
 ‘Was Ernest Clark a sanyasi too?’
‘Indeed. He was the only foreign disciple of Narayana Guru. But
Narayana Guru did not have his name changed.’
‘That’s quite amazing,’ said Sengupta. ‘I’ve heard about Narayana Guru.
He was like Ramakrishna Paramahamsa, right?’
‘Yes.’
‘Well . . . but . . .’ he began, and then said, ‘all right.’
‘Tell me, sir.’
‘No, I don’t want to discourage you . . .’
‘It’s fine.’
‘Well . . . you could have chosen something else . . . perhaps become an
educationist, or a doctor or even a social worker. I doubt if this is at all the
right profession. This work is not what it seems to you . . . anyway . . .’
Abruptly, he shook my hand and headed straight to the lift.
I felt the import of his words, every single day from then on. Everywhere
and all the time, I was rendered an outsider. Administrative training is
nothing but a simple hypnotic technique to make one believe: ‘I’m born to
issue orders’. However, I alone was precluded from such advice. The words
that were directed at me proclaimed: ‘You are different. It’s our kindness
and our sense of justice that allows you to sit here. Therefore, be grateful to
us, be faithful to us.’
After I was assigned to the Tamil Nadu circle, I first took up office in
Madras. On the very first day I was made aware of who I was. The previous
day, after announcing myself to my superior, as a matter of courtesy I
visited the officer vacating the post I was to occupy and spoke to him for a
few minutes. The following day, when I entered the same room, the tall
throne-like armchair that was there earlier had been removed and a simple
wooden chair had taken its place. It was an old chair that had seated many,
causing the cane weave to sag like a basket. It was some gumasta’s chair. I
stood staring at it for a while. I controlled with all my might the tongue that
itched to ask the head gumasta, who was standing behind me, where the
other chair was, and sat down.
In the gaze of each one of those who streamed into my office within a few
minutes to say hello, loomed the presence of that missing chair. Beneath the
exaggerated servility, the fake loquacity, and the pretence of disinterest,
beneath all of it was indeed that missing chair. It was there in every word
that I spoke too. I had habituated myself to firm, yet polite officer-talk. But
inside, my heart was railing. What should I do?
I can fight for my armchair. But they will portray it as a symbol of my
pettiness. They will deem it my innate character and fashion an indelible
identity for me. For the rest of my living days, that impression will follow
me wherever I go. It will become one of those lasting myths created in the
corridors of authority. I can leave the matter as it is. But then I would have
sanctioned them the right to shower me with more insults.
After a few hours, I summoned the head gumasta to ask him about it. The
boldness in his eyes revealed that it was not a decision that he had made.
There was an entire machinery behind him. I could not take them on. I was
a lone man. In taking them on, if I were to be belittled further, I would not
be able to rise again. I asked him something mundane. I wondered if I had
seen the glint of a smile in his small eyes.

•
I put Amma in an ambulance and took her to Gopala Pillai Hospital. The
young doctor boarded the ambulance too. I turned to Manickam and said,
‘Right, I’ll see you later.’
‘I’ll come with you, sir, so I can provide them a report.’
‘Get in,’ I said, allowing him in.
‘We have drained the urine, sir. She’s on the drip now. I don’t think the
kidneys are functioning. It looks like she was lying somewhere with fever
for four or five days.’
Without saying anything, I lit another cigarette.
I observed my mother on our way to the hospital. Her stomach had shrunk
quite a bit. She was in a white dress. A yellow stain, from the discharge of
either blood or fluid, was spreading on the white blanket. The doctor got off
first, spoke to the staff, and wheeled Amma inside. I waited in the lobby. In
an hour, Dr Indira called me to her room. When I had taken a seat, she said,
‘Look, there’s not much for me to say. Manickam explained everything.
She’s sinking . . .’ I nodded my head. ‘We’ll see. We’ll be lucky if she
regains consciousness . . . Is she mentally unsound?’ I nodded again. ‘Well,
sometimes the final moments can be quite clear. Let’s see.’
Night had fallen. I got up. ‘No one needs to stay back. If something comes
up, I will call,’ said the doctor.
Manickam was waiting outside. ‘I’ve stationed Stephen here, sir. He will
take care,’ he said.
‘No, Manickam, it’s all right. He can leave, they will handle it,’ I said. It
was when I started the car that it struck me that I hadn’t had even a cup of
tea for the past three hours. At once, I felt pangs of hunger.
As soon as I had parked the car and entered my home through the garage,
Shuba came up to me. ‘What’s with the delay? You didn’t inform me,’ she
complained. I said nothing as I sat down on the sofa and took off my boots.
‘Will you eat?’
‘No, let me bathe first.’ I was at a loss to know where to begin. I
undressed, dropped the clothes in the laundry basket, went straight to the
bathroom and stood under the shower. As I was wiping myself dry, I
noticed that my mind had quietened.
Shuba had set the plates on the dining table.
‘You haven’t eaten?’ I asked.
‘No, the little one was here until now. He just slept.’
When I sat down, she sat opposite me. Nagamma brought hot chapattis
and served them on my plate.
‘Shuba,’ I began. ‘I saw Amma.’ Her eyes shot up and froze on me. ‘ . . .
at the government hospital . . . in the beggars’ shed.’ She moved her lips,
but said nothing. ‘She’s in bad shape. She’d been lying somewhere with
fever for several days. Her organs are failing one by one. It will be over,
today or tomorrow, they said.’
‘Where is she?’ she asked.
‘I got her admitted at Gopala Pillai Hospital.’
She sat silently with downcast eyes. I abandoned the second chapatti
midway and got up. ‘Nagamma, bring aiya some milk.’
 ‘I don’t want it.’
‘Please have some. Your acidity will act up in the morning otherwise.’
Without reacting, I went to the bedroom. Prem was sleeping, half-covered
by a blanket. I lay down next to him and stared at the ceiling fan while
gently stroking his legs.
Having changed into a nightdress, Shuba entered with a glass of milk. She
placed the glass on the teapoy beside me, said ‘drink it’, went up to the
mirror, combed her hair with a big brush and secured it in a bun. I gazed at
the pale nape of her neck. ‘What?’ she said, turning around. I shook my
head as if to say ‘nothing’ and drank the milk. I got up, went to the
bathroom, brushed my teeth, rinsed my mouth and returned. ‘Should I
come?’ she asked and stretched out on the bed.
I looked at her blankly.
‘If I must come, I will. But I don’t wish to.’ Her responses were always
pragmatic. ‘I have two meetings tomorrow. One is scheduled with the
minister, I cannot do anything about that. If I need to, I can make it in the
evening.’ I did not reply. ‘What’s the meaning of this silence?’
‘I’m unable to think,’ I said.
‘Look, if we make a big deal of this, you’re the one who’ll face problems.
At any rate, she’s going to die soon. Let’s do whatever we must with
dignity. If I come there, it’ll turn into a big show . . . and it’ll be awkward
for all concerned. Everyone will land up to offer their condolences. And
they’ll ask you one thing or another. It’ll be embarrassing for you.’
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘Give it a rest then. Go to sleep. I’ll wake you up if there’s a phone call.
Don’t forget your medicine.’
I sighed and popped the tablet.
‘Goodnight,’ said Shuba.
‘What if Amma wakes up and asks to see Prem?’
Shuba sat up in a rush of anger.
‘Nonsense!’ she cried. ‘Look, he’s my son. Don’t you try to feed him the
thought that this beggar woman is his grandmother. I will not allow it, not
for a single moment.’
 ‘What’re you talking about?’ I said indignantly. ‘He is my son too. And I
am the child that that beggar woman bore.’
It was in Shuba’s nature to pipe down the moment I lost my temper. Her
eyes sharpened. In a firm but tender voice, she said, ‘What you said just
now, that is the problem with you. Your birth, your upbringing, your caste –
they are always in your heart. Thanks to that inferiority complex, you make
your life hell. You’ve ruined your career. Do you wish to instil the same
complex in Prem? If so, go ahead.’
Defeated, I slumped back on the bed. ‘Look, you cannot sit firmly in a
chair still,’ said Shuba. ‘Your education and your intelligence are of no use.
Your tongue does not allow you to command another. You cannot look a
person in the eye when you speak. You are consumed by this feeling that
everyone talks behind your back and laughs at you . . . it’s a complex. At
least let my son be delivered from it in his lifetime. Please. Don’t be
sentimental and ruin his life. If you want to spare him this agony you suffer,
leave him alone.’
‘Fine,’ I said.
Shuba mellowed down and placed a gentle hand on my brow, ‘I’m not
saying this to hurt you. It’s a fact. Please.’
‘I know.’
‘Amma has earned both of us enough disgrace. Everyone who can laugh
has had a hearty laugh. At least from now on, let the laughter die down little
by little . . . ’
My head was heavy with sleep.
‘All right . . . Okay,’ I said and closed my eyes.
When I woke up, my mind was still. But the stillness lasted only for a
little while. I called the hospital and enquired about Amma. There was no
change in her status. I left home at nine. As I got closer and closer to the
hospital, I grew still more restless and my hands slipped on the steering
wheel. When I neared the house of the writer Sundara Ramaswamy, I
wondered if I should stop, pay a visit and spend some time talking to him. It
was that time of the day when he would be chatting in the hall with his
friends. I am yet to meet someone who listens to another as intently as he
does. His attention never wanes, no matter how many have spoken to him,
no matter the endless griping.
I caught sight of his protégé, a young writer, emerge from his house, the
lungi hauled up above his knees. He went out, leaving the gate half open.
He worked somewhere in Kasaragod but was staying in the upper storey of
the house currently. During my conversations with Sundara Ramaswamy,
he had joined in a few times. I recall hoping that he would not identify me.
Though I wished to go in, the car went past the house, as though it was
driving itself, and stopped at Gopala Pillai Hospital.
Dr Indira had not arrived yet. The duty doctor approached me and said a
respectful hello.
‘How is she?’ I enquired.
‘Just the same, sir,’ he said.
From within Amma’s room, Kunjan Nair emerged like a bandicoot and
rushed towards me, his frame stooped. ‘I came in the morning itself, saar.
Ammai seems somewhat better now. After the urine’s been drained, her
face seems to be glowing a little,’ he said.
‘Please get to the office and hand over all the papers that I’ve left in the
tray to Kanakaraj,’ I said to him.
‘I . . . here . . .’ he stuttered.
‘I will take care of it.’
‘No . . . saar . . . I’ll be of help . . .’
‘No need.’
‘Oh,’ he said, stepping back.
I entered the room. Still unconscious, Amma looked much the same.
Practically a corpse. Saline was being injected. Urine dripped from the
other end of her body. I sat in the chair beside her bed and gazed at her. All
across her forehead, her cheeks, her shoulders, her hands, were numerous
scars left in place of healed wounds. Some of them were quite deep. One
such scar on her forehead made it seem like her skull had cracked open. She
would have never been to a hospital in her entire life. The wounds must
have ripened, formed pus, and sometimes bred maggots too, before healing
on their own. Wounds from battling with dogs and fellow humans. Wounds
from stones thrown by strangers, from being beaten with sticks, from hot
water hurled from tea shops . . .
In an intimate moment during my courtship with Shuba, when I happened
to remove my shirt, she was dumbstruck.
‘My goodness . . . what’s this, so many scars!’ she exclaimed.
With a dry laugh, I said, ‘When I was young, I was never without a
wound . . .’ She placed a gentle hand on the scar on my back and caressed
it. ‘Oh, that’s a cowardly one on the back. I have a better one on my chest –
a warrior’s wound,’ I said. She broke into sobs and hugged me. She kissed
the scars on my shoulders and arms.
Back when I was roaming the streets with my mother as a buck-naked
seven-year-old, my body was pitted with scabs and sores. My fingers were
glued to one other, my eyelids pasted, and my skin barely visible. I whined
and cried all the time, troubled by either pain or hunger. I would stuff
anything I saw into my mouth and attempt to eat it. One day, hearing that a
bearded man was feeding street children somewhere, I had gone, holding
the hand of a big sister. That happened to be the gurukula-ashram
established by Prajananda on the banks of the river Karamanai.
A whole bunch of street kids had gathered there already. We had to get
into the Karamanai river, bathe, apply medicine on our sores, wear the clean
clothes they gave us, sit in a huge hall and sing prayer songs. We also had to
learn the lessons that they taught us, for a whole hour. Then, they would
serve us food. The children who had been there before got into the river and
bathed, scrubbing themselves with mud. A young monk who was standing
there, his saffron vaetti hiked up above his knees, was overseeing them
bathe, yelling, ‘Dei, that fellow . . . the dark one . . . he hasn’t scrubbed
himself well, scrub him,’ and the like, from time to time.
I froze the moment I saw the water. As he turned to me, I screamed and
began to run. As soon as he said, ‘catch him’, four or five older boys chased
me down and brought me to him, now lifting me, now dragging me in the
sand. The swami grabbed me by my hands and threw me in neck-deep
water. Hordes of fish swarmed around and nibbled at me. I squirmed and
wailed. He lifted me, placed me on a rock and scrubbed me hard with a tuft
of coir. I screamed and bit his hand hard. He did not mind it.
Even as I bled from the countless scabs, he dragged me along, never
letting go of my hand, and applied a strange blue lotion all over my body. It
felt cool in the first instant, but in the very next it set my skin on fire. I
wrested my hand out of his and ran away, howling. He came after me and
said, ‘No food if you run . . . No food if you run.’ Stunned, I stopped in my
tracks. I could not take another step forward. ‘Kaappa wants food . . . food,’
I cried, rooted to the spot.
The burning began to abate. After sitting and standing in various places, I
neared the ashram again. I clung to the short wall of the ashram’s veranda
and cried, ‘Thamraa, give food . . . Thamraa, give food . . . Thamraa . . .’
Swami carried me straight to a big hall inside, sat me down, spread a leaf
large enough for me to lie on and heaped rice on to it with a big colander. I
said ‘mo-’. Even as he served more, I said ‘mo-’ again. ‘Eat this first, you
matchstick . . . I will give you more after that,’ said the swami.
When I tried to clutch the leaf of food and get to my feet, he knocked me
on my head and said, ‘Sit down and eat.’ I sat back down and rolled the rice
into balls. As I put them in my mouth, my ears pricked up, awaiting
obscenities, and my back braced, expecting to be kicked. After I had had
the first mouthful, I made to get up instinctively. ‘Eat,’ commanded Swami.
I sat down again and heaped the balls of hot rice into my mouth.
A mountain of food, sand tracts of food, a deluge of food, a food
mammoth . . . The world disappeared. The surroundings vanished. There
was only the food and I. There came a stage when I was unable to eat any
more. I felt like the insides of my body, all the way to my mouth, were
filled with food. My stomach was shining like a big earthen pot. A man
with a moustache said, ‘Motherfucker, look at him . . . a stomach so full, we
can crush lice on it . . .’
I retreated to a corner, expecting him to hit me. ‘Elay . . . lei . . . wait . . .
no one will do nothing to you. Stay. Do you want more food?’ he asked.
Yes, I nodded. ‘If you eat any more you will burst like a cotton pod and
food will flow out of you, understand? Want food tomorrow?’ Yes, I
nodded. ‘Come tomorrow, then . . . If you come here and learn the songs
and the alphabet the swami teaches, he’ll give you loads of food . . .’
That is how I began visiting Prajananda’s ashram. At that time, there were
more than thirty street children studying there. The very reason food was
served in the ashram was to gather the children to study. Swami
Bodhananda enrolled the children who were enticed by the food in the
school. Though Swami Prajananda had started the school, it was
Bodhananda who oversaw its everyday functioning. He was a short young
man with a long, jet-black beard, curly hair that flowed down to his
shoulders and a wrestler’s body.
The strength in his hands held great allure for me, at that age. Ever since
the time he had bathed me, I longed for him to pick me up. I would go stand
beside him and try my luck. If he did not notice me, I would gently graze
my body against his. If he noticed me, he would break into laughter, pick
me by my hip, throw me in the air and set me down. Weightless, like a bird,
I would swoop towards the sky and float to the ground. Laughing, I would
run behind him, mewling ‘mo-, mo-’.
Bodhananda admitted me in his school. For a few days, I joined in the
prayers and sang Narayana Guru’s song: ‘O Divine, protect us here, do not
leave us’. After the prayers, they would distribute a savoury sundal or sweet
pongal. Swami Prajananda would attend only the prayer. A curly white
beard, resembling the big conch used in the prayers, adorned his face. His
hair lay pleated over his shoulders like white cloth. A man with a tiny, frail
body, who spoke in a gentle voice.
I was unable to tell if Prajananda’s gurukulam was a success or failure.
There would always be between twenty and thirty children there. Almost a
hundred ate at the ashram every day though hardly ten among them were
regulars. More often than not, the parents would land up in a few days, fight
with the ashram folk and take the children away. Some of the kids would
get bored after a while. They would run away, but return later, clad in dirty
clothes, with sores all over their bodies, burning with fever and hunger.
On the fourth day of my stay at the ashram, my mother came and dragged
me away. I roamed all over town with her. There was a time when a narrow
alleyway, about two persons wide, had been built throughout the town, to
allow for the scavenging of human waste. Originating from a river or a
stream, this corridor would wind through the whole city, running parallel to
the main roads and through the back of the houses. It was through this
alleyway that my entire clan commuted. We found all our food there. Waste,
bandicoots, heaps of used leaves intact with food remains discarded by the
hotels . . .
I suppose the Nayadis from all across Thiruvithamkoor had migrated to
Thiruvananthapuram by then. The truth is, no one knew anything about the
Nayadis, us included. There’s no way Nagam Aiya would have been
polluted by laying eyes on someone from my caste. He must have merely
recorded the impressions of others. All the same, the most expansive note
about us was indeed his. Edgar Thurston had written only a few lines. In
1940, Sadasya Thilakan Diwan Velupillai put together an even bigger
manual and included Nagam Aiya’s lines, verbatim. He revised the
headcount alone upwards, to seventy thousand.
However, by then the majority of our Nayadi caste must have perished
into oblivion. That was the time when people in Thiruvithamkoor were
succumbing to cholera by the hordes. When those with a place to call their
own, those with an identity, those paying taxes to the government
themselves, reeked in death as orphaned corpses, who would have taken
note of the Nayadis? Like bandicoots that die underground and rot away
unseen, they would have died and vanished out of sight.
Those who survived must have migrated to the big cities such as
Thiruvananthapuram and Kollam. They assimilated into the myriad Kuravar
castes that already lived on those streets. In these metropolises, where more
than half the population was composed of migrants, no one would have
known about the Nayadis. It’s quite possible that my ancestors may have
considered the opportunity to beg by daylight a massive social revolution.
The city kept shedding waste, and in it they thrived and proliferated like
worms.
When a few days had gone by and the memory of food tugged at me, I ran
away from Amma and went back to the ashram. Bodhananda threw me
once more in the Karamanai river, washed me down, spread a leaf in front
of me and served rice. As time wore on, he developed a special affection for
me. That I memorized the prayer song in no time was the chief reason.
They christened me Dharmapalan at the ashram. ‘Dharma, sing,’
Bodhananda would call out, as soon as Prajananda sat down for the prayer. I
would stand up, put my palms together in obeisance and sing, ‘O Divine,
protect us . . . ’ as loudly as I could.
When Amma did not let up in her efforts to take me away, Bodhananda
intervened. She folded her hands in prayer, wailing, ‘Sami, give me my
child, sami,’ and squatted on the steps of the ashram. No matter what she
was told, she did not understand. ‘Give me my child, sami,’ she continued
to lament. She had borne many children, but most of them had died. Even
the big sister whose hand I had once held and roamed the streets with, lay
dead on the veranda of a shop one day, having succumbed to the heavy
rains that lashed one Aadi month. So, Amma did not have the heart to let
me go.
Without my mother’s knowledge, they sent me away to Narayana Guru’s
Advaita Ashram in Aluva, and from there to the residential school in
Palakkad. Within a few years, I was completely transformed. I became
strong-limbed, had curly hair and big teeth. My hunger took root now in
learning. I stopped talking for the most part. I went by the name ‘Moongai’
in school. ‘Owl’. A dark figure that sat still and gaped in class.
Bodhananda died in coastal Kozhikode, where he had gone to serve those
suffering from cholera. Prajananda’s school was taken over by the
Department of Tribal Welfare. Every month, a little money came for me
from Prajananda’s trust. There were also the grants and freebies that were
doled out to my caste. I studied. Everyone in our tribal hostel was studying
one thing or another. If we stopped studying, we would have to find work.
While the stamp of our caste fed us when we were studying, it was sure to
be a hurdle when we looked for work. Either we would get a government
job, or nothing at all.
Even at the hostel, I was alone. For I was the only Nayadi in the hostel
meant for students from tribal communities. There was no one to share a
room with me. I was the only student who was denied access to the toilets. I
would get up at dawn-break and ‘go’ near the railway track. Even to pee, I
would head to the barren land nearby. Anyone who spoke to me would slip
into a commanding tone as though it were the most natural thing to do. I too
had conditioned myself to make light of it.
I did not see Amma at all during that phase of my life. I did not even think
about her. Those were the days when I imagined myself to be rat-like. A
being that sneaked and skulked, in a perennial quest for a sliver of place in
which to survive. A being that could hide even while fleeing. A being
blessed with a hunched body, just so it could hide. To live out of sight and
out of mind – that is all I ever thought about.
When I completed my postgraduate degree in economics, Prajananda sent
word that he wished to see me. I went to Thiruvananthapuram. There
weren’t too many people at his ashram, only a couple of foreigners were in
sight. I was meeting Prajananda, who had grown much older and still more
solemn, after a long hiatus. A young white man held him, as though he’d
scooped him up in his large hands, and set him down in an armchair. His
head was trembling. He had shed a lot of hair, and moles dotted his
baldness. A slouched back made his head protrude forward. His nose had
slumped towards the mouth, causing the lips to collapse inwards so that his
mouth now appeared like a fold.
‘You’ve grown a lot, haven’t you?’ he said in Tamil, for he somehow
carried the impression that that was indeed the language I spoke. For some
reason, I too had distanced myself from Malayalam as much as I could.
That was the truth. Perhaps my appearance, as well as the colour of my
skin, made me identify more with Tamil Nadu. His head and his hands were
shaking vigorously.
‘When are the MA results expected?’ he asked, in English this time.
‘June,’ I answered.
‘What are you going to do next?’
I fell silent.
‘You should take up the civil service,’ he said. When he lifted his hands,
they trembled as if he had had an epileptic fit. Though I endeavoured to
speak, I could not find the words.
 ‘Why the silence?’
‘Forgive me, guru,’ I said.
‘Your lips are unaccustomed to English. That’s why you babble. You’ll be
a man only when you speak in English. If you’re unable to speak fluent
English, it doesn’t matter what you study, you’ll forever remain a mere
Nayadi. It wasn’t without reason that Narayana Guru advised everyone to
learn the language. Study English . . . and if you can, Sanskrit, once you
cross forty . . .’
‘All right,’ I said.
The strain caused by speaking made his hands shake even more. He
placed them beneath his thighs. Now, his forearms trembled. ‘Write the
civil services examination. It won’t do to just clear it. You must secure a
rank. No one should look down upon your answer sheet.’
‘It shall be so, gurudeva,’ I said.
‘I have informed James. You will receive money from the trust for four
more years.’
In a firm voice, I said, ‘I will not need four years. Two are enough.’
When he understood what I’d just said, a gentle smile bloomed on his
face. He nodded, as if to say yes, and gestured, bidding me closer. Once I
neared him, he touched me on my shoulder, slowly wrapped his arms
around my neck and embraced me. His hands reverberated on my skin like
the featherless wings of an old bird. I kneeled and rested my head on his
lap. He ran his soft fingers over my head and said, ‘Be brave. For a hundred
generations, you’ve been running. It’s time to sit down.’ I broke into sobs.
My tears fell on his saffron vaetti.
His fingers stroked my ears tenderly. They caressed my cheeks. ‘Do not
forsake your mother. Keep her with you. What we have done to her thus far
is a huge sin. A pure and innocent animal is what she is. It is impossible to
alleviate an animal’s grief. And so, it has an unimaginable depth. Do all that
you can for her as absolution . . .’ he said. I sighed and wiped my eyes.
‘I will attain my guru’s feet soon. You need not come.’
I looked up at him. His face was phlegmatic, as though it were made of
wax.
 ‘Okay,’ I said.
That night, I roamed the streets of Thiruvananthapuram debating in my
mind if I should try to find Amma. Finding her would be simple enough.
All I had to do was ask any Nayadi that I could find. But what would I do if
I found her? My mind raced; I could not bear to stay put. I walked through
the streets and by-lanes until dawn-break. In the darkness, every single
body that presented itself as a faint movement sent a shiver down my spine.
A woman with a baby lay in a dry patch of a deep, open drain. The infant
looked up and gazed at me with its tiny, sparkling eyes. I stood there,
looking at myself.
I reached Palakkad before the sun rose. From there, I headed to Madras.
In the days spent waiting after my exams, time and again, my mind wrestled
with Swami’s words. How could I make amends to Amma? For days, for
years, she must have searched for me with implacable grief. Teary-eyed, she
must have lodged herself on the doorstep of the ashram like a damnation.
At a loss to make her understand what had happened to me, they would
have been speechless. But what could I do?
Swami hadn’t uttered those words without reason. Just as his body had
shrunk with age, so too had his speech. It felt as though every word that he
had spoken had been in him for a very long time. I deconstructed every
sentence and tried to derive their meaning, word by word. The day I was to
appear for my interview, the news that Swami had attained samadhi in
Thiruvananthapuram reached me. The reason for his instructing me not to
come dawned on me and left me stunned. I was convinced that the meaning
of every line he had spoken would reveal itself as my life unfolded.
The week after I had taken charge at Madurai, I went to
Thiruvananthapuram. With the help of the police force, I located my mother
in under a day. When it sank in that the dirty old hag crying and wailing
dirges from the back of the police van was my mother, the first thought that
arose was to send her back. I had to harness my entire reserve of will to
vanquish that thought. With scaly skin, an emaciated body and tattered
clothes, she sat there with folded hands, wailing. The constable hit her hard
with a lathi, ‘Get down, you corpse,’ he yelled. She cried out, ‘Don’t,
Thamraa . . . done nothing, Thamraa . . . don’t, Thamraa . . .’ and held on to
the bars of the jeep with both hands. Thamraa, Lord, Master, she repeated
over and over.
‘Drag her out,’ ordered the inspector. ‘Is this the accused, sir? Can you tell
if you take a look?’ I nodded. A couple of constables dragged her out and
cast her beside the flower pots in front of my quarters. Her limbs shivered
like those of an ailing dog and she lay there crying ‘Thamraa . . . Thamraa,
don’t kill me, Thamraa.’
‘You may leave,’ I told the inspector.
‘Sir . . . this case . . .’
‘I’ll take care of it, you may go,’ I said, dismissing them. After they had
left, I went up to Amma and sat down beside her.
Trembling, she leaned in the direction of the plants and skulked, as if
hiding behind their leaves. ‘Amma, it’s me, Kaappan.’
‘Thamraa . . . Thamraa,’ she went on, tears rolling down her face, her
hands raised in prayer.
I touched her folded palms. ‘Amma, it’s me. I am Kaappan. Your son,
Kaappan . . .’
Saying, ‘Thamraa, Ponnu Thamraa,’ she coiled her body tighter and
tighter. I rose with a sigh, not knowing what to do.
I tried to cast my mind back to the time when I had lived as her son. I had
understood only one language then. I went in and instructed the servant to
spread a leaf and serve food for Amma. When he spread a huge leaf in front
of her, she stopped crying and looked on in disbelief. I emptied the rice the
servant had brought with him over her leaf. She began gulping down fistfuls
of rice before we could even serve the gravy. When she tried to parcel the
leaf of rice and get up, I said, ‘Stay . . . eat . . . eat’, and made her sit down.
After she had eaten, she quietened down. I touched her gently. ‘Amma,
it’s me, Kaappan,’ I said. Nodding as if to acknowledge it, she directed her
gaze towards the exit. ‘Amma, it’s me, Kaappan. Amma, it’s me, Kaappan.’
I took her hand, placed it on my face and made her feel it. She withdrew her
hand and turned her head away; she shuddered for an instant and then
touched my face again. Frenzied, she caressed my face with fingers that
were capped by coiled nails. She felt my ears and nose. As though howling,
‘My Kaappaa,’ she cried. Suddenly, she sprang forth, held me tight in a
violent embrace, pressed my head to her bosom and slapped the back of my
head over and over, crying ‘Kaappaa, Kaappaa’ loudly.
The servant who had dashed out, assuming that she was attacking me,
stopped in his tracks when he saw that I was crying. I signalled to him to
leave. She gripped my hands and slammed them on her face. She held my
hair and rocked my head back and forth. Consumed by frenzy, she drew me
into her arms and wrapped me tight with all her limbs. She wailed in the
key of a strangled goat. She bit hard into my cheeks. Her face wet with
saliva and tears, she kept kissing me. Utterly in her possession, I fell down
beside her. It felt as though I was being devoured to the bone by an
extraordinary wild beast.

•
I could hear some voices outside. It was Shuba. I got up and straightened
my shirt. Dr Indira and Shuba walked in, evidently in the midst of a
conversation. The doctor laughed and said, ‘Got it, now. I had my doubts in
the beginning . . .’ I said nothing. When the doctor was checking on Amma,
I glanced at Shuba. She was standing there as though everything was
normal. The doctor said, ‘There’s no improvement at all. We’ll see,’
touched Shuba’s hand and left.
‘Didn’t you have a meeting?’ I asked Shuba.
‘The minister didn’t turn up,’ she answered without mincing words. ‘You
needn’t be here all the time . . . that in itself could be enough fodder for
gossip. Please head to the office.’ I shook my head in refusal. ‘Please listen
to me. What will you achieve by sitting here all day? It’ll be awkward for
them too, to have someone of your stature hang around . . .’
‘Okay,’ I said.
‘Don’t be ridiculous . . .’ she said under her breath. I looked away.
Shuba’s eyes went to Amma. ‘Poor lady. Honestly, I can’t understand her .
. . really . . . all the fuss she made . . . my God.’ She shrugged her shoulders.
‘I’m leaving now,’ she said. ‘I have a meeting at the municipal office. I’ll
see you later.’ I followed her out, saw her off and got into my car. I did
intend to go to the office, but I drove past it, past Parvathipuram, and
guided my car on to a scenic road, lined with fields and hillocks.
That is when a thought arose: Why not go to Thiruvananthapuram? There
was nothing there, really. Prajananda’s samadhi was at his family’s
memorial ground. I had been there just once. A neglected brick platform,
swallowed by wild creepers, was all it was. And on the platform was an
earthen lamp blackened by oil stains. Dense crops of cassava and banana
surrounded the samadhi. All evidence of his having lived had been wiped
out. Perhaps a few like me would remember him.
I turned the car at the Kumarakovil junction and drove up to the temple.
Avoiding the temple, I walked to the adjoining tank and sat on the steps that
led in. As I sat looking at the blue ripples of water, my mind swarmed with
desultory thoughts. I searched for a cigarette. There were none. I didn’t feel
like walking to the car either. Out of the blue, Amma’s many faces flitted
across my mind’s eye one after the other. Until I saw Amma for the first
time on the visit to Thiruvananthapuram after I’d landed a job, there was a
particular face of hers that I had carried in my heart. That face blended into
her various other faces and grew larger and larger as though with a will of
its own. A huge, ferocious mother pig, is how I had pictured her in my
heart.
The mother I beheld when I met her on that trip was someone else
altogether. However, in the very instant that I set eyes on her my soul had
recognized her as my mother. Perhaps she too had recognized me with the
same bewilderment. Unable to bear the shock and excitement, she grew
agitated. After a stream of incoherent laments, she let out a scream and
fainted. I made her drink brandy, put her to sleep and then dispatched the
help to buy a saree for her. Come morning, I had wished to transform her
into a different woman and take her with me. Whenever I think about the
daydreams that I spun that night, my body recoils in shame.
Amma was adamant that she would not wear the saree. On the contrary,
she insisted that I remove my shirt and leave with her. ‘A Thamraa’s shirt
for a Nayadi? Off with it . . . it’s not for you . . . take it off at once, my son,’
she entreated me, as she stepped forward to rip my shirt off. Like a mother
pig that had noticed an alien object stuck to its young, she desperately tried
to tear me away from my clothes and rescue me from them. I could not say
anything to her. She was not in a state to process any words. She wanted to
return to the garbage dumps of Thiruvananthapuram with the long-lost child
she had been reunited with.
One of those days, when I settled down in a chair in the midst of
conversation, she rushed out through the back of the house, cast a terrified
glance at the world outside and ran back in. ‘Sitting in the Thamraa’s
chair?! Aiyo, Aiyo,’ she cried, alarmed. Reduced to tears, she beat her chest
with her hands. ‘Get up, up, child . . . he will kill you,’ she said agitatedly. I
understood that in her eyes, I had committed a colossal mistake. I travelled
back in time a few decades in an attempt to comprehend what she was
saying. What meaning would an armchair hold for a Nayadi who had been
pelted with stones the moment she had stepped out of the drain? The chair
was emblematic of every single thing that had beaten her, kicked her and
pushed her back into the gutters. It was a bloodthirsty, murderous animal.
That day, I made Amma drink herself senseless, had her clothes changed
while she was unconscious, and took her with me to Madurai. The twelve
days that she was with me, she struggled like a caged wild beast. I
instructed the others not to let her out, locked the gates, stationed some
guards to keep an eye on her and left for work. Still, she managed to escape
twice. On both occasions, I sent the police to pick her off the streets. She
was unable to stay within the house. Other than food, nothing at home held
any interest for her.
When I was out of her sight, she would roam about, screaming my name.
She would create a ruckus by banging furiously on closed doors. As soon as
she saw me, she would plead with me to remove my shirt and leave with
her. She begged me to not sit on the chair. If I did, her body would shiver,
as if in a feverish fit. My shirt-clad form never failed to terrify her. Upon
seeing me she would retreat to a corner, cowering. Her agitation would last
until I’d go up to her and talk to her while letting her feel my touch. In that
contact, perhaps, she relived the sensation of touching me when I was a
child. ‘Kaappaa, Kaappaa, child, take the shirt off . . . leave the chair, my
child,’ she would scream, grabbing my shirt and ripping it off.
On the twelfth day, she escaped for the third time. When we could not
find her even after two days, in my heart of hearts I felt some solace. I just
did not know what to do with her. Whomever I asked would tell me that I
should lock her up in a room or that I should admit her in an institution.
However, I knew how she would live in her world. The life that she lived –
feeding on garbage and sleeping on the streets – held its own thrill and joy
for her. She had her own set of friends. It was a different society. Like that
of bandicoots living in a drain, it was a giant society interlaced with kinship
and enmity.
I obtained confirmation that many days later she had gone back to
Thiruvananthapuram. All the same, it did not surprise me that she had
travelled such a distance. The ways and means of the Nayadi are rather
extraordinary. Little by little, I erased her from my memory. Those were the
times when I was faced with my own set of challenges, day after day. It
took no more than a year for my delusions about my job to vanish. As the
gigantic machinery of authority came together, it crushed and recast me into
a small, inconsequential cog in its mammoth system.
Although every officer believes that it is he who wields authority, it is, in
reality, a collective exercise. The man you exercise authority over has to
accede to being bound by your authority. And for that to happen, he
requires the frightening duress of collective power to breathe down his
neck. Therefore, individual authority is gained only when it binds itself
precisely with the machinations of the whole. When acting independently, it
is shorn of its authority.
An officer gets his first taste of authority when he starts to involve himself
in administration. And with that, he also comes to understand how that
authority takes shape. His heart yearns for more and more of it. He adapts
himself constantly, in order to attain it. Within a few years, he will have
become a clone, a replica of others in that system of authority. The dreams
and idealism that he brought with him vanish without a trace. Apart from
his language, his demeanour, his beliefs, and before long, his face too
become like that of the others.
But I for one was never permitted to enter that union of authority. I
realized that I was there merely to perform the duty that was assigned to
me; I could not command a simple gumasta, even. The entire chain of
command, above and below me, squeezed me out of the system. None of
the words I spoke fell on their ears. On the rare occasion when I would lose
my temper and scream in fury, they would look at me from across the glass
partition with a hint of a smile on their faces.
I became this nameless wild animal, caged in the middle of a city. When I
mounted an incensed protest, it was forgiven as an innate lack of civility.
When I fought back, it was dismissed as unrestrained greed. If,
acknowledging my position, I remained silent, it was explained away as the
impotence that represented my ilk and was approached with sympathy. My
self-pity and loneliness were construed as psychological problems. The
cage against which I clashed every moment and gashed my flesh was made
out to be a heavenly gallery I had somehow leaped into and settled in.
My marrying Shuba was perhaps another chapter in that struggle. Much
like hanging on to a buffalo to cross a river in spate, I had reckoned that she
would lead me into her world. That I had attained her, would be viewed as a
conquest of her world, or so I presumed. Evening parties, garden feasts,
weddings, birthdays . . . laughter, hospitality, friendly embraces, pleasant
enquiries . . .
But, time and again, I was felled by this heartless, killer weapon called
mercy. They would look at me with compassion, single me out and seat me
in my place. If I made to leave out of awkwardness, they would shower me
with more kindness and send me on my way with utmost care. I did not
give much thought at that time to the question of why she had married me.
It was a certificate of my manliness; even if the world did not acknowledge
it, it was the victory of the lover in me – that’s how I had interpreted it in
my head. The first month and a half after our wedding was the only time in
my life that I have known pride. If I had not been so naive, even that trifling
happiness would have slipped through my fingers.
She wanted to get ahead, and I was the raft she was able to lay her hands
on. She had been an ordinary, low-ranking public relations officer. The
importance that comes her way now is courtesy the three-letter abbreviation
that follows my name. She wishes to go even further, though. She’s cloaked
her contrivance in a pretence of progressiveness. The pretence of being a
large-hearted, modern woman. And henceforth even she will not look at
herself without that façade.
Soon enough, I fell into a hellhole where I had to accept all the moral
responsibility that comes with power, even though I had none. In every post
I took up, another officer was appointed below me, as a matter of course.
He belonged to the most popular and dominant caste of that region, and
would be a loyalist of his superiors or of the ruling party. Within a few days,
all the authority would shift into his hands. Only his orders would be
carried out. He would treat me with mild deference – a deference that
reminded me every moment that I was in his control – and obtain my
permission and signature, anyway.
Prem was born when I was working in Madurai. When he was eight
months old, I met Amma again. Amma and another old man had come in
search of me to Madurai. She came to see me at the office. I was caught up
in the grand torture that was public meetings. Much like those visiting the
sanctum of God, here was a pleading, crying, trembling and petition-
bearing crowd. Old women who fell at my feet. The mortified silence of
destitute women. The vengeful outrage of simple folk who had been
wronged. The betel-stained smiles of tribal people who, though robbed of
and chased out of their own lands, didn’t quite comprehend their situation,
and having been brought there by unknown entities, stood holding petitions
written by unknown people. Infants who surveyed their surroundings with
big eyes, clutching their parents’ clothes . . .
They kept pouring in. They would kneel in front of me, as though they
believed their problems would vanish upon meeting me. ‘Proceed one by
one . . . don’t hustle . . . one by one,’ Mayandi would shout. Every one of
those faces terrified me. I was not able to look any of them in the eye.
Pretending to read the papers they submitted, I would avoid making eye
contact. ‘Okay’, ‘You have said it already, haven’t you’, ‘All right’, ‘We’ll
see’, ‘We will take care of it’, ‘We’ll take care of it, ma’am, please move
on’. I repeated the same phrases over and over. I felt like a machine
programmed to speak only those words.
Back then, I would fantasize about telling those people that I was
incapable of doing anything. Then, I would think, what would come of
telling them that? Beaten and oppressed, over and over again, they were
reduced to a pile of human garbage. The residue of hope, that someone like
me could do something for them, was the life force that kept them alive.
Why should I snuff it out? Then again, by accepting their petitions, was I
not fanning their hopes, only to crush them at the very end? They would
wait, hold on to hope tearfully, only to be let down again . . .
But they were accustomed to being abandoned without mercy, weren’t
they? It’s been that way for centuries. Pleading, imploring, begging, falling
at others’ feet, kissing their hands, calling out ‘Master’, ‘Lord’, ‘God’,
‘Provider’, running and gathering anything that was thrown at them, turning
the very act of existing into a gross insult: had they not lived it up for
generations? Had I been able to look them in the eye, I may have discarded
my clothes right there, descended into the streets in my loincloth as an
ordinary Nayadi Kuravan and stood beneath the sky as a mere human being.
Just then, Amma muscled through the crowd, shouting at the top of her
voice, ‘That’s my son . . . my son Kaappan . . . Kaappaa! Son! Kaappaa!’
The two old men who accompanied her joined in and hollered ‘Kaappaa,
Kaappaa’, even as the policeman berated them. ‘Hey . . . what’s happening
there? Shut up, shut up now, or I’ll give you a nice one right on the neck . . .
shut your mouth, you dog.’
‘Shanmugam, leave them alone,’ I said.
Amma was dressed in a blindingly bright party flag, which she had draped
across her chest like a saree, and an old underskirt borrowed from the
Narikuravas. She was wearing ear studs and a gold-hued aluminium nose
ring. The three of them dashed into my room.
‘This is my son Kaappan. He is my son . . . my son . . . Elay Kaappaa, my
son . . .’ Amma cried out loudly. She held my face in her hands and
showered kisses on my cheeks and neck. Her kisses were in fact gentle
bites. Betel-spit oozed on to my face. As though petrified, the entire crowd
stood frozen.
‘Wait inside, I’ll come,’ I said to her.
Amma grabbed me by my hand. ‘You come now . . . come, my son . . .’
she insisted, tugging at my hand.
One of the old men turned to the crowd. ‘This is Kaappan, Nayadi
Kaappan. He is our man . . . All of you leave,’ he shouted, commanding
them with his hands. ‘You will not get any more food here today . . . There
is no food . . . Leave.’
As I got up and led Amma out by the hand, the other two trailed behind.
One of them said, ‘We searched all over for you. Kaappa, you’re wearing
a shirt? So, will they give you good food?’
The other replied, ‘Elay, shut up, will you. How much ever he eats, no one
will raise a question. He is an officer, okay?’
‘Amma, wait here . . . I will be back soon . . . wait here,’ I said. I washed
my face and returned to the other room. As soon as I sat down, I observed
that the body language of the whole crowd had changed, just like that. It felt
as though everyone now knew that I formed no part of the chain of
command. It was astonishing. Not one of them pleaded with me any more.
Barring some who spoke a few words, they silently handed in their petitions
and left.
That time, Amma was with me for twenty days. I made space for the three
of them to stay in a portion at the back of the house. But they were not used
to staying under a roof, so they went and put up in the cycle shed at the
camp office. They fought raucously, day and night. They attacked each
other with stones and ran around in the compound. They defecated all over
the garden at night. I noticed the cleaner, Arunachalam, swearing under his
breath every day.
At the very first sight, Amma took an intense dislike to Shuba. Shuba’s
fair skin seemed to her a manifestation of some disease. As soon as she saw
her, she jumped off the veranda in fright, ran out to the front yard, covered
her mouth with her hands and stared with bulging eyes. When Shuba said
something, ‘Thoo,’ Amma spat with vehemence. ‘That’s a stinking bitch . .
. a stinking bitch,’ she kept repeating.
Shuba took shelter inside the house, scared to even see Amma. If Amma
caught sight of Shuba, she would hurl whatever she held in her hands at her.
She lifted her dress, bared her private parts to Shuba and rained obscenities
on her. ‘Pal, please, if you have the slightest affection for me, please send
her away somewhere. I came trusting you. This is the least you can do in
return . . . I cannot bear her, Pal. Please.’ Shuba broke into violent sobs and
slumped on the bed one day.
I stood there, staring at her cry. She was yet to resume work after
childbirth. ‘Answer me, Pal. What’s the point in standing like a statue for
everything?’ she said.
‘Shuba, please. Leave it to me. I will do something . . . give me some
time, I will send her away,’ I said.
‘No, you will not send her away, I know. Look, you cannot convert her to
our ways. She’s conditioned to a certain life. We cannot change her now.
What difference does it make where she is, isn’t it enough if she lives
happily? Let’s do everything we can for that . . .’
In my mind though, I was turning Prajananda’s words over. I had meted
out great injustice to Amma and I should atone for it for the rest of my life.
Her wish was my command. I could not disobey her. But it was hard to
understand what Amma wanted. She did not find use for anything in my
house. Within a few days she grew tired of the food too. However, in that
time, the hatred she felt towards Shuba grew into a force that conducted her.
For those such as she, hatred, just like their love, is boundless. I realized
much later how deep her hatred for Shuba ran. And how many centuries of
history lay behind it!
Amma would enter the kitchen and wolf down whatever she could find.
She would chew on betel leaves and spit in any corner she pleased. She
peed in the house. She would steal Shuba’s sarees, nightdresses, blouses,
her brassieres even, wear them herself, and stand at the entrance to Shuba’s
room, screaming, ‘This belongs to my son Kaappan. Get lost, go back to
your own house, you stiff pig.’ Shutting her ears with her hands, Shuba
would sit with her head hanging low.
 But, to see Amma pick Prem up with her dirty hands was the one thing
that Shuba could not bear, at any cost. Shuba would envelop him with her
body, refusing to let him go. Amma would then create a ruckus, hit her on
her back, pull her hair, spit on her and scratch her. Twice, I grabbed hold of
Amma, dragged her out of the house and shut the door on her. I had
instructed Christhudas and Chellam that Amma should not be allowed near
the baby. But she would manage to sneak in somehow.
One day, she even managed to feed the baby some rotten food she had
foraged from the roads. I stepped out of the shower and froze upon seeing
that scene. My limbs quivered. I dragged Amma away, threw her out of the
room and hurled a stream of invective at Chellam. I heard Chellam, who
was in the kitchen, mumble something, making sure it reached my ears.
‘Gypsy-brain.’ The moment the word fell on my ears, my body froze, as
though it had turned to stone from the touch of a magic wand. Drained of
all strength, I slumped into the revolving chair in the hall.
I had resolved that I would never send Amma away. I waited for her to
run away, as she had the previous time. If she left in that manner, I wouldn’t
be imprisoned by guilt. What’s more, I would have honoured Swami’s
words. But this time, her aversion towards Shuba spurred her to stay. She
kept hovering around Shuba, singing abuses. She would stand in the street
just outside the house and holler. ‘White swine, stinking bitch . . . look like
a roasted tuber and you dare talk to me? Come out, you bitch,’ she would
continue for hours without respite. I was awestruck by her unrestrained
vitality. I understood then how some creatures, dogs for instance, could go
on howling for hours on end.
I tipped the two old men and asked them to take Amma away. They
disappeared with the money the same day. Amma grew still more irate. She
left the house at night, roamed the city by herself and came back at the
break of dawn with a variety of wastes. Rotten food. Old clothes. All sorts
of shiny things. She piled them up in a corner of the garage. Shuba, who
happened to see her through her window, just as Amma opened up a parcel
of stale food, feasted on it and licked her fingers dry, dashed in and threw
up.
 Yet another day, when I spotted Amma roasting a bandicoot over a fire
she’d made by lighting up paper and plastic, my restraint broke too. I
marched out, grabbed the rat from her hands, flung it away and scolded her.
In response, she tried to hit me. I shoved her and she fell flat on her back.
The Turkish bath towel she had wrapped herself in came undone as she fell
to the ground. Naked yet unperturbed, she got to her feet, picked up a stone
and attacked me.
With all my might, I pushed her away, thrust her into a room beside the
garage and locked her in. I stood there for a few minutes, trying to catch my
breath. I knew that every window had by then grown a pair of eyes that
were staring at me. I strode into the bathroom, shut the door, let the tap run
and cried my heart out. My sobs dissolved into the sound of flowing water.
In between bouts of sobs and gasps, I thumped my head and slapped myself
until I was emptied of all my tears. Eventually, after washing my face and
hands, I stepped out.
Shuba was standing outside, breathless. ‘I’m leaving . . . I’ll take my son
and leave,’ she said. I held my silence and walked away. She trailed me
saying, ‘I can’t do this . . . I can’t stand around and watch any longer. The
whole city’s already talking about us. Where do I show my face now? The
servants are having a good laugh too . . . I can’t take this. I’m leaving. It’s
either me, or your mother.’
‘I cannot abandon Amma,’ I said to her. ‘It’s the word of my guru. If you
leave, I will be heartbroken. I won’t be able to bear it. But Amma will do as
she pleases.’ With puffed eyes and moist cheeks, Shuba looked at me for a
few moments, her head quivering. In a trice, she began to hit her head with
her hands and collapsed to the floor, wailing. I went to my room, picked up
a book and sat down to read. Ignoring the words, I was listening to her cry.
Amma lay locked up until nightfall. I stepped out of the house, wandered
aimlessly and got back in the middle of the night. I changed my clothes,
walked to the room beside the garage and opened the door. The ripe odour
of urine and faeces hit me hard. I expected Amma to rise and strike me. But
she was seated in a corner, hunched over, her hands on her head. ‘Amma,
you want food?’ I asked. She nodded.
 I served her myself. Watching her furiously gulp down one mouthful after
another, my heart ached for a moment. The next instant, my entire body was
afire, like a palm tree struck by lightning. Would she have known flavour,
instead of hunger, if only for a day? I felt the urge to hold her in a tight
embrace and scream my guts out. She did not know when to stop eating.
Neither could she bear the sight of the leaf turning empty. She kept beating
the leaf with her hands, saying ‘put, put’. This was how I had been. That
body of mine lay buried within this body.
When she finished eating, she rubbed her hands on her herself, stretched
her legs and lay down. I went in, brought half a glass of brandy and gave it
to her. She grabbed the glass, downed it in urgent gulps and let out a loud
belch. Once her stomach was full, as though she had forgotten the previous
moment, she caressed my hands, asking, ‘What is it, Kaappa?’ I wanted to
tell her everything and ask her a thousand questions. But it sufficed just to
look at her.
‘Son, Kaappa, that white swine, she is a ghost, yes. You know why she’s
like that? She drinks your blood, understand . . . from your cock . . .’ In a
flash, she grabbed at my crotch. ‘She drinks blood from this . . .’ she said. I
freed myself from her grip. ‘Son, you don’t need this shirt, these clothes . . .
don’t sit in Thamraa’s chair . . . don’t, they will kill you. Come away with
me tomorrow . . . we will go off to our town. I will protect you like gold.
Will you come, son? Isn’t it Ammai who’s calling you?’
Till her eyelids drooped she went on repeating the same words. Over and
over, ‘abandon the chair, they will kill you if you sit in the master’s chair,
they have bewitched you and sent this white ghost to kill you’, she
lamented. I rose, went to my room, lit a cigarette and stared at the ceiling.
Though she was talking crazy, I felt there was some truth to what she was
saying. Was I sitting in the master’s chair? Were they out to kill me because
of that? Was Shuba sucking my blood? Was Amma standing outside the
illusions that cocooned me, and, like an animal impervious to mind control,
sensing the truth?

•
It was four thirty in the afternoon when I returned to the office. I went into
my room, sat down and asked Kunjan Nair to buy me some tiffin. Am I in
search of excuses for my impotence? That is what Shuba would say. I am
looking for excuses on the outside for what is my own incompetence. Why
don’t you act? All the barriers that you see are figments of your own
imagination. Why do you not act, when you’ve known in your heart of
hearts what you must do? Act and you’ll see . . .
If I had to act, there was only one thing for me to do. I must remain in this
system as the voice and hands of those like me. By ‘those like me’ I mean
the ones rounded up by scavengers and dumped like human waste in the
Kazhudhai-Sandhai hospital. Why can’t the government, which spends
crores on public health, spend some for those beings? Why can’t they make
the doctors treat them as humans too? Punish those who say they can’t. If
the hospital ignores one amongst you, don’t you raise your voice? Doesn’t
your sense of justice come alive?
With trembling fingers, I began to write. Once I was done, I got up and
typed out my report. I had recorded in detail all that I had seen at the
Kazhudhai-Sandhai hospital. I mandated that action must be taken at once,
and that the same should be reported to me within three days. Failing
which, I warned, I would use the power vested in me to take stringent
action against those responsible for the wrongdoings. I sent the report in the
original to the District Medical Officer, and a copy to the state’s public
health secretary. I summoned Pillai in, arranged to dispatch them at once,
and then lit a cigarette.
In the evening, I visited the hospital again. Dr Indira said, ‘There’s no
progress. If you’d like, we can try dialysis tomorrow.’ Amma lay there in
the same manner. She was dressed in a green hospital gown. Since the
swelling in her limbs had subsided, creases had formed on the skin, like
cracks on dry mud. I got home, had dinner and fell asleep as soon as I hit
the bed. Shuba had wanted to speak with me about Amma. But I did not
wish to hear any words just then.
I woke up after what seemed like an hour. Shuba was fast asleep. The air
conditioner and the clock, droned in unison like melody and rhythm. I went
out and lit a cigarette. Was the increased smoking interfering with my
sleep? The last thought I had had before falling asleep was to meet the
DMO as soon as I got into office the next day and discuss my letter with
him in person. I needed to ask him what he planned to do. If we could, we
should visit the hospital along with the media and not hesitate to shame the
wrongdoers.
I knew what they would say. I had seen everything, in the last eighteen
months. The meaning of the words ‘pride’ and ‘ignominy’ were lost to my
mind. When Amma left, she had made sure to wipe out even the faintest
traces that remained in me of those words. While in Madurai, she managed
to escape with Prem one day. Shuba fainted. I called the SP and informed
him. The police swarmed the city. They caught her within forty-five
minutes. She was grazing for food in a dump behind a prominent hotel in
the city. She had fed Prem all the rot and refuse she had found too.
Like an animal wounded by a bullet, Shuba leaped out of the house and
grabbed the baby from the sub-inspector’s hands when he was brought
back. Rotten food lay smeared all over Prem’s mouth and chest. She hugged
him tight, sank to the floor and showered him with kisses. I stood
motionless. Upon seeing Amma step out of the jeep and cry out, ‘Elay,
Kaappaa’, something in me struggled and burst out. In a flash, I bent down,
picked up a length of hosepipe that lay on the ground and made to lash her
with it. ‘Run, run, you dog. Don’t you dare set foot in this house again,
run,’ I howled, hitting her again and again. Screaming, she collapsed into
the dirt and flailed her arms and legs about desperately. I kicked her with all
my might.
The sub-inspector caught hold of me. Amma ran out to the street and
remained there. ‘Kaappaa . . . you’ll be ruined . . . you’ll choke to death . . .
that white swine will drink your blood . . . you sinner! You dog . . . you
sinner!’ she wailed, beating her breasts and stomach, one after the other.
She undid her waistcloth, flung it away, strutted around naked, spread her
hands in a myriad gestures and rained curses on us. ‘Sir, please go in,’ said
the sub-inspector. When I went in and locked the door to my room, the first
thing that occurred to me was to hang myself. Had I gathered some courage,
this suffering would have ended that very day.
The sub-inspector hauled Amma into the jeep and had her admitted in an
old-age home run by the city’s biggest Christian organization. He paid the
advance himself. I sent him the money the following day. I could not
embolden myself to see Amma again. Fire raged in me, still, every second
of the day. My inner organs, having stewed and melted, were bubbling as
acid in my stomach. From the next day on, the diarrhoea and fever that
gripped Prem took many turns, lasting twelve days in all. He was in
Meenakshi Mission Hospital for ten days. Twice the fever peaked, putting
his life at risk, they said.
Shuba lay beside him, night and day, her hair all dishevelled. I was scared
to even talk to her. I feared that one word would suffice to make her sink
her teeth into my larynx. Through the night, I would sit in the iron chair in
the hospital ward, gazing at my son’s tender, tiny feet and his small, fever-
parched face. One night he was sleeping with his hands spread out, his chest
rising and falling. His skin was shrivelled and his body flushed. His ribs
protruded, the entire ribcage bulged out, making him seem like some
unknown child. Death had neared him and moved on. Was it still lingering
in the room in some form? If my eyes wilted, even a little, would it put a
hand out and grab him?
Watching him made me feel as though a heavy metal rod had cleaved my
stomach. But I needed that pain and so I endured it silently. Like the other
end of a weighing scale, it kept in balance the sorrow that weighed down a
part of my heart. I puffed away cigarette after cigarette. My lips burned. I
coughed dryly as my lungs filled up with smoke. No matter what I ate, or
how hungry I was, I was seized with nausea by the second mouthful. I was
living by the second. With every breath, I made an effort to push time
forward.
One of those nights, when I was watching Prem, a new thought surfaced.
Had I not grown up eating all that my mother had fed him, at the same age?
I had managed to survive somehow. Children like me often perished in the
rains. My mother must have borne at least ten children. Nine of them died.
They would grip the corpses by their feet, swirl them around and fling them
into the surging Karamanai river. I remember seeing my sister’s body
during its wait to be thrown in. Her final thought was etched on her small,
dark face. ‘Foo-, foo-,’ she would say when she asked for something to eat.
That was the only word she could pronounce, and it was upon her lips.
I will never forget the venom that arose within me, for an instant, as I
dwelt on those memories. If this fair child should die from eating one bite
of that food, let it. How many of its relatives, inhabiting that grand heaven
for children who perish from starvation, or from eating refuse, will be
awaiting it expectantly. The next moment, I hit myself on the head for
having thought that thought. I sat on the bed, showering the legs of my
beloved son with tear-stained kisses.
I came to know that Amma had left the institution within a few days. It
did not perturb me. However, from that day on, there was a definite change
in my personality. I turned into a ruthless person. Forever seething with
anger, I became merciless. Every day, I issued letters of warning and
decrees of punishment to my subordinates. They bypassed me and got the
orders suspended with ease. They received the letters with their left hands,
their faces imbued with derision. They would step out, mock me loudly and
erupt in laughter.
In a few days, posters materialized on the walls of my office complex,
decrying me. The posters featured my mother squatting with a plastic
begging bowl in hand. Should the fate of our district rest with a scoundrel
who revels in power’s pleasure while his mother begs? I noticed that poster
only when I entered the office. They had stuck several of them in a row.
After having driven past most of them, I ended up reading one as I turned
the corner. My legs grew weary. I could barely press down on the brake. I
stopped the car and almost ran into my room. Eyes swarmed around me, the
entire way. The faint laughter that swept across the office when my door
closed transformed into a deafening cacophony and crashed into me.
Two days later, someone had gone so far as to bring my mother to the
office. She was sitting under the laburnum in the front yard, eating with
great delight the leftovers from the lunches of employees spread out on a
polythene sheet. They had sat her down right where I could see her through
the window in my room. It was when I went up to the washbasin to rinse
my hands after lunch that I saw that sight. For a few moments, I lost my
bearings. I didn’t know where I was. I rushed down the stairs and, not
bothering with the car, ran through the streets like a madman.

•
I went to the office the next morning, cleared all the pending files and left
for the hospital only around half past ten. I had phoned the hospital in
between and was informed that there was no change in Amma’s status.
When I entered, Dr Manickam was waiting in the veranda. The disquiet that
surfaced in me as soon as I saw him, multiplied as he approached me with
folded hands. ‘Tell me, Manickam,’ I said. His eyes welled up as he put his
hands together again. I prepared myself to be still more ruthless.
‘I see that sir did not trust anything I said. You think that whatever I did
for you, sir, was to cover up my wrongdoings . . . that’s not true, sir. I . . .’
His voicebox moved up and down. ‘I have always worked with the fear of
God in my heart, sir. I have toiled as much as possible in this shit-hole. I
start at eight in the morning, and on some days it’s nine or ten at night by
the time I get home. No medicines, no tablets, no cloth to dress wounds. Sir,
you won’t believe me, but I collect spare antibiotics from the veterinary
hospital nearby, to give to these . . . I send my wife to the neighbours’
homes to collect tattered sarees and clothes so that I can use them to
bandage the wounds of these here . . . I have not taken even a few days of
leave, needlessly.’
I mellowed down. ‘I was not finding fault with you. I only reported what
the situation is. Isn’t that my duty? If I didn’t do so, will it not mean that
I’m furthering the status quo?’
‘You’re right, sir. I am not blaming you. But . . .’ He was unable to speak
further.
‘I am sorry,’ I said, trying to enter the room.
‘Wait, sir. You have to listen to this. I’ll let you go once you hear it.
You’re like me too, aren’t you? Sir, my promotion has been due for seven
years. They brought up all kinds of faults and failings, asked me for many
an explanation and kept postponing and evading it. I went all the way up to
the tribunal to get a judgement in my favour, and then obtained an order to
effect the judgement. Finally, I’ve just received the paper in hand. I am a
senior doctor, sir. Now, they have used your letter as an excuse and
suspended me. They will hire me again only after they have the order to
promote me nullified. Perhaps it will take another ten years this time, or
maybe more . . . See you, sir.’
Before I could say a word, he hurried away. I walked after him. He
stepped out and left on his bike. Defeated, I sat down in the hallway. This is
what could’ve happened – it would have been a real wonder if anything else
had happened. Knowing that full well, why did I do this? What was I trying
to prove? To whom? The acid that had saturated my stomach until then,
soured in my throat. I felt like vomiting. I sat there, holding my head in my
hands.
‘Sir,’ said the nurse who had approached me. I looked up. ‘She has
regained consciousness.’ I entered Amma’s room with trepidation. Amma
opened her eyes and made an attempt to sit up. She had plucked out the
glucose drip inserted in her hand. Blood oozed out from the needle that was
still stuck to her. The nurse cried ‘Aiyaiyo . . . you shouldn’t take it out,
Paati, lie down,’ and held her. Amma pushed her away. Her eyes roved
around and brushed past me, many times. ‘Kaappaa, my Kaappaa,’ she
called out as she tried to get up.
‘Amma, it’s me, Amma,’ I said.
‘Kaappaa, my son . . . Kaappaa . . . don’t need the shirt, don’t sit on
Thamraa’s chair, son . . . Kaappaa.’
I was invisible to Amma’s eyes. The nurse grabbed hold of her and pinned
her down on the bed. Amma suddenly broke into a fit. Her arms and legs
jerked and convulsed. Her mouth fell askew and quivered. ‘I will call the
doctor,’ said the nurse, rushing out. I held Amma and gently made her lie
down. Her hands were stiff. Gradually, they went limp. When the doctor
arrived, Amma had lost consciousness again.
I waited outside the room. Dr Indira came out and said, ‘It’s better we do
the dialysis. She is sinking.’
 ‘Please go ahead,’ I said.
‘It may not change anything though, she is almost in her final minutes.’ I
sighed. Inside the room, the doctors kept huddling and discussing amongst
themselves as they tried one thing or the other. I went to the hall again and
sat down. I stroked my hair with my hands. I unfastened and fastened my
watch repeatedly.
Shuba rang for me. As soon as I said ‘hello’, she asked ‘how is she’.
‘Only a little while more, they said.’
‘Oh,’ she remarked. ‘I will come there now. It’ll take around ten minutes.’
I put the phone down. When I heard the ‘click’, I had reached a decision.
Yes, this is it. This is what Prajananda was trying to say. His words rang
close to my ears. ‘Do all that you can for her as absolution . . .’ Is this what
he had meant? Was he trying to tell me to be brave because he thought I
won’t be able to do this, that I may not have the courage?
I went in to check on Amma. Only the nurse was in there now. ‘Did she
wake up?’ I asked.
‘No. We are yet to do the dialysis. We’re taking her in now,’ she replied.
In that instant, I wished with every fibre in my being that Amma would
awaken. I’ve never felt the presence of a pair of ears up above, for me to
pray to. Instead, I pleaded fervently with that moment, with the lotion-
drenched air that filled the room, with the rays of the sun that slanted in
through the windows, with the time that trickled in drop after drop. Amma
must open her eyes. A few minutes will suffice.
I must sit beside her, take her hands in mine and give her my answer to
her frenzied pleading all these years: ‘Amma, I am Kaappan. I will remove
my shirt and my clothes. I will not sit in the master’s chair. I will get up. I
am your Kaappan.’
But Amma’s face only became more and more waxlike. Another woman
came in and changed her clothes. Amma’s body lurched like a corpse. The
woman too handled her as she would a corpse.
Time wore on. Half an hour passed, and yet Shuba had not arrived.
Instead, Kunjan Nair walked in carrying a wire basket, sporting a betel-
stained smile, his shoulders aslant. ‘Good morning, saar. I went to the
office. You had a call from Madras. Ramani noted everything down and
sent it with me,’ he said, as he handed me a note. I took it and placed it in
my pocket without bothering to read it. In the very moment that I thought of
sending him away, I heard Amma cry, ‘Kaappaa!’
Before I could enter the room, Kunjan Nair scurried in. Jolted by the sight
of him, like a stray dog that had caught sight of a stone about to be hurled at
it, Amma cowered, retracted her whole body, clasped her hands in prayer
and entreated in a feeble voice, ‘Thamraa, give me kanji, Thamraa.’ Her
body shuddered for a brief instant. Her right leg stretched out of its own
accord, became rigid and then went limp. Dribble ran down her chin as her
face planted itself on the pillow. Straightening Amma’s body out, the nurse
checked her pulse. By then, I knew it.
Yes, that is indeed what Prajananda had said . . . It’s time to sit down. If I
must lay this beggar woman to rest and let her heart with all its anguish
decay and become one with this earth, I need another hundred armchairs.

OceanofPDF.com
 Peruvali

Yet again, I missed the house. This was the seventh or eighth time I was
visiting. I recall my pocket being picked on my first visit here – I was
wearing a long Calcutta jibba that day. As soon as I had alighted and
slipped my hand in my pocket, I knew the money was gone. ‘Writers of
popular fiction rejoicing at Akilan’s Jnanpith is as understandable as
pickpockets endorsing the Calcutta jibba for the national dress’ – Sundara
Ramaswamy’s words sprang to mind.
What a time to be quoting someone! I smacked myself on the head. I
could not find Komal’s house, but without meeting him I would not have
the money to return home either.
I dug out fifty paise from the other pocket. By a stroke of pure luck, I also
found a tiny scrap of paper inside, with the number of Komal’s house
scribbled on it. I was a bundle of nerves as I picked up the receiver of the
phone in the corner of the tea shop. If, as was usual, the line got cut after
‘hello’, the final fifty paise will have gone down the drain too. Much to my
relief, Komal himself picked up the phone. The hello was followed by a
soft, deep groan as he shifted his position. ‘This is Komal,’ he said.
I fumbled for words as I introduced myself. He remembered my stories
quite well. ‘Ada,’ he said enthusiastically, and welcomed me home.
‘Sir, please tell me the way to your house, I’ll be there.’
‘Even if I give you the finest of directions, you’ll lose your way. I know
you. Just take an auto. I’ll give you the address.’
‘Sir . . . ’ I dithered, ‘. . . I don’t have any money on me . . .’
‘Why, what happened?’
‘I got pickpocketed.’
Komal chuckled. ‘Just catch an auto, will you . . . I’ll pay for it,’ he said.
I noted down the address and got into an auto. It was a concrete house
built in the eighties in a locality with identical streets, and in a street with
identical houses. It was a big house, indeed.
Komal’s daughter stepped out. ‘Appa asked me to receive you. Please
come in,’ she said. She herself paid the auto driver seven rupees and sent
him off. ‘I heard you got pickpocketed? It happens quite a lot on this route,’
she said. I went in. In a room adjoining the hall, Komal was sitting on the
bed, propped up by large pillows on either side. Light filtered in through the
window on his left, and fell on the side of his face. A few papers and a
notepad lay on his lap.
‘Come in,’ he said with a smile that revealed a beautiful set of teeth. ‘How
much money did you lose?’
‘Eighty rupees, sir.’
‘Poor thing.’
‘Never mind.’
‘I was referring to that fellow . . . For the hard work he’d put in, he ought
to have scraped together at least a day’s wages, huh?’
We laughed. The silvery locks of hair that flowed down to his shoulders
gave him the air of a writer or an artist or something like that. At any rate, it
showed that he was not one given to worldly pursuits. I’ve always wished
to have such a signature look myself. But back in Thakkalai, if I set out to
the office with such an appearance, the dogs will chase me. A demeanour
that blends in with everyone and everywhere; speech that is calibrated to
the TA-DA drawing populace; pallid, office-coloured clothes – that is how I
can live. And so, on the days when I don’t have to go to work, I put on this
jibba and proclaim, ‘I am different.’
This time too, I got confused and wandered through the streets with
identical houses. Fortunately, it was not hot. I couldn’t ask Komal the way
to his house this time, for his health had worsened. I rang up Pariksha
Gnaani. That I knew all the landmarks he mentioned struck me only after
he’d mentioned them. I now found the house with ease. ‘Come in,’ his
daughter welcomed me with a wilted face. Inside, someone else was talking
with Komal.
‘It’s Paavai Chandran . . . the one who was with the Kungumam magazine
. . .’ his wife said.
‘Oh,’ I said.
‘Do you want to meet him?’
‘No, it’s all right, I’m not in the mood.’
I went inside after Chandran had left. Komal was lying on the bed as
before, in a supine position. He had grown even thinner. The muscles on his
neck hung loose and his cheeks had hollowed, causing his nose and teeth to
jut out. He looked like an old man. When he broke into a smile, his lips
curled to the right, lending him an air of mischief. Or perhaps his ever-
mischievous smile had rendered permanent the curl of his lips. The impish
smile he wore at present sent a mild flutter through me. I drew up a moda
and sat down.
‘You’ve met Paavai, haven’t you?’ he asked.
‘No . . . but we’ve exchanged letters.’
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘He’s a good man . . .’
I was anxious not to stare at him, but my gaze searched frantically for
something in his eyes, in his face. This was the Komal who had made an
enthusiastic visit to Tiruvannamalai by bus, who laughed loudly and
chattered with the Bava Chelladurai coterie that had come to receive him,
who hugged everyone one by one and pulled their cheeks, who enquired
after those who hadn’t come, recalling them by name, who sat on the bed
without even bothering to change out of his jibba, and with a pillow on his
lap began talking about drama and literature. The man who, for two whole
days – in the temple and at the Ramana ashram, on the streets, in the hotels,
and at Bava Chelladurai’s house – talked and talked and yet unfinished,
went on talking while standing on the culvert by the roadside as he waited
for the bus at midnight, and when the bus came, left mid-sentence and ran
to board it.
When one looks at the river in summer, it’s hard to fathom that it ever
floods. Lost in himself, Komal was staring out of the window. As the
disease matured, silence had amplified within him. The truth was, even
when he had visited Tiruvannamalai his spinal cancer had become
untreatable. For eight years and through two surgeries he had delayed the
inevitable. Even his close friends came to know that he had cancer, only
after first five years had gone by. With a surgically truncated spine, he had
staged plays across twenty towns every month. He had written many
screenplays and directed two films.
It was only after the doctors had remonstrated with him that he disbanded
his theatre troupe. After making a request to Thyagarajan, his school friend
and owner of Shriram Chit Funds, he took over the running of
Subamangala, then a women’s magazine. Within four or five months, the
venture transformed into a literary wave, a movement, rendering him even
busier. Out of nowhere, a huge circle of senior authors, young writers and
readers sprouted around him. The craze for theatre drove him further. He
organized theatre fests and put together theatre workshops and literary
meets. He bustled about, more active than ever before.
After one such meet in Kutralam, when we were heading to bathe under
the massive waterfall with our undone shirts hanging on our shoulders, I
gathered the courage to ask him if there was pain.
‘Jeyamohan, the pain’s like an infant, now. It squats on the hip, its nose
dripping with snot and wails non-stop. It wakes up suddenly at night and
troubles the life out of me. But it is my pain. It has emerged from my body.
So, isn’t it only natural that I will feel affection for it? Let the wretched
thing be. We will make a fine human being of it, all right?’
But, little by little, his activities dwindled. When I rang him eight or nine
months ago, he had said, ‘I don’t go anywhere now. Not even to the office. I
stay at home and attend to all the work from here.’
‘Is the pain any better?’ I enquired.
‘She’s grown up . . . now she has an agenda of her own. She’s itching to
go somewhere . . . I think she will take me along for sure,’ he said.
That was the first time I beheld an ailing man in him.

•
Komal turned in my direction. ‘Sorry, I forgot you were here,’ he said with
a smile. ‘My mind just wanders all over the place these days. Such random
thoughts, there’s absolutely no semblance of order. After an hour, when I try
to recollect what I’d been thinking about, I just can’t seem to trace my
thoughts back. ‘The sky bears no trail, though there soar many thousands of
birds.’ Have you heard of that poem? It feels just like that . . .’
‘How is the pain?’ I asked, with trepidation.
‘Gnaani had come visiting the day before yesterday. He asked me the
same thing. I told him, open that door and put your thumb in the crack.
Then shut the door and hold it tight. Keep it like that all day. That is how it
feels, I said. Poor chap, his face turned ashen . . .’ With a crooked grin, he
added, ‘I fill my theatre colleagues with terror, these days. They think we
are cut from the same cloth, and so they may well get what I’ve got! What’s
more, Gnaani’s a Progressive too, just like me . . .’
Komal’s wife came in and placed coffee on the teapoy. Standing adjacent
to the wall, she said, ‘At least, you must knock some sense into him.
Everyone’s tried advising him, his seniors, the elders . . . all of them. Let’s
see if he at least listens to young people like you.’
‘What about?’ I asked.
‘I’ll tell you,’ said Komal.
‘He’s just being pig-headed . . . refuses to listen to reason,’ said his wife.
‘I’ll tell him . . . you go inside,’ said Komal. She went away.
‘What is it, sir?’ I pressed.
I had presumed that he must have insisted on staging some play. Instead,
he replied, ‘I’m thinking of going on a pilgrimage to Kailash.’
‘Sir?’
‘A pilgrimage to the Himalayas, don’t you get it . . . I have a wish . . . to
go there and stand in front of the Kailash mountain . . . you may think of it
as my last wish.’
I was rattled. ‘Sir, you’re unable to even get up.’
‘I’ll go crawling then, what of that? Like Karaikaal Ammaiyar. If she
could climb all the way up the mountain by walking on her hands, so can I.’
‘It’s preposterous . . . if you leave from here, by the time you cover a
quarter of the distance . . .’
‘I will die. Isn’t that what you want to say? So what? Let me die then.
Instead of lying here waiting for the train, it’s better to put a hand out, stop
the train and get on it.’
‘Sir – ’
‘Look. I’ve decided.’
I said nothing.
‘What now?’
‘Nothing, sir.’
‘This fellow’s so religious, how was he ever part of the progressive
writers’ association? Isn’t that what you’re wondering?’
‘No, sir.’
‘That’s what everyone will think. So be it. I don’t have the time to
ruminate over such matters any more. But I want you to understand even if
no one else does. You’ll write about this some day . . .’
I nodded.
‘This isn’t your regular kind of pilgrimage. I am a Hindu and I make no
bones about that. But I’m not orthodox either. I don’t perform any rituals, I
don’t go to the temple to worship. To be honest, till date, I haven’t asked
anything of God. There was a time in my life when I roamed this city
penniless, with children to boot. Even then I did not pray to God. Why,
even now, when I came to know about this disease, I did not ask anything of
God. I myself don’t know how I’ve been able to carry on without sending
up a prayer to alleviate this pain.’
I looked on with wonder at how his face had lit up. ‘Many years ago, the
cover of one of the issues of the Kumudam magazine carried a colour
photograph. It was a picture from the Himalayas, taken by a Swami
Saradaananda . . .’ he began.
Excited, I jumped in. ‘I remember that too! A baby yak resting on a snow-
carpeted slope somewhere in the Himalayas. Covered in snowflakes, its hair
standing on end. It was a much-acclaimed photograph back then.’
‘Yes, that’s the one,’ said Komal. ‘That day, I had just finished staging a
play in Sivagangai, and after sending back the troupe I took a car to Saathur
where the play was to run the following day. The car broke down
somewhere along the way. On both sides of the road, the landscape was
utterly barren. It was the month of May as well. The land was burnt out and
parched, and as far as the eye could see, there stretched only the lifeless
earth. The sound of the wind depositing sand on the litters of dried leaves
on the ground echoed without end. The driver left, boarding a bus to fetch
the mechanic. I could not sit inside the car. I got out, walked some distance,
climbed up a dilapidated old building by the roadside and sat there, gazing
at the baked earth. Without knowing why, my eyes began to tear up, and
soon I was weeping. I had nary a problem at that time, not even an iota of
grief. Still, I felt an acute sense of emptiness.
‘A little while later, I questioned why I was crying. Had the emptiness of
that land crept into my heart? It can’t be so. Only if my heart held at least a
fragment of emptiness would it recognize that which is on the outside. What
is it that is on the outside? As the writer Mouni said, the outside is but an
external manifestation of the inner self. You may have noticed Mouni’s
extraordinary love for the word “desolate”. He did not use it in the sense of
“ruin”. He used it to convey the great emptiness that is beyond
comprehension. Most of his stories evoke that very experience.
‘After some time, I went back to the car to have some water. The driver
had left a bottle in the front seat. On the floor of the vehicle lay this issue of
Kumudam. When I picked it up and saw the picture, a tremor ran through
my hands. At that moment, at that place, what a sign it was! Like a great
message. A call, if you will. I lost track of time as I sat there gazing at it.
‘I’ve thought a lot about that day and have tried to put in words. I feel a
great emptiness in me, Mohan. I have always been an extrovert. There’s
always been a crowd around me. I have passed my days merrily, amidst
chatter and laughter. But there is a colossal loneliness within me. I have
sheltered that loneliness without so much as touching it, all these days. I
haven’t dared to disturb it, for I fear the outcome. Loneliness. That was the
word that came to my mind when I saw the little yak calf. It was seated
there like the moortharoopa, the idol form of loneliness.
‘Loneliness is what nature has bequeathed to all beings, including man,
isn’t it? Everything else is what we drape around us to shelter from the cold.
We clothe ourselves with whatever we can . . . wife, children, friends, the
arts, literature, politics, and all that. That day, I felt an urge to strip the
layers away and stand in stark aloneness. Only then will the loneliness
that’s buried deep inside emerge before me like a ghost, I thought. I have
many questions to ask of that spectre.’
‘A spectre with a crescent moon on matted hair from which the Ganga
flows?’ I joked.
‘You wish to get me into trouble, don’t you,’ he said.
‘But how will you get there?’ I asked, as worry resurfaced. ‘There’s a
bedpan beneath you. It seems like it hurts even if you move a bit. It’s so far
away . . . Let’s assume you take a flight from here, you still have to board it,
get off, get on another vehicle . . . and how will you go up the mountain?
I’ve heard that there are porters to carry people . . .’
‘I plan to trek up,’ said Komal. My breath stopped. ‘It’s sure to hurt. But
it’s not as if my spine will break, right? We’ll see. It’ll be a hundred and
fifty thousand steps, I think. So, once when I set my foot down and once
when I lift it – three hundred thousand times – it will feel as though
someone is hammering me. You can think of it as reciting God’s name three
hundred thousand times. Whatever the goal may be, it is comforting to
reduce it to numbers . . . we’re able to say, this is all it will take . . .’
‘I’m scared for you. . . It’s a difficult journey even for those in good
health.’
‘True, it is difficult for the healthy to go there, for they will want to return.
If you think you needn’t return, you can go anywhere, right?’
I sat there gazing at him in silence for a few minutes.
‘I have apprised Vathiyar Raman and Ilayabharathi. Your matter will
reach Va.Ra.’s table directly. I have told him to publish all of it.’
On my way back that day I took the wrong turn three or four times as I
walked to the bus stop, lost in thought. A few auto-rickshaw drivers
showered me with curses. I kept thinking about the baby yak. That picture
featured in the Kumudam when I was studying in the seventh or eighth
grade. But it is imprinted in me now as an enduring landscape, as a dream.
That picture was the reason I was drawn to the Himalayas too. I have
walked those slopes and those snow-capped peaks on countless occasions.
The yak calf won’t be there now, nor will Saradaananda, the
photographer. The expanse of snow may have disappeared too. But the
Himalaya stands there still. The parental home of Parvathi. The peaks that
Shiva made his own. The mountains that Kalidasa sang of. ‘We stroll the
peaks of silver snow.’ I am destined to go there again some day . . .
Standing at the foot of Kailash, bathed in the golden glow of twilight, I’ll
meet my own self in utter solitude and see what remains of it. Will it be the
ashes of a body burnt and extinguished? Will I wear it as sacred ash and
retreat to a cave there, sated? Kailash, a gigantic mountain of sacred ash.

•
They told me at the Subamangala office that Komal had returned.
‘How is he doing?’ I asked.
‘He’s fine.’
‘Is he able to move around?’
‘Not quite, but he is able to sit up and talk.’
I wished to meet him. My second book of short stories, Earth, was in the
press at Sneha Publications. I had dedicated it to him. Once it was printed, I
should gift him a copy. I must ask him what he saw at the Himalayan peaks,
at Kailash. He might tell me, or like most others who return from there, he
might say, ‘It is hard to put it in words, you should go there yourself.’
I could only visit Madras a month later. At Sneha Publications, the
collection was yet to be printed. ‘It will be published, sir,’ someone there
said. I called Komal’s house but no one picked up the phone. Should I visit
him or not? After vacillating for a while, I set out. There was no one in
front of the house this time. After I had called out a few times, his wife
emerged and welcomed me mechanically. Komal’s daughter went past me
with a feeble smile. Death had pervaded the house in the garb of silence.
When I figured that the strange sound I had heard upon entering the house
– the sound I had assumed was coming from the TV or something else –
was in fact Komal’s voice, my hands grew unsteady. It was a sound birthed
by the kind of pain that makes one lose all consciousness of the self. A
sound that an animal would produce in the throes of such pain. Abandoned
without an semblance of hope, and with nothing to plead of another human,
it is a cry that is directed solely at that which is invisible. An entreaty or a
tirade or an expression of self-pity or a prayer. In the company of that pain,
he can only be in utter solitude. Those who think of him as a mentor, the
friends who walked with him shoulder to shoulder, the wife, the children . .
. all of them can merely watch him from another place, from another world,
from another time.
‘You may see him if you wish to,’ said his wife. Maybe I should leave, I
thought. Leaving was in fact the appropriate thing to do. But I thought he
might ask for me. If so, I might regret leaving without meeting him. I got up
and opened the door quietly. The room was filled with a stench that I hadn’t
encountered there before. The stench hung in the air, mixed with the smell
of medicines. Komal was lying on the bed. At first glance, my
consciousness refused to accept that it was he. The long hair had withered
without a trace. Wisps of cotton-like hair on the sides of his head were all
that remained.
I just stood there, staring at him. His face had shrunk and his teeth jutted
out more than ever before. His quivering neck appeared to be swollen. Still,
it was hard to believe that those pain-filled groans were emanating from
him. Was there someone else in the room, hidden from sight?
He saw me. Fever was visible in his reddened eyes. It seemed as if he
hadn’t recognized me, so I went up to him and sat on the moda.
‘Who’s it . . . Mohan?’ he asked in a soft moan.
‘Yes, sir.’
‘All well?’
‘Yes, sir.’
‘I’ve been writing about my journey to the mountains . . . did you read
them?’
‘Yes, I did, sir.’
‘There’s a lot more to be said . . . I made them write down some of it as I
dictated . . . let’s see how far it goes.’
‘You’ll be fine, sir. You’ve made it all the way.’
He smiled. I did not offer those words out of politeness. I said it as a
prayer from the bottom of my heart.
 ‘Still in pain, sir?’
It was an absurd, perhaps even a cruel question. But what else could one
talk about there?
‘Oozhir peruvali yaavula . . . What power be greater than that of destiny?’
he said, quoting from the Thirukkural, his lips curling into a mischievous
smile. It was only then that my heart accepted him as Komal.
‘Did you note his use of the word “Peruvali” here? The Tamil language
has many such complexities. Valimai is power. Strength. Vali is pain.
What’s the relation between strength and pain? Can there be strength
without pain? Or else, the greater the strength, the greater the pain? I like
that word, though. Peruvali . . . I find myself saying it over and over.’
He talked haltingly between moans. I wanted to ask him not to exert
himself, but it felt as though he wished to speak.
‘Didn’t they give you an injection to numb the pain?’
‘They’ve tried all that. A floodgate can be shut, but if it’s a breach,
nothing can be done, can it?’
‘Do you know Ki.Ra.? Not Rajanarayanan. Ki.Ra. Gopalan,’ he asked.
Only on the odd occasion would his Thanjavur background find its way into
his words.
‘I’ve heard of him. He worked at the Kalaimagal, didn’t he?’
‘Yes. When he started out, he worked at Triloka Seetharaman’s magazine.
Then at Manikodi. Finally at Kalaimagal. He is one amongst the Manikodi
coterie, in fact.
‘One fine day, he simply vanished. This was in the sixties . . . they
combed the place for him, but had no luck. Ten years later, when I was
roaming around in Kashi, a samiyar emerged out of the blue and touched
me on my shoulder. The ascetic’s face looked familiar. “It’s me, Ki.Ra,” he
says. I was shocked. He told me to address him as “sami”. I did as I was
told and asked him what he had been up to. “I’ve become a samiyar,” he
said. But I didn’t let him go easily. “And what have you discovered by
becoming a samiyar?” I needled him. “I see a mountain in the distance,” he
said, “A golden mountain. Kailash. I move towards it all the time. There it
is in the distance, even now. Shall I take leave?” he said, and blended into
the crowd.
‘During the entire journey, I was consumed by thoughts of Ki.Ra. I
expected that he would cross my path somewhere and tell me something
profound. Many different people discover many different things. But it is
only when a man of words discovers something and speaks of it that it
acquires significance, don’t you think? However, that hope did not
accompany me till the end. When I reached Kedarnath and began the
pilgrimage to Kailash from there, it occurred to me in a flash. That was it,
Ki.Ra. was no more. He had fallen to the ground, decayed and become one
with this earth. So many have come away as he did, leaving behind their
homes and their families. They came in search of one thing, found many
other things instead and died. It’s all sure to be buried in that land . . .’
‘Was the climb too hard?’
‘What of that? I would close my eyes and leap four to five paces ahead, as
though jumping into a well. Then, I would stand there for a few moments.’
‘Standing must have helped you recover.’
‘What a fellow you are! Standing was just a different sort of pain. If
walking felt like being struck by a crowbar, standing felt like being cut by a
hoe . . . change is always welcome, isn’t it? Peruvali. There was a king
named Mavali in the netherworld. Perumal dispatched him to the bottom of
the world with a single stomp of his foot. Did you notice the name: Ma-Vali
– Maha-Vali, the Great Pain? When Perumal himself tramples you, there is
bound to be great pain, is it not?’
‘Amma!’ he screamed suddenly, as though someone had attacked him.
‘Amma, Amma, Amma,’ he lamented for some time. I wondered if I
should get up and go.
‘Are you leaving?’
‘No,’ I said, and sat back down.
‘If I had died without visiting the Himalayas and seeing Kailash, I would
have been reborn in this very place, staged my plays all over again and
wreaked havoc in Tamil Nadu. You’ve had a fortuitous escape . . .’ he
joked.
He shut his eyes. The delicate skin on his eyelids pulsated. The muscles
on his right cheek twitched and quivered. After a moment, he opened his
eyes. ‘When I close my eyes, I can see myself walking on the mountain.
‘Height is what marks the Himalayas. The netherworld that unravels
kilometre after kilometre beneath your feet to an endless depth is of an
enormous height too. Only, you need to imagine that you’re standing upside
down. A height that makes tiny ants of men. A virgin darkness that looms
forever, like twilight. A path that leads on, like a belly chain strung around
the waist of the mountain. As you walk further ahead, little by little, a huge
mountain comes into view till it’s right before your eyes. As if to say: Here
I am, a gigantic ghost. As shadow and darkness, as blue and black, the
bhutaganas – the goblin attendants of Shiva – are seated there, holding the
curved sky upon their heads. They sit deep in meditation, as though under
the effect of some mantra . . .
‘They told us that once we cross over to the other side of the mountain
before us, we would see Kailash. As soon as they heard that, my fellow
travellers brought their hands together in reverence and muttered prayers.
And just like that, for no reason, I felt terribly cheated. I was sure that I was
about to see only a huge, barren mountain. Because, that’s what I had been
expecting in my heart of hearts, that is what my logical mind had presumed.
I had fanned a dream, quite stupidly, for thirty long years and come this far.
That dream had managed to shelter my everyday life from weariness and
imbue my heart with a little warmth . . . I should have let it remain that way
. . . I should not have come this far . . .
‘That was the only thought in my head. I shouldn’t have come. I shouldn’t
have come. My legs froze and I couldn’t move my fingers. Why, I couldn’t
even move my eyelids. My mind too froze on those words. All of a sudden,
I was gripped by fear. Had I died? Had my breath stopped at those words?
Am I thinking what I’m thinking from within my corpse? Is this death?
‘Honestly, Mohan, my body was elsewhere, cold and frozen like a corpse.
I checked to see if there was pain, but there was none. Yes, indeed I was
dead. Yes! What a relief, I was dead! There’s no more pain now. Oozhir
peruvali yaavula – What power be greater than that of destiny? Oh wow,
the bearded poet refuses to let go of me even when I’m dead! Peruvali has
disappeared. Mavali has attained moksha. I wanted to shout “I’m dead, I’m
dead” and celebrate. I wanted to jump about and make merry.
‘When I had seen the devotees from up north clapping, singing and
dancing their way up, I had wished to climb up like that too. But, even if the
pain wasn’t there, I’m not sure if I would have done so. If the pain wasn’t
there, I doubt if I would’ve made it to the mountain even. In that moment, I
felt like dancing, but I was unable to extricate myself from that body. And
then panic gripped me. Was I going to be stuck inside and remain there
forever? Like a wild rat that rots along with the trap that it’s caught in . . .
‘It was all an illusion of just four or five seconds. In some time I sobered
up, but sat right there by the side of the mountain path. I don’t want this.
Let them see Kailash. I will turn back. Let it remain as the Kailash of my
imagination, I decided. There was a Marwari woman travelling with me.
From when we started our climb, she had attended to me with affection,
every now and then. She had a really corpulent body. Panting, she teetered
up the path with her mouth wide open, like a seal, and her face directed up
and above. Her flesh jiggled all over. Her brow was drenched in sweat, even
in that cold.
‘She was able to converse with me only in broken sentences. “Not
coming? Kailash is here. Right here. Right in front of the eyes,” she said. I
mouthed that I was in pain. “Just few steps away, you’ve made it this far,
no?” she urged me, as though it was the ultimate goal of her life. The
moment she exclaimed “There, I can see the tip! Bhagwan Kailash!” her
eyes grew moist and tears rolled down her cheeks. She put her palms
together, swayed from side to side and began singing some sort of bhajan.
She looked like a lunatic.
‘Almost everyone in that crowd appeared to be in a similar frenzy. It was
only I who seemed to be cold and frozen, gazing at them wondrously from
some place else. She took hold of my hand as if to pull me up, and said,
“Please come.” “No ma, I cannot do this. You go ahead,” I said. “You must
come. How can I go without you?” she insisted, and stood beside me, stock-
still. Everyone else had gone ahead. Only she and I were left on that
mountain path, shrouded in darkness. Two souls, born in different places,
leading wholly different lives. That we must stand there together on that
day, was fated.
‘“Behenji, you go ahead, I’ll be there in four or five minutes,” I said
firmly. “No, I will not leave you alone and go,” she declared. I pointed out
that the others would return soon. “Okay, fine. If it’s Rudra’s order that I
should not see Kailashji, so be it. How can I leave you alone?” she said.
That moved me. A life where one is ready to give up anything, at any
moment in time. Nothing is grasped too dearly. Nothing remains in hand.
Therefore, they are incapable of achieving anything great. Yet, they attain
all that is most important, don’t they?’
‘But I stood firm. “I want to be alone, please let me be. You go ahead, see
the mountain. I’ll accompany you on the way back. Let me rest here till
then,” I told her. She gave in after a little hesitation. “Be right here, I’ll
come back soon,” she said, and hurried away. I sat by myself on the
mountain path. I wondered if I had come all this way just to feel that
aloneness. After all, even that could be my summit, isn’t it? Maybe that’s
what Shiva had in mind? Was this my personal Kailash?
‘I sat there all alone. That “I” feels like someone else now – with those
heavy boots, a thick jacket over a sweater, a bright white fur cap like the
one our chief minister MGR used to wear, and a muffler around the neck.
At the end of it, it appears to me as though it were only my nose and
forehead that had gone to see Kailash.
‘It was pitch dark. But the quality of the darkness was different from what
we see here. That darkness was a shade of blue. In the distance, just the tips
of the silvery mountain peaks were visible, as though painted against an
ashen sky. The slopes seemed veiled by curtains of blue. There was nary a
sound, perhaps because our ears were blocked. Our group was standing
quite close to us, but their sounds seemed to be coming from afar. The body,
as if of its own volition, was shuddering in the cold. What was astonishing
was that there was no pain. If you ask me whether the pain was there, it
probably was, but I did not feel it.
‘It must have been only three or three thirty in the evening. But hours did
not exist there. Why, time itself did not exist. Mountain peaks – what do
they have to do with time? They exist, transcending time, or, as we say, in
kaala-atheetham. The Sikhs salute their God as Satsree Akaal. A-kaalam.
Beyond time. A-kaal. Timeless. What a word! In a state of timelessness
how can anyone’s time come to an end? Kaala, ye god of death – dare
approach me and I will kick you. How is it that there was not an iota of
pain? Pain is life. It is the reverberation of death’s shadow over life. In a
space where there is neither life nor death, how can there be pain?
‘I was seated there, motionless. My eyes alone roved around, now here,
now there, scanning the mountain slopes as though something were about to
happen. All the same, I did not spot it immediately. After some time, I
pulled out the binoculars from my coat pocket and peered at the slope. It
was then that, out of the blue, I spotted it at a distance. The yak calf. You
will not believe me when I tell you this. You’ll brush it off as a figment of
my imagination, or as a hallucination, perhaps. But that is the truth. The
sworn truth. It was the very same calf at the very same place. The scene was
just as Saradaananda had captured in that photograph. It was the selfsame
calf, I swear.
‘There was a huge mountain slope draped in white, two or three
kilometres away from us. I’d assumed that it was made up of white sand
and pebbles. But it was all snow. It looked as though salt crystals were
strewn all over the slope. The calf lay in the snow, with its forelegs folded
and head resting sideways, eyes closed, as though lost in itself. I was
overcome by palpitations that clouded my vision. Was this for real, or was it
some sort of hallucination? I looked again. There was no doubt . . . it was
the very same yak calf.’
‘It must’ve been four or five months old at most. It was brand new. A
pure, immaculate body. In one moment, it seemed like a colossal baby rat.
In the next, like a monumental Nandi, the holy bull made of stone. In a
flash I had gone up to it and scooped it up in the centre of my palm. In the
next moment I stood at its feet and just its hoof was as tall as me. What
wonderful skin it possessed! Hair, ash-coloured and like shredded glass.
Nose, like tender palm fruit. Hooves, like shells. How could it be so pure,
so immaculate . . . I wonder what Saradaananda had done that day. How did
he not die in the very second that he photographed it?
‘When that lady returned, I lay unconscious, flat on my back. She shook
me, splashed water on my face and woke me up. She made me drink hot
coffee from a flask she was carrying. When I was about to get up, she said,
“Don’t move . . . wait for some time.” “No, I have to see Kailash right
now,” I said, and took off. It must have been a distance of one kilometre,
but I covered it in less than five minutes. In the weightless air of the place, I
was sailing away like cotton.
‘The sky was ash-coloured. It shone with a mute luminescence, as though
one was gazing at the afternoon sun through the filter of a black umbrella.
The sun hadn’t come out yet. I was scanning the horizon for the Kailash
mountain. There were four or five snow-clad peaks, like white tents pitched
across the sky. Then, suddenly, I caught sight of it. My body, rapturous and
all a-flutter, turned into ice. Warm tears surfaced and rolled down without
end. I crossed my hands over my chest. I bit my lips hard and stood still.
“You have shed your karma,” whispered someone. Or perhaps, it was just
me thinking.
‘A cool breeze blew upwards from the valley. Then, like a shower of
peacock feathers, a cold, heavy wind swept over me from above and rushed
downwards. Snow clouds stood like a flock of sheep on the valley side, to
the right of Kailash. The mountain was seated in meditation with its palms
crossed over a silk cloth spread on its lap. There was no sound. Akaalam.
When I say there was no sound, I don’t mean it in a literal sense. Indeed,
the sound of the wind could be heard all the time. When you take a boat out
into the sea, off Madras, the sounds of the city will reach you in cacophonic
waves. The sound of the wind was much the same. Some were sneezing,
some were heaving sighs of yearning, some were quietly weeping; there
was the sound of the four horses that had accompanied us all the way,
haughtily thumping their hooves on the ground. But every one of those
sounds fused into a great silence. The past, the present, the future – every
state of time that was running through our minds – welded into
timelessness.
‘Patches of crimson emerged in the ashen sky, as though cotton dipped in
a pink palette had been dabbed here and there. In some time, the crimson
trickled resolutely to the bottom half of the sky. It seemed as though the top
skin of the sky had been peeled off. That was when I began feeling my pain
again – as though I was being stroked with a searing hot iron rod pressed
firmly against my body. As though boiling mercury had turned into blood
and was coursing through my veins. Ridden with heat burns, every organ in
my body was melting away.
‘Someone had begun skinning me alive. The flesh bared by the peeled
skin was quivering. They had de-skinned my entire body and abandoned
me. Exposed to the wind, the flesh was traumatized and trembling. My
vision must have turned rather blurry. I thought I was falling. I was
imagining that I was falling into the sea breeze at the Marina, far, far away.
In that instant, all of a sudden, a plethora of voices shouted in unison – ‘Jai
Shri Kailash’, or so I imagined. How is there a north Indian crowd in
Madras? Or is this Rameswaram?
‘In a trice, I opened my eyes. In front of me, Kailash stood shimmering
against the sky like a golden temple tower. The blinding yellow face of the
mountain glittered brightly. On another face, the silhouettes of its curves
glowed as gold. Gold. The gold of the firmament. An immaculate golden
mountain. Wealth that no man can plunder . . . such a thing still exists. After
everything that has happened, it still exists there, and will be there forever.
‘You may not believe it when I say that every one of those eighty people
over there was in tears. Why the tears? Was it grief? Or was it joy at grief
having emptied out? Every mind is a universe unto itself. Each of it houses
various gods, various heavens and hells. But, generally speaking, we are all
human, aren’t we? A cluster of tiny insects clinging to a pebble. Though
we’ve been fated to live this trivial, disgraceful life; though we’ve been
fated to bear so much grief, so much pain, and perish meaninglessly,
someone has deigned to anoint humanity with this magnificent crown! It
was unbearable. That which has bestowed us with this great honour, are we
really living up to its expectation?
‘Aiyo, aiyo, my inner being lamented . . . my body horripilated in shame.
Desultory memories of past baseness surfaced and plunged my heart in
agitation. Mohan, I’ve worked in a field where the baseness you encounter
day after day leaves you numb. The baseness of big people and the baseness
of small people. Who is this idiot who’s blessed man by placing this crown
atop this agglomeration of baseness? “Man”. What a noble name He has
given us. But Mohan, I’ve seen a mother carry in her arms her twelve-year-
old girl raped all through the night by a gang of eight men. All eight of
them were fathers of daughters. I have watched women who’d been tricked
without an iota of pity, wail hysterically. My stomach is filled to the brim
with acid from the injustices swallowed time and again.
‘Blind cretin! Why the hell do you need a spine? Aren’t you the coward
who stood cold as stone in every moment that needed you to burst into
flames? You stored within you all the curses that leapt to your tongue every
one of those fateful days. They’ve settled down inside you and eaten away
your spine. Like iron licked by salt, it’s rusted and caved in.
‘Here, look, my spinal cord is like a chain of a hundred scorpions locked
on to one another. A hundred stings. A hundred poisons . . . is it on me that
you have placed this golden crown? Are you toying with me? Are you
mocking me? Do you wish to make me feel smaller than I do already and
stand here, mortified, reduced to a maggot, reduced to scum?
‘Where are you? Are you there at all? All my life, I wanted that you don’t
exist, so that life will be easier. Where you’re not present, anything goes. If
you aren’t there, anything can be justified. If you aren’t there, everything
takes on a different meaning. But seated somewhere in an immeasurable
expanse, you have placed this magnificent crown of light on the head of this
creature that is Man.
‘Aiyo! In this moment, if only for an instant, I can wear it on my head,
everything will gain meaning. It will turn out that nothing has gone to
waste. My life and my journey here will gain meaning . . . All you wretched
people! I will wear this on behalf of each and every one of you . . . for I
have swallowed your pain and the pain of eight generations that belong to
you. I have suffered punishment for my deeds and for the deeds of seven
generations of ancestors . . . I am like Jesus. But I do not want a crown of
thorns. I want this golden crown, this very moment. Wherever you may be,
if you understand justice, if you have even an iota of faith on this pathetic
maggot that is man, that golden crown must adorn my head, right now . . .
‘I don’t know how to explain it . . . I swear I don’t. It isn’t the delusion of
a diseased mind, though. That majestic crown did come forth to adorn my
head. My body glowed as gold under its light. I stood there as the emperor
of the entire world that fanned out below. A boundless mercy for all
humans gathered force and, like a gigantic avalanche, hurtled down the
mountain and poured on the earth like summer rain. Shivering, the world
lay drenched in the rain and sparkled anew. I stood there and forgave
everyone from the bottom of my heart. I forgave each and every human
being – from yesterday, today and tomorrow.
‘Something happened then. Every single person who was standing there
turned around and looked at me. There was rapture and devotion in their
eyes. Tears glistened on some of their faces. Some brought their palms
together in respect. Behenji opened her mouth, as if she was about to say
something, but her lips froze midway. I saw them, and yet I did not see
them.’
A long silence ensued. Komal’s body lay in the dim light of the room, but
he was not there. Had he been talking all this while, or was it just my
imagination? My heart whimpered. I pressed my eyes with my two fingers
to control the tears.
‘Amma, Amma, Amma,’ Komal cried out aloud. His wife went up to him
and waited in silence. Her face looked as if she was standing next to fire.
Following Komal’s gesture, she held him and moved him a little. ‘Amma,
my Amma, Thaye, my Amma!’ he cried, and held on to her shoulder with
trembling hands. She changed the pillow and handed him a tablet. He
swallowed it and closed his eyes. ‘Amma, Amma, Amma!’ he went on
shouting. In some time, the loud voice settled into a moan.
All of a sudden, he opened his eyes and looked at me – with an expression
that said ‘You!’ After a moment, he heaved a sigh of relief. ‘When I
climbed that day, I was devoid of words. There was nothing left to tell or to
know. This is all it is. The line’s been drawn below the sum and the answer,
written. We can now erase the sum itself, can we not? I walked on, placing
one step after the other. Like a new acquaintance, the pain travelled back
with me as a separate entity. It’s all right, where else will you find a friend
who accompanies you to the very end? Oozhir peruvali . . . What power be
greater than that of destiny? Oozhenum peruvali . . . The mighty pain that is
destiny.
‘That night I asked Behenji, “Why did all of you turn to look at me back
there?” She said, “Bhaiji, the evening light was upon you, reflected from a
boulder nearby. You were standing in that golden light. For a couple of
minutes, you seemed like a golden statue, even. The snow cap on your head
dazzled like a crown made of gold. You have the blessings of Kailashji.” I
drew the blanket over my face to hide my tears.’
Once again, he fell into a deep silence. I wanted to leave. He understood it
at once and said, ‘Getting late? I’ll see you then . . . I don’t know where and
when we’ll meet again, but it’s possible.’ The same mischievous smile
resurfaced. ‘Last night, I heard a sound outside the window. The sound of a
young buffalo flapping its ears. I swear. It could have been the rustling of
leaves. Or, it could have been a buffalo too. I don’t know,’ he said,
laughing. ‘The others tried to scare me. They said it was a fearsome buffalo.
But it was only a tiny calf. A pure infant. You’d want to tug its baby nose
and pet it – little darling, little cutie, little flower . . .’
When I stepped out, the baked afternoon air steamed in my ears. Heralded
by the lengthening of shadows and the scent of dried leaves drifting from
the canopy above, evening was arriving. With head down, I walked for a
long time in solitude.

OceanofPDF.com
 The Palm-Leaf Cross

It was when my father was on his deathbed that I visited Neyyoor Hospital
for the first time. It was a thing of great wonder to me back then. I stood
mesmerized, gazing up at the tall building with its gleaming white columns
that soared like twin palms. On either end of the high, tiled rooftop stood a
pair of crosses. The dried golden leaves of the huge neems that surrounded
the building were littered all over the roof. But the yard in front of the
hospital had been swept clean. The ground marked by the wavy sweeps of a
broom was punctuated with a variety of footprints.
Nurse-ammas wearing white caps and long socks, dressed in gowns and
bearing an assortment of objects in their hands, hastened about. A tall man
in white trousers, who was following behind two khaki-clad women, strode
past me. The entire place was icy-cold and a strange smell that stung my
nostrils hung in the air. I inhaled it with deliberation and filled myself up. In
the hospital veranda, an enormous white pan with a black rim rested on a
metal tripod. A nurse-amma who stepped out of a room washed her hands
in it – a dish for washing hands bigger than the plate we eat in! Once she
left, I ventured a gentle touch of the pan. It was white as an egg-shell. The
smoothness of its curvature thrilled me and I couldn’t stop feeling it.
‘Don’t touch it,’ chided the man who walked past me. I withdrew my
hand. ‘If you touch it, I’ll beat you,’ he said, peering at me before turning
away. It sounded like he was talking with a wad of betel leaves in his
mouth. He was a rather peculiar man – his face seemed as though it had
been baked in fire. He was wearing a policeman’s khaki trousers paired
with a white shirt. Unadorned by a moustache, his lips seemed like a
crimson, knife-carved wound. The sides of the nose, which was perfectly
straight at the bridge, looked as though they had been pinched. His forehead
was lined with wrinkles. More than anything else, it was his eyes that
astonished me. Eyes like that of a wildcat. Cat man!
Amma popped out from one of the rooms. ‘What are you grabbing at?
Won’t you keep your hands to yourself . . . come now,’ she said, dragging
me away. I peered into each and every room as I walked through the
corridor. People lay in metal cots covered in blue sheets. In some rooms,
tiny glass bottles were arranged on the table. Outside one of the windows, a
crowd milled around, bearing cups in their hands. A man clad in white was
pouring medicine into the bottles and distributing it to them. ‘Don’t make
noise . . . Ei, step aside . . . old lady, come here,’ he shouted.
Appa lay in the long building behind the hospital, the one that had only
small beds. Every one of those beds had someone in them. Through the
white windows with huge iron grilles, I could see the heads of the hibiscus
shrubs outside. The floor was paved with mud tiles. All the walls had
something written in Tamil. The picture that hung right opposite me was
that of Jesus. A picture in which he was holding his hand up, as though in a
blessing. There was a flaming red heart in his chest, encircled by thorns. He
had awfully curly hair and the eyes of a woman. I had seen that picture
before.
Appa was sleeping. His waist was wrapped up and bound in a thick layer
of cloth. His neck was bandaged too. His swollen hands bulged like a
tortoise. With a bruised, puffed face and heavy eyelids, he seemed like a
total stranger. An old man and a young boy, who lay in the beds on either
side of Appa, looked at us with curiosity. Ah, ah, ah, someone in the fourth
bed went on moaning. If you listened to the moans for some time, you’d
think it was a song.
The old man turned to my mother. ‘Woman, that your husband?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ said Amma.
‘It’s no use talking to him any more. The doctor said so yesterday. He
won’t survive, understand?’ he said.
‘Aiyoo,’ shrieked Amma.
‘Look . . . that’s his urine flowing out, there’s fresh blood in it. Thick
lumps of blood gush out of all nine gateways in his body . . . don’t you
count on him now, understand?’ he said. The boy stared vacantly, now at
the old man, now at Amma.
My mother began to wail. ‘Aiyooo, Sasthave . . . my dear God,’ she cried,
beating her chest.
A nurse-amma peeped into the room. ‘Ei . . . who’s that making such a
racket? Out . . . out at once!’ she shouted.
‘Thayee! My children have nobody . . . Ammaaa,’ my mother beat her
chest as she wailed even louder.
‘Will you leave or not . . . ’ threatened the nurse-amma.
‘That wretched sinner says terrible things . . . says my raasa’s time has
come . . . the bloody dog . . . he’ll die of diarrhoea,’ cursed Amma.
The nurse-amma was dark-skinned and well built. She strode towards my
mother, caught her by the arm, dragged her outside and said, ‘Stay here . . .
don’t you come in. There are other patients also in there.’
Amma and I waited in the veranda. I picked up the golden neem berries
that had tumbled to the ground and lined them near the hospital’s pillar.
Amma sat down and leaned against the pillar. As though singing a funeral
dirge, she wept, mouthing long and incoherent lines in a faint voice. Every
now and then she would beat her chest hard and wail loudly. ‘Ei . . . what’s
all that noise there?’ Whenever the nurse-amma rebuked her so, she’d lower
her voice again. I leaned on Amma. The dirty cloth draped over her chest
was soaking wet. I could feel her heartbeat in my body.
All of a sudden, I found Amma shaking me. ‘Sleeping, huh? Go quickly
now . . . here, take this quarter, offer it to the Sastha at the market junction
and be back at once . . .’ I took the copper coin she removed from the fold
of the vaetti she’d draped around her waist. ‘Elay . . . What’ll you say when
you offer it?’ she asked. I was blank. ‘My Appa should become all right,
dear Sasthaa. We are orphans, dear Sasthaa. We are helpless, dear Sasthaa.
With eight children, we stand hapless on the streets, dear Sasthaa – say this
before you make the offering . . . clear?’ Even as she said it, she burst into
tears again. I nodded my head.
I dashed through the hospital’s courtyard. By the time I reached the road,
the coin had cast its spell on me. I could have eight dosais and one karupatti
coffee with it. I could buy enough puffed rice and groundnuts to fill four
stomachs. Or, should I buy unniappam – those fried yet spongy balls of
jaggery, banana and coconut! Ten unniappams! My mouth drooled and
saliva trickled down my bare chest. I loosened the tattered cloth wrapped
around my waist, hiked it up, wiped my chest and then secured it tightly
around my waist again.
Before I realized it, I had reached as far as the Kandan Sastha temple near
the marketplace. Standing outside the wood-barricaded temple, I could see
the black stone idol of the Sastha plastered with sandal paste. There was an
iron collection box at the entrance, right where I stood. Should I drop the
coin in, I pondered. Once deposited, the money will not be mine. Just then,
the image of my father splayed on the ground flashed in my mind’s eye.
Appa would get up early in the morning to climb the toddy palms. We
were eight children at home. I had three older sisters. After me were two
brothers and two sisters. My younger sisters would go into the forest and
gather dried leaves and wood. My older sisters and Amma would brew the
tapped palm sap, which we called akkani. Every Friday, Amma and I would
parcel the palm jaggery into palm-leaf boxes, carry it on our heads and walk
eight miles to Karungal Sandhai. It was the job of the last of each of my
older and younger sisters, and I to transport home safely the akkani that
Appa would have set down in Korattimetu and Anaikayam.
Three days earlier, in the wee hours of the morning, as I climbed over the
hillock on my fourth trip already and reached the grove of ten palms, I
spotted something squirming on the ground. Instinctively, I turned around
and ran back the way I’d come. It was only after I had covered some
distance that I realized it was Appa. I rushed back to the spot. By then there
was ample light there. It was indeed Appa who was sprawled on the lemon
grass. His arms and legs were strangely bent and broken. He was writhing
like a twig that had caught fire, even as the salty stench of blood floated up.
I dashed back to the house and informed Amma. She, who was lighting
the stove for the akkani, gaped at me. Her eyes were wide open and her
head bobbed like that of a garden lizard. Suddenly, she let out a terrible
scream. Wailing and beating her chest, she descended into the pathway, like
a desperate village priest rushing to the graveyard for the mayana-kollai. I
ran after her. My younger sisters came running after me. Upon hearing her
loud wails, the men who were perched atop the palm trees here and there
scampered down.
Four of them rolled Appa on to a door they had dismantled from a nearby
house and took him straight to Neyyoor Hospital. As they hastened through
the pathways and the bunds that divided the fields, Amma trailed them,
weeping loudly, her hair strewn open. Because she said, ‘Son, stay at home
. . . you are the man of the house now . . .’, I stayed back. My older sisters
were in tears. The akkani, having fermented in the pot, had frothed over the
rim. I remained in the goat shelter for some time. Unable to bear our hunger
any longer, my younger sisters and I drank up the toddy. The four of us lay
down and fell asleep.
Karuthan Mama said that panai-isakki, the guardian spirit of the palmyra,
had beat up Appa. Every now and then, the panai-isakki would thrash a few
palm-tree climbers and hurl them away. It would weaken the palm stalk the
climbers held on to while scaling the tree. It would make them slip as they
stepped on the top branch. It would take the form of a scorpion, lurk around
in the akkani-pots and sting. In the initial sap-producing months after the
rains, at least four or five toddy tappers would fall off the trees, without fail.
Of all those who had fallen, so far as I could tell, only Gunamani Mama
was alive. Even he did no more than lie on the veranda all the time. He
could not get up even to relieve himself. His wife, Kochammai, hauled
sacks at the marketplace. All the children went to work too. Gunamani
Mama’s pee would leak from the straw mat underneath him, on to the
courtyard. All alone, he’d be singing a song of expletives.
If I did not deposit the quarter, panai-isakki was sure to hit me, I reasoned.
She was in hiding somewhere, watching me. I dropped the coin into the
collection box, scooped up some vermilion from the container on to a
poovarasam leaf and hastened back. That I was able to do, all by myself,
something that could save my father’s life, filled me with satisfaction.
‘Devare!’ exclaimed Amma, as she took the vermilion and applied it on
her forehead, before applying it on mine. She then peeped into the room
with caution. The nurse-amma was not there. With tentative steps, Amma
proceeded inside, and after looking this way and that, applied the vermilion
on Appa’s brow.
‘Is that your sami’s blessing? That is not allowed in here, mind you,’ said
the old man.
‘Shut it, you corpse. Won’t you die,’ Amma retorted, making her way
back.
‘They’ve made a rule, haven’t they?’ he said.
‘Go die, you dog,’ Amma cursed as she walked out.
The young boy in the neighbouring bed was watching everything with
eyes that twinkled.
I was beginning to feel hungry. But, in my family, we were not given to
speaking a word about hunger. On most days, we made do with roasted
palm fruit in the mornings. I would drink some of the akkani, even as I
carried it home. The afternoon fare usually consisted of watery kanji and
maracheeni mayakkiyadhu, which contrary to its fancy name was a simple
coconut and cassava mash. Amma would hit us with the ladle if we so much
as asked for some more kanji. I walked further ahead, exploring the
veranda. I found water in a large earthen pot. I drank some, came back and
sat down.
It was hard to know when dusk had fallen in that place. The hospital’s
veranda was either dark or shadowy all the time. At present, the shadows
had migrated, casting themselves beside the large building on the opposite
side, from which four people emerged and walked towards us. The one who
walked in front was the cat-eyed man I had seen earlier that day. He was the
colour of red earth, just like the tile-factory workers. And white hair had
sprouted on his arms, like budding grass on red earth. He was still dressed
in khaki and white.
As soon as Amma saw him, she got up, folded her palms and wailed.
‘Sayyibe! God of the wretched . . . Sayyibe . . . don’t forsake us, Sayyibe!’
she lamented. It didn’t seem as though he had paid any heed to her cries.
The nurse was the one who said, ‘Shoo . . . if you make noise, the Sayyib
will shoot you with his gun . . . be quiet.’ But Amma wept on. ‘Sayyibe,
dear Sayyibe . . . the wretched have no other god, Sayyibe,’ she cried. As he
walked past us, his eyes rested on me for a fleeting instant. Along with the
others, he disappeared into one of the rooms.
A nurse-amma emerged from that room a little while later. ‘Elay, take this
. . . it’s from the Sayyib,’ she said, handing me some bread. I looked in all
four directions before accepting it. I hastened to a corner, faced the wall and
started gobbling it hurriedly. Only after half the bread was gone did I even
begin to notice its taste. I picked up the bits that were littered on the floor
and put them in my mouth. I realized that one or two of those bits were in
fact ants only after I had put them in.
I got back and sat beside Amma. By then they had lit up glass-fitted
chimney lamps, the shape of bottle gourds, and placed them inside the
rooms. The light from the lamps passed through the doorway and fell on the
veranda like a length of red cloth. Amma sat leaning against the pillar,
lamenting softly to herself. The light in the doorway now grew bright, now
faded, now grew bright again, as the nurse-amma walked about searching
for something. It was a little while before I understood that she was in fact
searching for us. ‘Amma . . .’ I said, shaking my mother. Catching sight of
the movement Amma made as she reacted to my touch, the nurse said, ‘Ei .
. . you . . . woman . . . come with me . . . the Sayyib has been looking for
you.’
Amma and I stepped into the sahib’s room. Amma joined her palms
together in respect and stood leaning against the door, trembling. The sahib
looked at me for a moment and said, ‘Don’t put your finger in your mouth. I
will beat you.’ I pulled it out. The sahib’s room had a washbasin. And a
picture of Jesus on the wall. On another side there was a picture of
something that looked like three huge mounds of heaped salt. The table was
quite large. There were a lot of big books and boxes on it. A clock ran – tik,
tik, tik.
‘How many children do you have?’ The sahib asked Amma. He
enunciated each word carefully as he spoke.
‘Eight, Sayyibe. He is the fourth. There are four more kids after him,’ said
Amma.
‘Which class is he studying in?’
 ‘Studying? As if that’s possible. Not once have we been able to feed him
kanji to a full stomach. What’s the point of studying? He carries akkani
along with his father.’
‘What do the other children do?’ asked the sahib.
‘All of them are in the same business of palm jaggery, Sayyibe . . . The
man who was climbing trees is here now, confined to the bed . . . How will I
live . . . The gods have no mercy any more . . .’
The sahib’s gaze shifted from Amma to me and then to Amma again. A
few moments lapsed before he resumed. ‘I have something to tell you. Your
husband will not survive. His liver is shot. The blood has clotted. He will
die either today or tomorrow.’ Amma stood there as though stunned, her
gaze transfixed. ‘I cannot do anything,’ repeated the sahib.
With a loud sigh, Amma squatted right there on the floor. When I looked
at her face, I thought she might die too, that very instant. I stuck to her.
Amma wiped her eyes with deliberation and got up. ‘All right, if that’s what
fate has in store, let it happen. If he dies, bury him in a good place, Sayyibe.
May he become manure for some sturdy coconut or banana. For as long as
he lived, the man never had a drop of kanji for his own pleasure . . . a man
who gave up all that he received for his children . . . let the roots draw from
his blood and flesh now . . . ’ She choked. ‘The trees that feed on him will
bear good fruit, Sayyibe.’ Biting her lips to calm herself down, she joined
her palms together and took leave of him.
Amma bounded through the courtyard like a load bearer and I followed
after her. Someone came chasing after us. A trouser-clad hospital attendant.
‘Woman . . . the Sayyib is calling you . . .’ he said. Amma paused. ‘Tell
Sayyib I will fall at his feet and bow to him one thousand times in my next
life,’ she said, and walked on. ‘Ei . . . when the Sayyib calls, you have to go
. . . that is the rule here, understand?’ the attendant shouted.
This time, Amma went in and stood resolutely in front of the sahib, not
shedding a tear. The sahib fixed his gaze on me for a few moments. Then,
he said, ‘If you abandon the body, we will bury it only after we make it a
Christian.’
‘Do it, Sayyibe. For one whose belly is dry, all gods are but stone,’ said
Amma.
The sahib looked at me again. ‘Then why don’t all of you convert? If you
convert, you’ll find a way through life. I will recommend this boy to the
London Missionary Society. I will ask them to give him a job here, at the
hospital.’
Amma didn’t understand what he had just said. He spoke in fits and starts,
in a fuzzy accent. The nurse-amma spoke up now. ‘Look here, Sayyib’s
saying that if you convert and join the vedham – the way of Christ – Sayyib
will have this fellow admitted in a school and get him an education. He’ll
also make some arrangement for your well-being. You and your children
will have kanji to drink . . . what do you say?’ she asked loudly.
Amma instinctively made to leave the room as though the predicament
had just dawned on her. But she held on to the door. ‘Rrreee,’ the door
creaked. ‘What’s your answer?’ asked the sahib. Amma was about to say
something. She paused for a moment to look at me. ‘Sayyibe, my father is
Inderi Sankaran Nadar. For eight generations, ours has been a temple priest
family held in high regard in our town. To this day, I have a house and some
land in Inderi, upon which Bhadrakali and the seven goddesses shower their
grace. I grew up looking at the gods more than at my father and mother. No,
Sayyibe. I will repay the debt of Sayyib’s merciful proposal in my next life.
If the gods deem that my children and I should starve to death, so be it.’
‘I was frightened by the manner in which you left. You were going to kill
yourself,’ said the sahib. When she heard that, lost for words, Amma’s hand
covered her gaping mouth of its own accord. ‘All right. You belong to a
priest’s family. What wrong did this child do? Why are you out to kill him?’
Amma cast a glance at me. ‘Right,’ she said, ‘Elay Kochappi, if you wish
you may join the vedham . . . Sayyib will give you food and clothes.’
Looking at the Sahib out of the corner of my eye, I held on to Amma’s
vaetti and said, ‘No, I don’t want to.’
‘Elay,’ chided Amma.
‘I don’t want to, I don’t want to,’ I said, shaking Amma. I began to cry. I
buried my teary face in Amma’s lap.
‘Okay . . . think it over carefully . . . there’s a door open for you here,’
said the sahib. ‘I can readily give you five or ten rupees now if I so wish.
But, to receive help even when I am not around, whenever you may need it,
that will be possible only if you join the vedham,’ he said.
‘I’ll take leave, Sayyibe,’ said Amma, turning on her heel and walking
out. I followed her.
We walked in the darkness like two apparitions. The sky was replete with
stars. The noise of cicadas and the clamour of frogs arose from the fields.
Fireflies sprang forth from the edges of the fields and swirled about,
flickering yellow and blue. We reached home, stepping on the muddy
bunds, stumbling past crab holes and tripping along the pebble-strewn
pathways. The house lay in darkness, but everyone was awake.
Amma lay down as soon as we reached home. ‘What did you eat?’ I asked
my older sister.
‘I managed four or five palm fruits in the morning. I roasted them and
gave it to the kids . . . ,’ she said. I recalled eating bread earlier in the day. I
rolled out my mat and lay down. They had subsisted on nothing but palm
fruit for the past three days. It felt as though the entire house reeked of
rotten fruit. The smell of the fruit grew more and more intense. ‘The palm
fruit has turned bad,’ I said, getting up.
‘The younger fellow has a runny stomach,’ replied my older sister.
I lay down again. A firefly that had made its way into the house swirled
around in the darkness. It will burn the house down; the palm-leaf roof and
the palm-leaf walls will catch fire and reduce us to ash, I thought. As I
started to sink into a soporific stupor, Thangammai, the kid who was last in
line, woke up and said something. I got up and checked on her. Her eyes
were still closed. Then again, I saw her gesticulating with her hands, while
whimpering and muttering incoherently.
In a few moments, my eyes adjusted to the darkness and I understood
what she was miming. She was eating something greedily, scooping up one
mouthful after another. She chewed the food and smacked her lips. She
licked her hands. And then, like someone who had just sprung awake, she
turned to me and moved only her lips.
‘Anna,’ she said.
 ‘Sleep now,’ I admonished her.
‘There’s kanji,’ she said, with a smile.
‘Ei, sleep now, you wretched girl,’ said Amma.
Without opening her eyes, Thangammai lay down again and went to
sleep.
‘Amma,’ I called out.
‘What is it, dear?’
‘I’ll be going to Neyyoor tomorrow.’
‘Why?’
‘I am going to become a Christian.’
I expected Amma to say something. But all she did was sigh.
The next day, I set out by myself. When I got to the hospital, it felt like a
place I knew only too well. I went straight to the building where Appa was.
A strange old man lay in his bed, in place of Appa. I stepped out. ‘Elay,
where’s your mother?’ the nurse-amma who was there the previous day
asked me.
‘Amma hasn’t come,’ I replied. ‘Where’s my father?’
‘He died last night. If you go through the cashew grove that way, you’ll
get to the church. The cemetery is located beyond that. They’ve taken your
father there.’
I darted through the cashew trees and fell down a couple of times, causing
my waistcloth to loosen. I bunched it up at the corner and held it at my
waist. Once I reached the churchyard, I went around to the back. There
were four or five people standing at the cemetery. One was a pastor, dressed
in an overcoat. Two of them were workers. I went and stood beside them.
The deep red pit lay open like a gigantic mouth. Appa’s body was
wrapped in a palm mat like a block of jaggery. Just as juice bleeds from
palm jaggery, blood oozed from the body, darkening the corners of the mat.
Flies hovered over the stained edges. The man who was standing near the
pit said, ‘Shall we bury it, what’s the point in standing around and waiting?’
‘Let the Sayyib come. He will certainly make it for an orphaned corpse,’
said the pastor. They did not notice me.
After some time, a man arrived there, carrying a box. Behind him
followed the sahib, wearing a jibba and a saffron-coloured vaetti that
stretched down to his ankles. It was a box made by nailing together a couple
of wooden pallet containers used at the hospital to store medicines. A
myriad paper labels were stuck on the box, with strange medicine names
written on them. When the box was set down, two of them hauled Appa up,
along with the palm mat, and placed him inside it. They closed it, secured
the rope across it and lowered the box into the pit with care. When they
pulled the rope out, the sahib turned to me and said, ‘Come here.’
He had seen me, I noted with surprise. ‘Father, this is the son of Joseph,
the man who just died,’ said the sahib. The pastor nodded his head. He then
spoke about Appa. I figured that Appa had died only after he had become
one with Jesus. After a brief prayer, the pastor instructed me to drop a
handful of soil into the pit. I did as I was told. After the pastor and the sahib
had done the same, the workers closed the pit, filling it with rapid sweeps of
sand.
On the way back, I trailed after Sahib. While the pastor and the others
proceeded through the regular route, Sahib alone returned through the
cashew grove leaping over and bending under the branches. Coming up
from under one such branch, he turned to me and asked, ‘Your mother
didn’t come?’
‘No. Only I’ve come,’ I said.
‘I see,’ he said to himself.
‘I will become a Christian,’ I blurted at once. ‘Please give me some bread,
Sayyibe . . . ’ I said, my voice faltering.
‘Is bread all that you want?’ asked Sahib, laughing.
‘I want a lot of bread . . . I want to take it home, Sayyibe. My younger
sister needs bread, Sayyibe.’
Sahib gently pulled me towards him and hugged me. As his scent
embraced me, I buried my face in his dress and cried. I exhaled big gasps of
sobs. The scent of Appa’s sweat was an amalgam of wet palm stalk, lake
moss and salt. Sahib’s sweat carried a faint scent of gunpowder. From that
day on, I developed a mad love for that smell. Till the very end, if ever I got
hold of his clothes, I would not forgo the chance to smell them.
 When Sahib reached his room, he took out a pair of khaki trousers,
handed them to me and said, ‘Put these on . . .’ I accepted the trousers and
smelled them as if I had all the time in the world. It was an intoxicating
fragrance. The fragrance of new clothes. It was the first-ever set of new
clothes that I had got.
‘Say “Jesus”, say “Christ”, and then wear it,’ he said.
‘O Jesus, O Christ,’ I repeated.
The trousers were far too big for me. I rolled it up many times at the hip.
Sahib laughed, and I laughed too. ‘It’ll sort itself out once you start having
rice,’ said the white man.
Sahib took the Bible in his hand and opened it. ‘Come here,’ he said.
When I went near him, he put a hand on my head and began reading verses
from the Bible aloud. That is how I became a Christian. My name is James
Daniel.

•
The one who had converted me was the eminent doctor from Neyyoor, Dr
Theodore Howard Somervell. The locals called him Samuel. Four years
passed before I learned of his history. He was not one to talk about himself.
A man of action, he was frugal with words and read all the time. He was not
like one of those Englishmen who read nothing other than the Bible. He had
an abiding love for Shakespeare. A large leather-bound collection of
Shakespeare’s works found a permanent place on his desk. The Bard’s lines
would flow effortlessly in his speech.
He would order books directly from Madras and go to Nagercoil every
Friday to collect the shipment. His personal library was huge – Dickens,
Thackeray and George Eliot lined one of the rows, while another was
composed of W.W. Jacobs and Marie Corelli. In my later years, I managed
to read most of them. After Somervell’s time, the entire collection was
given to the library of Scott Christian College.
Somervell had a keen interest in music. For some reason he could not
wrap his head around Indian music, but he was an ardent lover of Western
and gospel. He owned a gramophone machine that looked like a jet-black
devil’s trumpet. The principal of Scott Christian College, Mr Robinson, was
his music companion. He would arrive on Sunday afternoons, all the way
from Nagercoil, with records in tow. They would play the records one after
the other until night fell and listen dreamily, with a glass of brandy in hand.
Somervell played the piano and the oboe too.
Somervell was born in a town called Kendal, in Westmoreland, England. I
saw that in his documents. His parents owned a shoe factory and there came
an occasion when he happened to speak about it himself. Nagaraj Iyer, a
Brahmin from Nagercoil, had been admitted to the hospital to undergo
surgery for a swollen scrotum. When Iyer complained that a slipper maker
had been admitted in the bed next to his, Somervell remarked, ‘Iyer, don’t
you know that I’m a cobbler too?’
‘Don’t fool with me, Sayyibe,’ said Iyer.
‘Not at all . . . my family owns a shoe factory,’ he said.
‘Aah! Just a factory, after all,’ said Iyer, and shut his eyes in a jiffy as
though he didn’t want to hear any more of it.
Somervell had been an outstanding athlete. He would play badminton in
the grounds between the hospital and the church, every day. Other white
men would come from Nagercoil to play with him. He was well past fifty
when I met him. All the same, no one could beat him at the game. His
opponents would tire out, one after another, but he would keep playing with
the new arrivals. When the shuttlecock could no longer be spotted in the
darkness, he would finally sit down in the iron chair at the side of the court,
his shirt sticky with sweat. In an enamel cup, I would serve him steaming
hot cotton-seed milk mixed with jaggery.
My curiosity about Somervell was insatiable. Every moment of the ten
years that I was with him I made an effort to understand him. Once, when
his personal files were sent to the London Missionary Society’s
headquarters, I managed to smuggle them out through someone I knew, and
read them surreptitiously. I learnt that he had studied medicine at Gonville
& Caius College, Cambridge. He went on to join the army and took part in
the First World War. Between 1915 and 1918, Somervell served in France
as a British soldier. After reaching the rank of captain, he relinquished his
commission. He was twenty-eight at that time.
I never heard Somervell speak about his army life – except the one time
when he related an incident from the war. Just as he stepped into the
hospital ward one day, an old man shrieked, ‘Sahib, I’m dying . . . I can’t
bear this pain, Sahib . . . come here . . . come here at once, Sahib!’
Somervell gestured to him to wait. He had just removed the bandage of
another patient, a Malayali schoolteacher, and was in the midst of
inspecting him. ‘Come here, come here, Sahibe,’ the old man continued
with his peremptory screams. In the blink of an eye Somervell got to him
and smacked him right across his cheek. The patient was an elderly Pillai,
an upper-caste man. Flabbergasted, he fell silent. He brought his palms
together in an apology, tears dithering in his eyes. With a face that exhibited
no trace of anger, Somervell went on to inspect his wound.
On the way back to his room, Somervell told us the story. It had happened
during the First World War, at a front in Somme, a French city. More than
seven hundred people, grievously injured, had been dumped in a large tent.
They had only four doctors, one of whom was Somervell. Throughout the
night, the doctor worked like a man possessed. As the night wore on,
Somervell, exhausted and spent, sat down for a little while on one of the
soldiers’ beds. In the neighbouring cot lay a man whose legs were mangled
beyond recognition. When Somervell realized that the man’s gaze was fixed
on him, he got to his feet. ‘It’s all right, have a rest,’ the man mimed.
Somervell was moved to tears. Half of those who lay in that huge ward
were likely to die if they did not receive medical attention within an hour’s
time. The blood leaking from the beds was flowing like a veritable stream
in the corner of the shed. Still, not a single person demanded to be attended
out of turn. Not one of them begged. ‘How noble is man! Of all of God’s
creations, this being alone is capable of such power of will! The distance he
can travel is unfathomable. If only he extends his hand a little, he will touch
the feet of the Son of Man . . . every person here, though maimed and
bedridden, is capable of that, aren’t they? By reducing them to mere masses
of flesh, which kingdom do the war-mongers seek to win? And what kind of
victory will they celebrate?’ It was on that day that Somervell resolved
never to participate in war, ever again.
The same evening, Somervell visited Pillai and sat beside him with oboe
in hand. Upon seeing him, Pillai sat up in a panic and folded his palms.
Somervell began playing a soft melody on his oboe. I went and stood at the
entrance. It was a flowing, lilting Western melody that soared as though
beseeching, and glided as though grateful. The old man sat with palms
pressed together, tears streaming down his face. Unbeknownst to the eye,
the pain that had occupied the room until then exited through the windows,
and an ineffable magnificence filled the place. An enduring magnificence.
A magnificence that man recognizes instantly in his soul, at any place and
at any time. Had music made this possible? Had it welded all the pain in
that room and transformed it into the singular pain of all mankind? A few
feet away, the Malayali schoolteacher was weeping, his face buried in a
pillow.
I learned much later that the photograph I had spotted on the wall of
Somervell’s room, when I had met him for the first time, was of a
Himalayan massif. And that Everest was the name of the peak in the
middle. Somervell was one amongst the pioneering climbers who had
scaled the mountain. In 1922, he and his friend, George Mallory, attempted
to climb the Everest from the north side. They climbed up to eight thousand
metres amidst heavy snowfall. That was the farthest humans had ever been
on the Everest until then. Falling air pressure prevented them from going
any further.
They had climbed without oxygen, then. Later, they made an attempt to
climb the Everest again, this time with the help of oxygen. They were
wading through waist-deep snow, landing their feet on steps chipped away
with an ice axe. Out of the blue, Somervell heard a tremendous roar from
above him. The story goes that he uttered ‘amen’ instinctively. The glacier
on the upper reaches had uprooted without warning and was now
descending like a demonic cascade. As it hit a shaft of hardened ice right
above Somervell, the glacial avalanche broke into two. Even as Somervell
remained in the fracture between the halves, the avalanche swept away
everyone who stood on either side of him and disappeared into the infinite
abyss below. Within a few minutes, the landscape was altered beyond
recognition.
When the great uproar settled, Somervell stood alone in the snow,
trembling. He was unable to take another step forward. Time wore on as he
remained rooted to the spot. He was the one who had chosen that route.
Fulfilling his duty towards his friends would mean taking the plunge and
joining them. When, having made up his mind, he turned around for the
final leap, he caught sight of the shaft of ice above him. It was poised over
his head, like a hand that had risen in blessing from within a long white
robe. ‘Jesus, my Saviour!’ he cried, placing his hand on his heart.
He reached Dehradun after the descent, from where he wandered all
across the country. Every night, behind closed and bolted doors, he would
pray tearfully in his room. ‘Dear lord, what be thy design? What be thy
command?’ he beseeched. He believed that there was a reason he had been
allowed to live. ‘Bless me with the revelation of my home, my Lord,’ he
pleaded, wherever he went.
One day, in 1925, when he was praying in the room of his lodge in
Calcutta, a worker arrived to hand him a letter. An old-time colleague of his
from the army was now a staff member at the London Missionary Society
in Nagercoil. The letter was from him. Considering it to be a call of duty,
Somervell went to Thiruvithamkoor to see him. As the previous day’s
downpour in Neyyoor had left a depression in the road to the church, he
took a shortcut. Back then, Neyyoor had a very small hospital run by the
mission. Somervell saw a crowd befitting a carnival milling around the
place. When he enquired about it, he was told that they were patients who
had come to buy medicines. The hospital was equipped with only one
doctor and a compounder, even though no less than three thousand people
arrived there for treatment each day. A carbonate mixture was the only
medication doled out to most of them.
Drawn by an inexplicable attraction, Somervell walked towards the
hospital. Just then, a little girl, dark-complexioned and wearing nothing
more than a rag around her waist, ran up to him, handed him a tiny cross
and disappeared into the crowd. ‘Dear God!’ Somervell exclaimed, and
sank to his knees. He pressed the humble cross, made by weaving together a
couple of palm leaves, to his forehead. ‘Your command, my Lord . . . As per
your will, I lay down my spirit here, Jesus,’ he cried within himself.
He remained there, distributing medicines until dawn-break the next day.
The following week, he left for London. He owned massive factories,
houses and farms back home at that time. He sold every last piece of his
wealth and returned to India with all the money. It became the talk of the
town in London. One of the great doctors of the British government was
going to a place that found no mention in any of the maps of the empire. He
had set out accepting the holy command the Son of Man had revealed to
him!
Within four years, Somervell built a huge medical facility in Neyyoor. It
was the same hospital that Archibald Ramsay had established in 1838,
using the grant of the Thiruvithamkoor maharaja of the time, Moolam
Thirunal. Charles Calder Leitch, who followed Ramsay, went door to door
collecting rice and coconut as donations to help construct the buildings.
During Somervell’s period, the hospital rose like a massive banyan tree. It
was by far the biggest of all the hospitals run by the London Missionary
Society across the vast British Empire upon which the sun never set.
Somervell made outstanding medical professionals of ordinary young
men. He found ways to convert simple local material into excellent
medicines. He extracted water from the sulphurous soil of the Sivakasi
region by heating it, and treated rashes and sores with the resultant paste.
Using potassium alum, he made an astringent for simple wounds.
Experts from the world over poured in, to observe and learn the surgical
techniques Somervell had developed through his own endeavours. They
learnt that tender coconut water could be injected straight into the
bloodstream and that mud from a broken termite hill was the most ideal for
making a plaster cast. They learnt to stitch up wounds using the tailhairs of
the buffalo and to suture twitching muscles by observing the manner of
their movement. But there was something in him that they failed to learn.
Something that makes gods of doctors, something that imprinted him even
in the minds of children, for over a quarter of a century.
 •
Even though such an extraordinary man had touched my soul, awakening
eluded it. I received the word of God from him when I was eight, but that
had merely changed my name. On the inside, I was yet to be stirred. My
heart was a dog that went and kissed a thousand times every footprint
Somervell left on this earth. But the Bible he had given me remained as
mere words.
Somervell had me enrolled in the fifth grade at the Mission School. For
four whole months prior to that, he took it upon himself to teach me
mathematics, Tamil and English, every day. I stood first in class, always and
in every subject. Alongside school, I worked as part of the hospital staff too.
Between seven and nine thirty in the morning, I was Somervell’s personal
assistant. From four in the evening, until midnight, I worked at the hospital.
Both my older sisters converted to Christianity and took up work at the
London Missionary Society’s hospitals. After a year, my mother converted
too.
We brought down our small house and built one with more comforts.
Amma took to tailoring and purchased a small, hand-operated sewing
machine. My younger sisters studied at a neighbourhood school. One day,
when she was serving me hot rice by the light of the punnai-seed oil lamp,
in the middle of conversation, Amma remarked, ‘This life we’ve got, is
Sayyib’s gift, son.’ If Sahib hadn’t deduced that Amma was going to kill
herself along with her children, all of us would have turned to dust by now,
right? ‘It is the name of Christ that fills our plate today as rice and fish,’ she
said.
Without looking up at Amma, I asked, ‘Then, was it merely for the food?’
With tears gleaming in her eyes like sparks of fire, she said, ‘Yes, it was
only for food. Christ is nothing more than rice and meat to me. And I am
not ashamed of declaring that anywhere.’
I held on to that line. I would use it in any debate. It could nullify every
argument. ‘Yes, it was solely for food. For me and my clan, Christ means
food. For the hungry, he is food.’ But in my heart of hearts, this idea
insulted me. My room was located beneath a staircase. Lying alone in the
small bed in that room, I would stare at the picture of Jesus that hung above
my head. ‘Christ, give me thy cross, give me a drop of thy blood,’ I would
pray. But the picture simply hung there – its vacuous eyes never once
looking at me.
Somervell saw the existence of that chasm within me, the chasm that no
one else had noticed. Once, when he came into my room for something, he
laid eyes on that picture and left abruptly. Four or five days later, the two of
us were returning through the cashew groves after burying an orphaned
corpse. ‘Have you been praying?’ he asked, resting on a tree branch. Since I
could never bring myself to lie to him, I stood there wordlessly, my head
bowed in shame. ‘Are you trying to protect your loyalty?’ he pushed me
further. I did not say anything.
A whiff of anger rose in Somervell. ‘Dust has settled on the picture of
Christ in your room . . . Christ held out his hand and pulled you out of hell,
didn’t he? His benediction has embraced you as the food you eat and the
roof that shelters you. What more do you want?’ he asked. I broke into
tears, but I could not look up. ‘Why the tears . . . answer me,’ he said. I was
bereft of words. After waiting for a while in the hope that I would respond,
he got up and left.
The next day, when I went to assist him, Gnyanadas had taken my place.
‘Sayyib has asked me to come from now on. He said it’s enough if you
work for the hospital,’ said Gnyanadas. Overcome by anxiety, I stood
rooted to the spot. Tears began to rain, but I did not move. When Somervell
came by after some time, hastening back from a surgery, he saw me. But he
went into his room without saying a word. I was still there when he left.
When he returned for lunch in the afternoon, I was standing in the sun,
still in the same spot. He had seen me from several feet away. ‘Get in, get
in,’ he hollered from across the distance as he rushed towards me. As soon
as he reached me, he instinctively spread his handkerchief on my head, put
his hands around me and led me on to the veranda. I began sobbing in
mighty gasps. ‘All right, all right . . . you come tomorrow,’ he said. Even
then I could not rein in the sobs. Somervell brought a large enamel cup full
of cotton-seed milk and said, ‘Drink it up.’
The following Sunday, we returned together from church. I did not expect
Somervell to ask me anything. If he had decided that he shouldn’t ask, he
wouldn’t. As soon as I tugged at his hand, he stopped. I started speaking of
my own volition; the words tumbled out thick and fast. ‘Doctor, Christ has
given me food, clothing and shelter, but I can only thank him for it. I am not
able to believe . . . the food only goes to my stomach, doctor, not to my
soul.’ I didn’t know what I was saying. ‘You are my Christ. I haven’t placed
faith in Christ. I have placed faith in you. It is to you that I offer my soul.’
I was unable to speak after that. Having broken down, I ran away from
there. Somervell remained there for some time. The next day, he had a letter
delivered to me. It was written in English. ‘I fully understand what you
said. The Christ you need is a much loftier one. Christ is not so small that
we can know him easily, he is boundless. I think I have failed to introduce
him to you in the right way. Perhaps, I am not fit enough to do so. But I will
pray that Christ should reach you.’
Time wore on as I held on to that note with quivering hands. My heart
was overcome by the desire to run to him, fall at his feet and cry, ‘I believe .
. . I believe with all my heart.’ But I knew I was incapable of lying to him.
In fact, there was no one capable of lying to him. In the Neyyoor of those
days, there was nothing more fearsome than the honesty in his eyes.
I worked with him for six more years after that. My elder sisters married
and left home. Upon finishing my eleventh grade, I joined Scott Christian
College. Even then, I continued working as an assistant to Dr Somervell.
Before long, people began to say that I was a good doctor myself. Wherever
I went, they started asking me for medicines, so I always carried with me a
few essential and basic ones. In some places they would ask me to pray for
the sick, and I would perform the prayer quite skilfully. I was well
acquainted with the cadence of those verses and their staged pathos. But
never once did I perform the prayer in front of Somervell.
With every passing day, Somervell grew more and more into a Neyyoor
man. The characteristics that differentiated him from the local people were
effaced one by one. He quit playing sports. He stopped wearing shorts and
took to wearing a saffron vaetti and jibba instead. In place of shoes, he wore
ordinary ‘tyre chappals’. When fish curry and rice was served on a leaf, he
helped himself to it with his hands. He read books while effortlessly sitting
cross-legged on the floor. Every evening, with a Bible in hand and a big
khaki cloth bag on his shoulder, he would go from village to village,
‘ministering’.
Should they spot him in the by-roads, the locals – whether Christian,
Hindu or Muslim – would mob him. Even if he were to rest for a little while
– say on a bridge in a deserted place – people would mill around him like
flies swarming over a chunk of jaggery. Those passing by wouldn’t even
realize that he was there amidst the crowd. He had been speaking in Tamil
for several years by then, but the people understood precious little of what
he said. All the same, they would sit in front of him, teary-eyed, with palms
folded in respect, as though they were looking at Jesus. They would caress
his clothes, his hands, his legs, and touch them to their eyes in devotion.
They would pick up mud from the depressions made by his footsteps and
secure it in the free end of their clothes.
On his way back from the villages, he would go off road and enter one of
the many dark thickets. He was afraid of neither snakes nor insects. At
some stage in his life, he had altogether overcome this thing called fear.
Within the dark groves, amidst the dense foliage, he would rest on a rock or
a branch and play the oboe, with no one save Jesus as audience. After he
had given every last fibre of his body to the music, at some unknown hour,
he would return to his room and lie down.
I was returning through a path by the river one day, after having called on
a patient, when the light from my lantern fell on an old man, Kariyan,
squatting on his haunches by the side of the road, his hands joined, as if in
prayer. He would not have been facing in the direction of the grove, if he
were there to defecate. It took half a second more for me to catch the far
away strains of Somervell’s mellifluous oboe, dissolving into the wind. I
put out the light, went straight to where the old man was and sat down
beside him. A virgin melody that was yet to take form as song, that was yet
to take shape as verse, emerged from within the darkness. Seldom does
music remain as pure emotion. Seldom does it linger in the air as bare soul.
Even as all the water in our bodies was expelled as tears, the uneducated,
half-nude old man and I sat there, bound by something pure, something that
welded us with all humanity.
It was 1949. The district of Kanyakumari was besieged by cholera. In
some shape and form, the disease sprang eternal in that rainy district. The
locals called it neekambu – a distortion of the word neer-kambam, meaning
excess water. Every time, it would attack the Kollankodu seashore first.
From there it would spread inland through the fish and claim many a victim
on the very second day that it reached the slums of the Sambavars and the
Pulaiyars.
There was no cure for it at that time. The locals would drink a herbal
concoction that they brewed by boiling together mango seeds, poison nuts
and a myriad other frightfully bitter ingredients. But it wasn’t of much help.
It was only because of the way the villages happened to be structured that
they were saved from being wiped out. In the precincts of Kalkulam and
Vilavankodu, ‘village’ meant an agglomeration of seven or eight ‘karais’.
Residential settlements were located on islands of elevated land in between
the low-lying farmlands and waterbodies. These islands were called karais.
The temple and the houses of the upper castes were located on the highest
of these karais. Another karai was occupied by the Nadars. On yet another
island lived the Asaris, Kollars and Vannars. A different karai was home to
the slums of the Pulaiyars and Sambavars. If cholera managed to infiltrate
any of these islands, it would leave only after it had ravaged it without
mercy. The disease was held in check because it had to cover, any which
way, a distance of at least one kilometre in order to reach the next karai.
There was no other reason.
The slums were the most densely packed of all the settlements. There was
no space between one house and the next. The thatched huts were tinier
than respectable chicken coops. Water from one house would flow into
another. Waste and fish bones were dumped all over the place. Chicken,
goats and buffalos lived alongside human beings. The faeces of these
myriad inhabitants, liquefied by rain, would fester in the mud outside –
faecal worms had the time of their lives. If cholera managed to reach these
places, practically the entire population would perish within ten days.
Somervell discovered that one of the chief causes for the spread of cholera
was the kilathi, or trigger fish (Triacanthus strigilifier). When the first wet
season, stretching across the months of Vaikaasi and Aani, comes to an end
and the month of Aadi begins, the kilathi can be found in abundance in the
sea. In order to breed, they teem in massive colonies in the marshland
formed where the river empties into the sea. They revel in the dense marsh,
feeding on the waste lodged therein. The leather-jacket kilathi is the most
common among the trigger fish. With a graphite-like sheen, it is a black,
large-finned fish, shaped like a peepul leaf.
Until rubber was introduced in the seventies, Aadi used to be regarded as
the lean month in the district of Kumari. The planting of seedlings would
have been completed in Vaikaasi. If, in Aani, the first round of weeding was
done, until mid-Aavani there would be no work. Leaves would have just
begun to unfurl on the banana. The cassava planted back in Vaikaasi
wouldn’t have yet taken root. Wild tubers that had dried up in the month of
Chithirai would have just begun to sprout leaves. Since a light drizzle was
ever-present in the region, there was no need to water the fields. It was not
the season when the trees bore fruit either. The palmyras would run bone-
dry. And so, abject starvation would spread its wings.
During such a time, the villagers would throng to buy the kilathi that was
sold for cheap. For half a quarter, they would get twenty or thirty kilathis.
They would cook the fish with any vegetable or tuber they managed to find.
The cholera bacteria lived in the stomach and intestines of the kilathi fish,
said Somervell. The bacteria spread further through the flies that propagated
furiously in the month of Aadi. The churches of the London Missionary
Society were instructed to spread the word across all the villages that the
kilathi was not to be eaten. They declared the kilathi as forbidden food.
But they were unable to stop the villagers from eating the kilathi. Barring
orthodox Christians, everyone ate it furtively. We began advocating that the
skin and the intestines of the kilathi should be buried in a pit. In order to
implement this advisory, Somervell visited all the churches and formed a
council in every village. We visited the residences of the Hindus and the
Muslims too and went door to door, exhorting them to follow the advice.
That is when it dawned on me that a vast majority of the masses had
simply lost their ability to listen to and to absorb what was being told to
them. Even as we imparted our messages, their eyes would seem utterly
vacuous – as though there was no soul behind those eyes. What they knew
was limited to that which had entered their heads when they were young.
Caught in the throes of hunger, every single moment of every single day
and consumed by the never-ending search for food, their minds were devoid
of any other thought. They were unaccustomed to the practice of converting
words into meaning, even.
Within a span of ten days, all of us had lost hope. But Somervell was not
one to be disheartened. For him, hope was something that was dependent on
his own soul and had nothing to do with the external. Every night he set out
with the Bible and a prayer bell in hand and walked from village to village.
A young boy would lead the way, holding up a Fanas lamp fitted with a
bottle-gourd shade. Somervell would ring the bell all along the way. When
residents poked their heads out, ‘Kilathi’s a fish made in sin. Do not eat it.
If you happen to eat it, bury its intestines deep in the ground . . .’ he would
announce. I would follow behind, relaying his words as loudly as I could.
Stopping in front of the huts and the houses, Somervell pleaded with the
people: ‘Respected sir, respected ma’am, this white man speaks to you in
the name of Christ, do not eat the kilathi. Drink boiled water. If you do eat
it, please bury the skin of the kilathi . . . respected sir, respected ma’am, this
white man prays to you . . . do not eat the kilathi.’ As soon as they spotted
him, the womenfolk would arrive and kneel before him. Even the Hindus
would stand by with folded palms until he had crossed them. But no one
listened to what he said.
By the middle of the month of Aadi, the death toll had reached a
staggering number. With no more place to hold them, dead bodies lay
outside our hospital. The wards were packed with the sick; they were
everywhere – on the floors, in the verandas, in between the beds.
Somervell, having sent word to all the landowning Peruvattars and
Karainaayars in town, had stocked up heaps of tender coconut. The only
possible treatment was to inject the water from tender coconuts into the
bloodstream of the patients. And then we would give them whatever
antibiotic we had at hand.
But amongst those who arrived at our hospital, there were precious few
whom we could classify as healthy. Most of them had grown thin and
emaciated from frequent bouts of diarrhoea, having fed on all sorts of
rubbish during the lean months. The infants and the geriatric would die
within a day, but the mothers perished even more pitiably. Having fed their
children everything that they could find, they themselves had starved to a
ghost-like form. Still, they were the ones who died the last. It seemed as
though life had latched on to their skeletons with unbelievable ferocity at
the sight of their wailing children.
From dawn to dusk, Somervell stayed at the hospital. He did not step out
for a meal even. Once it grew dark, he would visit the villages, lantern and
bell in hand. He roamed the streets frozen by the cold machinations of death
and walked amidst huts buried in darkness. When the fatalities increased,
there arrived a new responsibility. In many of the villages, the residents had
emptied out, abandoning the sick and the dead. Bodies lay decaying inside
the huts. Should dogs or jackals bite them and sully the waterbodies, death
was sure to increase manyfold, Somervell warned. He insisted that each and
every body be found and buried.
But something that I had predicted would happen when the deaths
multiplied did not come to pass. Two of our own hospital staff succumbed
to cholera. I had assumed that we wouldn’t have any staff the next day, not
even to sweep or mop the hospital. On the contrary, our team kept growing
day after day. It reached such a state that a large shed had to be set up in the
church’s courtyard to cook for the staff. During that period of crisis, when
faith became the sole refuge, it felt as though the Son of Man was in front
of our eyes, in the form of Somervell. His words were considered gospel.
Many who arrived there had come just to be with him.
When Somervell went in search of the bodies at night, with his bell and
Bible in hand, hundreds of people would accompany him. It felt as though
death lay in hiding by the roadside, amongst the bushes and in the streams,
watching them with its cold eyes. At some point during the night, the group
would begin singing the Christian prayers they had been taught. As they
passed through a village, clasping their hands in prayer, waving their arms
in the air, singing in loud unison, even those who caught sight of their
shadows or heard their voices from afar would raise their hands in piety.
My Je-sus! My He-ro! King of my heart!
My Lo-rd! Come to me! Come right away!
There were only four or five songs, all of which were set to simple tunes.
As soon as Somervell and his train entered a village, they would go from
house to house, singing. If there was anyone at home, they were to light a
lamp and wait in front of their houses. Everyone would empty out into the
front yard to see Somervell’s choir. Somervell would bless them by pressing
a small wooden cross to their foreheads. Then he would proceed to deliver
his sermon on cholera.
Armed with a lantern, we would venture into the unlit houses to inspect
them. We had become so proficient at it that we could tell beforehand if
there was a corpse inside or not. There would be the sound of rats. And an
unusual stench. Even the bodies that were yet to rot would have begun to
release that odour through their gaping mouths. It was the smell of methane
emitted from the stomach, Somervell explained. Nudging it with a stick, we
would roll the corpse on to a cradle-like stretcher, fashioned by securing a
thick cloth between two bamboo poles. Two of us would carry the stretcher
out and two others would walk alongside with lamps and sticks in hand.
Sometimes, at the end of the exercise, Somervell and I were the only ones
left behind. Somervell would carry on as before, singing and ringing the
bell. Even if all those people had not accompanied him, he would have
carried on. For, he was always alone. The Son of Man was with him,
perhaps, a companion visible only to his eyes.
Towards the end of one such night, we visited the houses in front of the
Krishna temple. They were big, tile-roofed houses. The fatalities in that
locality were more than usual. Families waited outside their homes, with
five-faced brass lamps lit up at their thresholds. Somervell stopped in front
of each of the houses, prayed aloud, and blessed every single resident with
his cross before speaking about cholera. He appealed to them to bring rice,
coconuts and tender coconut water to the hospital.
We crossed the final house. I was so exhausted I was unable to stand. It
must have been past two at night and we would have walked at least twenty
miles by then. It was more than seven hours since we had had any food or
water. It would be three thirty by the time we got to the hospital. More often
than not, I would return in such a state that I would just collapse in any
space I could find on the veranda and doze off. Sometimes there’d be
bodies bundled in straw lined up next to me, and I would awaken in the
midst of corpses. At six thirty in the morning, the moment I woke up, I
would drag myself to the ward, my body heavy as a wet sack and my head
still swimming. But Somervell would be there already, attending to the
patients.
Somervell stopped walking. ‘We skipped a house,’ he said.
‘No . . . we checked all the houses,’ I responded in frustration.
‘I know all the houses here . . . we missed one of them,’ he said and
turned around.
For the first time in my life, I hated him. If I live with this crazy foreigner,
I will fritter away my life meaninglessly, I thought to myself. Though I
wished to return to the hospital, I stood there like a statue. But Somervell
did not look back even once. It was all the same to him, whether someone
came with him or not.
Left with no choice, I followed him. We had indeed paid a visit to this
house four days earlier, but the lamp in front of it was unlit this time. Under
the shade of the coconut trees, the small tile-roofed structure stood
shrouded in darkness. Bone-tired, I was horrified at the thought of finding
more bodies in there. What would we do? Would we have to walk all the
way back and bring more people? Or should we seek the help of the Nairs
in the area?
Somervell stood in the front yard, rang his bell and began singing loudly.
Victory be to Jesus!
Each and every day
 Victory be to Jesus . . .
The sound of activity emerged from inside the house. It seemed as though
someone was talking, as though someone was crying. The door opened. A
middle-aged Nair woman stepped out. Dressed in a white vaetti and white
shirt, and with dishevelled white hair, she looked like an apparition.
‘I fear not! I fear not, any more!’ Somervell continued to sing at the top of
his voice. The woman came out with a small punnai-seed oil lamp in her
hands. She placed it on the steps and stood clasping her palms together.
‘Boil the water before drinking. Do not eat fish. Christ is with you. Have no
fear,’ Somervell said to her.
‘No need, Sayyib-samiye . . . we’ll be blessed if cholera takes both of us .
. .’ she said. Before she could finish her sentence, she was shaking with
sobs and her voice grew shrill. She slumped down on the steps and began
hitting herself over the head in a frenzy, sobbing, wailing and weeping all
the while. Bless us that cholera should take me and my sister away, she
beseeched him without end.
There were only the two sisters in that house. No men. She was the older
of the two and had no children. The younger sister had three. Within a span
of three days, one after the other, all three children had succumbed to
cholera. Somervell pacified her and heard her patiently, until she managed
to get her story out in between sobs.
‘Can sami come into the house?’ he asked referring to himself in the
manner she had addressed him.
‘My sister’s too sick to get up, Sayyib-Samiye,’ she replied.
We went in. All the rooms were pitch dark. The other woman lay on the
floor in one of the interior rooms. Hearing our footsteps, she opened her
eyes and looked ahead. There was no trace of tears in them. Her face bore
streaks of madness. Somervell did not take his eyes off her, but it seemed
like she had not noticed him.
‘Look, the foreign sami is here,’ I said.
‘Huh?’ she said.
‘Sami . . . Sayyib-sami.’
Recognition flashed in her eyes. ‘Ponnu samiye,’ she cried out. In a
frenzy, she darted across the room and fell prone at Somervell’s feet. The
sound of her forehead thudding against the floor made my spine pop.
Somervell bent down, took hold of her and set her against the wall. Her
body was shivering, as though she had the chills. Her hands were clasped
together and trembling. There was a small wooden prayer shelf on the floor.
From the framed black-and-white photographs that hung on the wall, her
forefathers looked on with frozen gazes. In the sepia glow of the punnai
light, the room was suspended like a painted screen.
‘My babies are gone forever, Sami . . . don’t want to live any more,
Sayyib-sami,’ she wailed.
‘The children haven’t gone anywhere,’ Somervell replied in an assured
voice. All of a sudden, he got to his feet, unhooked the picture of
Guruvayurappan – the boy-deity who stood with a scoop of butter in hand –
from the wall and placed it in her hands. ‘Here’s your child. From now on,
this is your child . . .’ he said. ‘Your kutti . . . from now on this is your
kutti,’ he repeated in Malayalam.
She stared at him, as though the meaning of his words had escaped her.
After a moment’s pause, she looked at the picture, and in a sudden burst of
frenzy she hugged it to her chest. She held it so hard, the framed glass could
have shattered to pieces. Somervell placed his hand on her head and then
made his way out. I was unable to follow after him. My legs felt flaccid. I
stumbled on the steps and in the yard outside.
With sure footsteps and his head held high, Somervell strode on, ringing
the bell. Staggering and stumbling, I followed after him. My heart, like
tender skin that had sustained a deep gash, throbbed with unbearable pain.
The darkness grew thick, preventing me from walking any further. That’s
when I saw him right ahead of me. A long white cassock fluttered gently in
the darkness. Eyes of great beauty, a beauty born of holding all the world’s
grief, gazed at me. I stood there like a rock, cold and frozen.
He extended a palm-leaf cross in my direction. It was a dried-up palm
cross. One made by children as a plaything and thrown away. Enraptured by
his smile, I stood helplessly immobile. ‘This is for you,’ he said, as though
the music of the church organs had found voice. When I stepped forward to
receive it with outstretched hands, my legs faltered and I keeled over. The
palm-leaf cross fell down too. I picked it up from the ground and
straightened up. He was not in front of me any more, but there remained the
delicate afterglow of his presence.
That is when I understood what I had seen. I pressed the palm-leaf cross
to my forehead and struck my head against it, over and over. With tears
falling on my chest, the hair on every pore of my body standing erect, I
kneeled on the ground, and with a force that could have shattered my body,
I cried within – ‘My Lord! My Jesus! My Redeemer! My Master! Here – I
am yours! I am yours, my Lord!’
In the distance, miles ahead of me, Somervell marched on.

OceanofPDF.com
 Peacock Blue

‘Blue? Blue, you say?’ asked Balasubramanian.

‘Yes, why do you ask?’ said Raman, turning away from the window. His
face, juxtaposed against the play of light and shadow from the scenes
outside the moving bus seemed to be zooming across the expanse of time.
‘No reason, just curious.’
Raman looked at him keenly. ‘It’s fine, you can tell me, I won’t take it the
wrong way,’ he said, breaking into a smile. An attractive row of small teeth
added a dash of femininity to his smile. And there was that permanent hint
of bashfulness in him too. ‘He stops just shy of drawing patterns with his
toes, like a coy girl,’ Krishnan had once joked to Balasubramanian.
‘Of course, I know you take nothing the wrong way,’ said
Balasubramanian.
‘Really? My folks call me an uptight prick,’ said Raman, laughing.
‘You sulk if the coffee isn’t strong enough . . . but for that, you’re quite
oblivious to the evil and darkness in man.’
‘You think so?’ said Raman, raising his eyebrows.
‘So far as I’ve read, your stories don’t feature any great evil.’
‘Oh . . .’ said Raman, ‘. . . they do have villains.’
‘Sure, but they are just ordinary people trapped in this thing called life . . .
they grow jealous, they become resentful, they try their utmost to usurp
what belongs to others. How can we call them human if they don’t even do
that?’
As though troubled, Raman sat quietly, gazing into the distance. His
palms had a tendency to sweat. He would sweat on the tip of his nose and
on the lines of his eyebrows too, like women. He wiped his face with a
white handkerchief he always carried on him, and said, ‘Wait . . . do you
really believe man is capable of much more than that?’
 ‘The evil in man is limitless, I’d say, it’s many times bigger than him.
Man doesn’t commit evil for the sake of living, he lives for the sake of evil.
The pleasure that surges in him when evil pours forth from his heart like an
artesian spring, is the greatest of all joys in human life. It’s for that pleasure
that he waged wars, massacred millions and millions of people, invented
instruments of torture and systems of slavery. It’s for the same joy that he
tossed fellow humans into concentration camps and scorched them to death
...’
‘Far away in a foreign land . . .’ said Raman, only to be cut off by
Balasubramanian.
‘The things they’ve done in our own land . . . Have you seen the torture
devices on display at the Padmanabhapuram palace?’ asked
Balasubramanian.
As though startled by his flushed face, Raman averted his gaze. ‘May
have happened at the odd place, I don’t deny that,’ he conceded a little
while later.
‘So, it’s a problem only if it happens right before your eyes – in
Kumbakonam or Papanasam perhaps. If not, it doesn’t exist, yes?’
‘No-oo . . . I didn’t mean that . . .’ said Raman, drawing out his words in a
characteristically Thanjavurian way.
‘You did,’ insisted Balasubramanian. Raman wiped his face again and fell
to kneading the handkerchief.
Thereafter, both journeyed on in silence. The bus stopped at the next town
to allow a few passengers to alight and some to board, before resuming its
journey.
‘Ki.Ra.’s here?’ said Raman, realizing that they were at Kovilpatti, home
to writer Ki. Rajanarayanan.
‘Yes . . . ’
‘I would like to visit the Vilathikulam Swamigal with him some day and
listen to him sing,’ said Raman.
‘He has told me about him too.’
‘Maybe we should’ve sent Ki.Ra. a postcard. You think he would’ve
come with us? He’s crazy about music too, I hear.’
 ‘This is the season for sowing cotton, he’ll never leave town at this time.
If he sees this month through, he wouldn’t have to lift a finger for three
months thereafter. He never ceases to be amazed at why anyone in this
world would choose to work,’ said Balasubramanian. Raman laughed.
Gradually, the tension abated.
‘Blue and purple are colours that attract the depressed. Shades that draw
those who tend to dwell on the dark side of man. It was strange that you
picked blue,’ said Balasubramanian.
‘Is there no literature without evil, Balu?’ asked Raman in a tender,
feminine voice.
‘There is . . . but I don’t think any of the classics will fall in that category.
Going by sheer magnitude, doesn’t evil predominate good in every single
epic, though good may rank higher on the scale of sublimity?’
‘I’ll write it. I will write a classic composed only of goodness, with not
even an iota of evil,’ said Raman, as though out of breath. Gasping like a
man who had moved a tremendous weight, he spread out the handkerchief
and pressed it to his face as though he wished to bury himself in it.
‘Write it then.’ Balasubramanian smiled and fell silent. Neither spoke
after that. Balasubramanian wondered if he had said something wrong, but
he couldn’t see anything remiss in his statements. Raman was given to such
sudden fits of silence, accompanied by a long face. But they would last for
twenty minutes at the most. Once every twenty minutes his world would
change dramatically and he would step into the new, with no baggage from
the past.
Even after they had alighted from the bus at Kazhugumalai, Raman had
not spoken, observed Balasubramanian. It was evident by then that the
silence wasn’t the result of anything he had said. So he decided to play the
waiting game. To be a fly on the wall and observe people from close
quarters was something he loved to do. Saminathan was at the bus stop.
Balasubramanian was surprised that he had come there all the way from
Kumbakonam. ‘Welcome Anna . . . how are you? Hope your daughter’s all
right now?’ enquired Saminathan.
Before Balasubramanian could answer, Raman asked, ‘Has Subbu Anna
arrived?’
‘He reached long back and has already begun partaking of the holy water.
Every last wastrel in town is with him. The smoking’s in full swing too,’
said Saminathan.
‘Where is he?’
‘At the Sethupatti mirasdar’s home.’
‘Home?’ asked Raman quizzically.
‘As in . . . he has another one here.’ Saminathan squirmed, embarrassed.
‘Oho!’ said Raman, his face brightening. ‘Why are you feeling awkward
about that? As though it’s you who has done something wrong!’ Turning to
Balasubramanian, he said, ‘Saminathan’s so old-fashioned, he’s easily
embarrassed . . .’
‘The east Thanjavur air is yet to kiss him, I think,’ said Balasubramanian.
Raman cracked up with laughter.
There was a lone horse cart waiting for them. Raman climbed into it with
alacrity and sat behind the driver. ‘I always sit in this spot, Balu. It’s a
stubborn habit I’ve held on to from childhood. If some imp were to beat me
to it, to hell with it, I’d say, and set out on foot . . . You’re wondering what
the fuss is all about, aren’t you?’
‘Not at all,’ said Balasubramanian.
‘I know you are. It was my childhood routine, you may put it down to
that.’
The carriage started. Saminathan, who was perched outside, clinging on to
the vehicle, said, ‘He’s always full of nostalgia. When we visited
Kumbakonam last week he told me with such longing that he missed how
the streets stank back in the day!’ A smiled blossomed on
Balasubramanian’s face.
Typical of village fairs in the Nellai region, peanut–jaggery squares and
coconut mittais were stacked by the roadside, on tables fashioned from
spurge-wood boxes. The tables themselves were placed under the shade of
sloping palm awnings. The sweet, sticky fingers of sevu were heaped like
the tower of Pisa. There were sugar lollies, in bright reds and yellows and
greens. Sweet and savoury varieties of sevu were being fried in hot oil that
gurgled in an iron wok set on a brick stove on the ground. The vendors
dunked colanders into the oil to scoop out the fried sevu fingers and
deposited them in funnel-shaped containers with perforated bottoms.
‘When there’s a carnival, the village acquires an air about it, doesn’t it,
like a bride on her wedding day?’ said Raman, absorbing the sights with
great gusto. Balasubramanian smiled. ‘Sweets reign at this fair . . . ’ he said.
‘Back in my village, the whole market would be filled with things that
make up the auspicious thamboolam . . . coconuts, betel leaves, turmeric,
vermilion . . . you’ll find at least ten or twelve varieties of even the humble
betel nut.’
The streets that ran through the agraharam settlement around the temple
were packed with kolam designs. Brahmin boys with big jackfruit ears, oil-
plastered hair and bare torsos streaked with sacred ash, were laughing and
playing noisily. The game involved startling another boy by dealing him a
mighty thump on the back with a banana-tree bark. The houses were
accented with traditional red-ochre stripes, and matronly women sat on their
cemented verandas, gazing at the streets with scrunched eyes. Festoons of
mango leaves and threaded flowers adorned every single house. A vendor-
woman bearing an empty basket on her head walked by.
Past the agraharam, at the end of the street that turned leftwards, were
four or five disassembled bullock carts spread out in front of a huge, old
bungalow. A black Buick stood outside, reflecting the leaves of a neem tree
on its surface. ‘Doesn’t it look like a nicely polished begging bowl?’ said
Raman.
‘I thought you’d have another feminine metaphor up your sleeve,’ said
Balasubramanian. Saminathan guffawed.
The bullocks, untethered from the carts and secured elsewhere, glanced up
from the straw they were chomping on. ‘Bussss,’ they exhaled, welcoming
the newly arrived animals. Raman leapt out of the carriage. ‘Saminadhu,
take the box inside . . . I am heading upstairs . . . Nayakar’s there, right?’ he
said enthusiastically, as he sprinted up the stairs by the side of the building.
Balasubramanian alighted and issued instructions for his and Raman’s
suitcases to be brought in. He washed his face and patted it dry before
proceeding upstairs.
On the floor above, seven or eight men had assembled already and were
seated on straw mats rolled out in the middle of the room with bolsters for
support. Right at the centre was Madurai Subbu Iyer, helping himself to a
betel wrap. As though laying claim on Iyer, Nayakar sat beside him,
stroking his moustache and laughing. Raman, who had lodged himself
opposite Subbu Iyer, was babbling like a child, while the others were
tittering with laughter.
Hesitant, Balasubramanian waited at the entrance. The room was suffused
with the smell of whisky. Cashew nuts, jackfruit fries and nendran banana
chips were heaped on a big brass plate that had been set down on the straw
mat. At first glance, one could have mistaken Raman to be Subbu Iyer’s
younger brother. They both had hair that licked the forehead, and plump,
moustache-less faces. Raman’s femininity, however, was absent in the latter.
Subbu Iyer’s face glowed with uncommon lustre, and his earlobes hung as
though swollen. He had the countenance of one ever ready to poke fun at
others. His lips, stained red from the habit of chewing betel leaves,
appeared like a wound. He was wearing a jibba the colour of tender mango
leaves over a silk vaetti. He had undone the top-most buttons of the jibba,
leaving on partial display a tiger-claw medallion.
‘Anna, here’s my man: Balu. I’ve told you about him. He’s so eloquent
that his speech is music to the ears. Don’t you go judging the book by its
cover . . . he’s sharp as a blade. I get butterflies in my stomach whenever I
see him . . . he spares no one,’ said Raman.
‘Please come in . . . have a seat,’ Subbu Iyer said, welcoming
Balasubramanian. Miming a drink with his hands, he asked, ‘Care to
indulge?’
‘Never touched it till now,’ replied Balasubramanian.
‘Start now, then?’
‘Thank you, but I didn’t come here for that.’
Resting his gaze on him for a split second, Subbu Iyer said, ‘Very well.
Dei Ramu, your man cannot be compelled.’
As Balasubramanian’s eyes fell on Subbu Iyer’s fingers, he averted his
gaze. They were crooked and twisted, as though one finger had mounted the
other.
‘I told you so . . . ’ said Raman. ‘Hand over India to him right now, Anna,
and we can bundle Nehru away to America,’ he joked.
‘Why send Nehru there? That country has no dearth of preachy fellows.
Better still, let’s send him away to Russia. He’s sure to finish off
Khrushchev with his never-ending monologues. The world will be
liberated,’ said Subbu Iyer. Raman laughed like a boy who had been tickled.
As though drawn by a sudden intimacy, Balasubramanian came around
and sat down on the mat beside Subbu Iyer.
‘You aren’t a communist, are you?’ asked Subbu Iyer.
‘Not at the moment,’ said Balasubramanian.
‘Dei Ramu, is your man Rajaji’s brother or what? Such measured words,’
said Iyer. Balasubramanian couldn’t help smiling. Subbu Iyer’s speech bore
the slur of a tongue swollen from chewing betel leaves.
‘Care for some coffee?’ asked Subbu Iyer.
‘I’ve already ordered for it,’ announced Saminathan, as he entered the
room.
‘Who’s that?’ said Subbu Iyer. ‘Dei Saminadha! Come in, come in! Feels
as though someone has emptied a bucket of cool water from the Kaveri on
my head. That’s what it’s like to see you, you motherfucker. Come here and
sit down . . . ’
‘It’s all right, Anna.’
‘All right, my foot . . . come and sit down . . . you dog . . . you’ve grown
so thin . . . what’s the matter?’
‘Work, Anna.’
‘What do you mean, work? When did you go to school?’
‘He doesn’t mean that kind of work,’ said Raman. ‘He’s bought a few
records of M.D. Ramanathan and is attempting to listen to them . . . that’s
got to be hard work, Anna,’ said Raman. Subbu Iyer broke into hearty
guffaws.
‘I hope you aren’t a fan of Ramanathan’s,’ said Subbu Iyer, turning to
Balasubramanian.
 ‘I am.’
‘Ooh, really? We do have a little fun at his expense. Should you feel bad,
just pop a quid of betel in your mouth . . . it’s quite the antidote,’ he said.
The coffee arrived. ‘This is Ranganatha Nayakar. He owns a mill in
Kovilpatti and several acres of land about town. He’s a mirasdar and our
dear patron – the one who “waters” the plant of our music,’ said Subbu Iyer,
chuckling, even as Nayakar put up a weak protest.
While they were having coffee, Subbu Iyer turned his attention to
Saminathan. ‘Dei Saminadhu, sing for us,’ he said.
‘What! An actual song! Don’t embarrass me, Anna!’
‘Dei, don’t make a fuss . . . sing, I say!’ he said, and turned to
Balasubramanian. ‘He’s a splendid singer . . . his expressions are so precise.
Truth be told, it’s his renditions that help me grasp the emotions of both
Tamil and Telugu sahityams.’
‘What song should I sing, Anna?’ asked Saminathan.
‘This is Kazhugumalai. It’s Murugan who rules here. Motherfucker, if you
dare sing anything other than the compositions of Reddiyar, the great son of
this soil, I’ll cane you,’ he said.
Saminathan lowered his head. Tugging gently at a few loose straws on the
mat, he began with a faint hum. Then, in the blink of an eye, he launched
into a full-throated song
O Valli, of the tribe that thrives
on millets threshed
O Kalli, ye temptress born
to destroy me!
‘Besh!’ exclaimed Subbu Iyer, straightening up. The atmosphere in the
room was transformed. That which had held court until then was displaced
by something completely new, something pure, something that makes every
place it occupies its very own.
My heart melts at your
sweet koel voice
Giddy am I from
desire’s delirium
 As a movement caught the corner of his eye, Balasubramanian turned
around. A lady emerged from a room adjacent to the hall, floating in
gracefully like a reflection in a mirror. She was draped in a blue silk saree.
Blue Jager diamonds dazzled in the choker on her neck, in the studs on her
ears, and in the besari pin on her nose. Her entry – the way she walked in,
the way she settled into a corner, the way she leaned against the wall –
seemed like an elegant dance altogether. Like poetry enacted in plain sight.
‘What’re you gaping at . . . haven’t you seen her before?’ said Subbu Iyer,
turning to Balasubramanian when the song was done. The woman smiled.
‘This is Chandra, a Bharatanatyam dancer . . . ’ he introduced her.
Balasubramanian felt short of breath and was unable to look at her. His
mind flitted between her face and his own appearance, one after the other.
Perhaps he should have worn a better shirt? And combed his hair?
Subbu Iyer chuckled. ‘In all these years, I’m yet to meet a man whose
face didn’t flush upon meeting Chandra,’ he said.
‘What’s your name?’ asked Chandra, addressing Balasubramanian. Her
voice was deep and a tad hoarse, completely at odds with her beauty. In an
instant, the incongruity rendered her mortal.
Balasubramanian looked up at her now and answered, ‘Balu.
Balasubramanian.’
‘Chandra, this man’s a big shot in the Tamil literary world today. A
demonic force, I should say. According to Raman, the razor-sharp discus of
Perumal is embedded in his brain,’ said Subbu Iyer.
‘Oh!’ she said, laughing.
‘You’ve heard about her, haven’t you?’ asked Subbu Iyer.
‘Yes, but I must admit that I haven’t seen her perform, other than in the
movies . . . ’ replied Balasubramanian.
Her body was as taut as the golden bamboo. Green veins curled across a
long, slender neck. She had firm lips and large eyes. Her hair, which was
parted and combed in a way that concealed her temples, was worn in a
casual knot. A big vermilion dot, crimson as the setting sun, adorned her
brow.
‘She’s here with me.’ Subbu Iyer’s words struck Balasubramanian like a
resounding slap. Taken aback, he glanced involuntarily at his fingers first
and then at Raman. Only then did he notice that Raman was lost in an
extraordinary silence. As was his wont, Balasubramanian proceeded to ask
a question in right earnest, in a bid to mask his thoughts. ‘You’re from
Andhra, if I’m not mistaken . . .’
‘I’m Gujarati by ancestry, though born and raised in Pune . . . I came to
Kanchipuram to learn Bharatanatyam.’
‘Her guru is Kanchipuram Nalluchamipillai,’ said Subbu Iyer.
‘I see’, said Balasubramanian, with no particular interest. Out of the
corner of his eye he noticed that Raman’s gaze was fixed on the floor.
‘How do you propose to eat if you fill yourself with coffee now?’ asked
Chandra.
‘One can have coffee at any hour . . . my father used to rinse his mouth
with coffee as soon as he woke up in the morning!’ said Subbu Iyer.
‘And you rinse your mouth with something else . . . ’ jibed Saminathan.
‘Chandra likes to count what she eats. She has two idlis for breakfast. One
chapatti along with some spinach and vegetables for lunch. It’s two again
for dinner – either idiyappams or idlis – along with a glass of juice . . .
that’s it.’ Pausing mid-speech, Subbu Iyer winked at Balasubramanian.
‘Isn’t she just svelte?’ he said.
Stunned, Balasubramanian stole a glance at Chandra before averting his
gaze. When he figured that she was smiling, he looked up again. Subbu Iyer
asked, ‘Can you guess her age?’
‘No idea,’ said Balasubramanian.
Crumpling a paper and throwing it at her, he said, ‘Tell them yourself,
miss.’
‘What can I say,’ said Chandra, ‘I’m timeless.’
‘Come the month of Aavani, she’ll be thirty-five. Who would’ve
guessed?’ said Subbu Iyer. Balasubramanian smiled at her. The deep lines
on her face did betray her age, he thought.
‘Like expensive wine, I’m sweetened by feasting on the nectar of time,’
said Chandra, in a classy English accent.
‘In our tradition, the word for time is kaala, meaning black. It means death
too. That which lies coiled, having feasted on kaala, is the serpent. A single
drop of its venom is potent enough to annihilate an entire world. That
venom is known as aala-kaalam, the apocalyptic poison,’ said Subbu Iyer,
speaking in English. The way he switched at will between the two
languages astonished Balasubramanian. Even though Subbu Iyer spoke
English in a thick local accent, his sentence construction was perfect.
‘Nectars shackle mankind, for it’s impossible to resist their magnetism.
And so, they too are poison,’ said Chandra. There was something going on
between them, Balasubramanian surmised – the tips of two blades were
grazing each other. All of a sudden, Subbu Iyer turned to Raman and said,
‘What’re you doing? Fallen asleep, have you?’
‘No, Anna, I was . . . ’
‘Was or wasn’t . . . as if I care! Been acting like a stiff corpse from the
moment you arrived . . . to hell with you.’
Shocked, Balasubramanian stole another glance at Chandra almost
instinctively. She was smiling as though nothing had happened. But
Nayakar seemed somewhat discomfited. ‘Don’t get me wrong, Anna . . .
you were talking . . . ’ said Raman.
‘Did you hear that, Balu? Balu’s your name, right? Raman’s the one you
should ask about Chandra’s dance . . . isn’t it, Raman?’ said Subbu Iyer.
Raman responded with a weak smile.
‘You know her?!’ exclaimed Balasubramanian.
‘Of course he knows me,’ Chandra answered. ‘We’d run into each other
quite often at the Kalakshetra dance school. We ended up having some long
conversations too. About music . . . ’ She broke into a smile. He used to say,
“I wish to sing, but I’m unable to. What I’m able to do is write. And so, I
write”.’
Raman piped up. ‘A Belgian girl, Maya was her name, had rented the
upper floor of my house at that time. She was studying at Kalakshetra too.
When I visited the school with her back then, we were introduced . . . ’
Balasubramanian recognized the makings of a labyrinthine kolam. The
kind of labyrinth that forms in a pond, beneath the lotus blooms, beneath
the shadows of the blooms, as the stalks coil and embrace each other. ‘Dei
Saminadhu, go, get a bottle of wine,’ said Subbu Iyer.
Saminathan threw Nayakar a look. ‘What is it?’ barked Subbu Iyer.
‘The thing is . . . you’ve had whisky already . . . and the idiyappam is
ready to be served as well . . . ’
‘So?’
‘It’s time for the kutcheri, Anna.’
‘Dei, are you trying to advise me? You rascal!’
‘Okay okay,’ said Saminathan, and proceeded downstairs. Within a few
moments, Subbu Iyer began to recite an English poem in a loud voice.
Wine comes in at the mouth
And love comes in at the eye;
That’s all we shall know for truth
Before we grow old and die.
I lift the glass to my mouth,
I look at you, and I sigh.
Subbu Iyer looked at Balasubramanian. ‘Guessed the poet?’ he asked with
a wink.
‘Not really,’ said Balasubramanian.
‘W.B. Yeats,’ said Subbu Iyer. ‘I can’t say why, but he’s the only poet that
appeals to my heart. He doesn’t bore one to death with philosophical
nonsense. He writes plainly about matters of the heart and nothing more.
Such a pleasing poem . . . it lingers on the tongue like old wine.’
The wine arrived. ‘Bravo! Saminadhu’s worldly-wise, after all. All said
and done, he’s from Kumbakonam all right,’ said Subbu Iyer. ‘Wine must
be had in a glass that’s meant for it . . . a glass full of wine is like the ruby
lips of a damsel.’ He uncorked the bottle skilfully and poured out the wine,
like flowing blood, into the glasses. He held a glass to his lips, smelled the
wine and smiled. ‘Wonderful . . . care for a glass, Chandra?’ ‘No,’ she
answered in English.
‘Good wine is like the earth’s menstrual blood,’ said Subbu Iyer.
Balasubramanian felt those words as strange worms squirming in front of
him. Subbu Iyer sipped the wine and inclined his head as he savoured it.
Nayakar helped himself to some too.
 In a trice, Raman was up on his feet. ‘Anna, I need some rest if I have to
sit through the kutcheri . . . it was a long bus ride.’
‘Fine,’ said Subbu Iyer.
‘I’ll join you too . . . ’ said Balasubramanian, and followed Raman out.
When they were climbing down the stairs, Raman hesitated a couple of
times. The subtle pauses betrayed the myriad forces at work within him and
distracted Balasubramanian from his own desultory thoughts. All of a
sudden, Raman stopped at the final step, turned around and said, ‘Please
feel free to stay back and continue the conversation.’
‘No, I think it’s better I get some rest too,’ said Balasubramanian.
Raman’s vehemence surprised him. He seemed out of breath. After he had
taken another step, Raman turned around again. ‘Actually . . . why don’t
you gape at her smile some more . . . your face glistens with drool.’ By then
Balasubramanian had regained his usual composure. Smiling within, he
said, ‘It wasn’t wrong to flirt a little, I thought. It’s no big deal.’
Raman went into the house in a huff. ‘Which room did he say it was?’
Lost, he stopped in his tracks.
‘The one on the left, the small room.’
Raman proceeded inside and lay down directly on the bare floor.
Balasubramanian stepped in, took off his jibba, spread out the mattress that
had been rolled up and placed in a corner, and settled down. Raman had
shut his eyes by then. It was evident from the change in the sounds outside
that evening had fallen. The voices seemed to have grown a little louder.
The mango tree on the other side of the window rustled.
Raman sighed. Balasubramanian held his silence. He knew that Raman
would not be able to stay quiet for long. He wasn’t one to hold back or
strategize his moves. Balasubramanian resolved that he wouldn’t speak
until Raman began to. A tiny push was all that Raman needed to erupt into
words, but why shouldn’t he let the tension build until that came to pass?
As Balasubramanian mused about putting Raman through this ordeal, a
faint smile crept on to his face. But within a few seconds, he was taken with
pity. Here was a simple-hearted man, a born artist, a man who had turned
the very act of writing into music. Just then, Balasubramanian discovered
the words with which to ruffle Raman’s mood, making sure not to incite
him in the least.
‘Your man speaks such good English, huh?’ said Balasubramanian.
‘Doesn’t he?’ said Raman, with incredible enthusiasm, as he turned over
and lay on his back. ‘How well he speaks! He took a sudden liking to
English one day, and began reading in the language. The man started with
the Hindu but went on to read the novels of G.W.M. Reynolds and then
everything else he could find. He’s so enamoured by the English Romantic
poets. When he starts talking about them, he can go on and on. He has read
a lot in Tamil too. He knows Mouni inside out . . . Pudhumaipithan’s his
favourite writer. Mouni simply fiddles with note variations, it is Pithan who
made music of the fire in his belly, he says. And that Ku.Pa.Ra. can manage
only racy flourishes but never full-length songs.’
‘What does he have to say about you?’ asked Balasubramanian.
‘Me? He tells me that I’m a decent writer, though he feels that my writing
about music is just a façade. I really come into my own when I write about
sex, he says. Apparently, I use music to hide that fact from my own self,
just the way dasis fool themselves by praying to God!’ Raman chortled with
delight.
‘I don’t agree. Expressing the abstract is a perennial challenge for any
writer. Each writer employs his or her own device to evoke the abstract.
Some describe nature. Some delve into the culinary . . . you talk of music,’
said Balasubramanian.
‘You think so . . . ?’ said Raman. Balasubramanian felt Raman hadn’t
quite grasped what he had said.
One could see from the expression on Raman’s face that he had readied
himself for conversation. What a simple man, thought Balasubramanian,
half amazed.
‘Did you notice the saree Chandra was wearing?’ asked Raman.
‘Hmm,’ said Balasubramanian. ‘It was peacock blue – her favourite
colour. It really becomes her, doesn’t it? Blue is the colour of diamonds as
well. There’s something mysterious about the colour, she says. If you stare
at anything blue for long, you’ll be hypnotized, she once claimed. To put
that theory to test, I spread out a blue silk saree under the lights one night
and kept staring at it. Quite inexplicably, I felt terrified all of a sudden.’
Balasubramanian smiled.
‘You seem to be enchanted by her,’ said Raman.
‘No . . . ’ said Balasubramanian.
‘You’re unusually evasive on this topic . . . where’s the majesty that
defines you otherwise?!’ said Raman, amused.
Balasubramanian smiled again.
‘It isn’t just you, though. Something happens to every man who sets eyes
on her,’ said Raman. ‘I have seen it time and again, and she knows it too.
Even I followed her around like a madman when I first met her. I remember
that day clearly. What’s astonishing is that I don’t recall the details of where
we went, what we saw and all that. All I remember is her face and her body.
That day has become her . . . isn’t it surprising?’
‘One can’t afford to be surprised by such things,’ said Balasubramanian.
Raman sat up in a trice and said, ‘I’ll tell you this, Balu. She’s no ordinary
woman. There’s something in her. Just as in the apsara Menaka who
mesmerized Vishwamitra, or so I’ve thought at times. How do I put it?
Words elude me . . . perhaps I should give you an example . . . Earlier today,
she spoke to you in a hoarse voice, remember? That’s not her real voice.’
Balasubramanian was rather taken aback. ‘Her voice isn’t remarkable. All
the same, it isn’t hoarse either. It’s just a regular female voice. She talks as
she did, quite on purpose.’
‘Why would she?’ said Balasubramanian.
‘I’ve pondered over it a thousand times. You saw her for yourself. Such
beauty. Her arms, her legs, her neck, her cheeks – there’s nary a flaw. Like
those ancient sculptures made from the sacred panchaloka alloy. There are
some beautiful figurines of Sivagami in the Thanjavur palace. One moment
she’d seem like a young girl, and in the next like a woman as endowed as a
bough laden with fruit. It’s much the same with her. That’s what the man
before her beholds, and his mind is stupefied. When he’s in such a swoon,
she will casually speak in a hoarse voice. The dream vanishes, causing him
to slip into regular conversation. She waits for that moment and forges an
easy intimacy.’
Raman continued with the same intensity. ‘But it doesn’t end there, Balu.
The quality of her voice perturbs us beyond that that moment too. It has the
same effect on us as moles on the skin do. When we spot a mole on
beautiful skin, we are repelled by it – that’s our first reaction. It’s just a
blemish after all, but our mind fixates on it. When a sand particle is trapped
in an oyster, the oyster prods it without end and, defeated, turns it into a
pearl. So do we keep gazing at the mole until we transform it into a thing of
beauty. We do the same with her voice . . . you must be thinking of nothing
but her voice right now, am I right?’
Wonder was writ large on Balasubramanian’s face.
‘Admit it. What’s there to lose?’ said Raman, with hidden glee.
‘You can have it that way if you want,’ said Balasubramanian.
With a sudden flash of bold familiarity, Raman said, ‘Dei, you have a dick
too. There’s no shame in admitting it,’ he said.
‘Why should she try to entice me?’ said Balasubramanian, laughing.
‘It’s not only you, she wishes to captivate every single man in this world,
in the same way. That’s how her mind works. The question of why is akin
to asking why magnets attract. That is their nature, is it not?’
‘That particular quality can be found in every woman. Little girls try to be
attractive too. They do that without understanding their own actions,’ said
Balasubramanian.
‘No, this is not the same. She has a need to win. She has to win over every
single man in this world. But men with money and power are of no
consequence to her. What she desires is the artist – the man who has made
art the very core of his existence. The man who sits on a high pedestal and
plays effortlessly with this thing that eludes her grasp, no matter how high
she may leap.’
‘Why, she is in the arts too . . . ’
‘Tell you what, she may be a hotshot, Balu. She can go anywhere. Talk to
anyone. She speaks terrific English. Reads voraciously. And so, the distance
she travels is immense. She’ll surpass even Rukmini Devi Arundale . . . but
never will she reach the pedestal of true art. If you rub a glass crystal to its
shiny best, wrap it in velvet and look at it under the light, it will indeed
seem like a diamond. But a real diamond is the sparkle of a gurgling stream,
isn’t it – and not just any stream at that, but one that flows undiscovered,
deep within a forest. She knows that real art is beyond her.’
‘Why would you say that?’
‘There’s no warmth in her heart, stupid. Her heart’s a whetted knife,
gleaming and razor-sharp. When she steps into the arena of art brandishing
that knife, even a child armed with a mere banana stem sends her to a
crushing defeat. Have you seen Alarmelvalli perform?’
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Now, look at her, she isn’t the most learned or the most beautiful. . . but
when she gets on stage, the legendary Madhavi herself appears before us.’
Balasubramanian did not take his eyes off Raman.
‘Who does Chandra think she is? Art isn’t child’s play. You’ll always find
ten fellows beating their chests about “art”. Another ten, fawning “aha,
aha”. But true art will quietly make its way elsewhere . . . Even if others
don’t know it, Chandra knows exactly where she belongs. That’s why.’
Raman broke into an abrupt laugh and wiped his chin with a handkerchief.
‘Apparently, a phantom gobbled up musicians in the hope that it could sing
. . . have you heard that story?’ A brief pause and his face turned stern. ‘Just
like Kali who towers over Shiva while resting her foot on his chest, she
wishes to triumph over every single man and lay him at her feet.’
‘Well, she seems to have placed her foot on Subbu Iyer now,’ said
Balasubramanian.
‘She wishes to. But Anna is another matter altogether. He’s deep as the
ocean. The glimpses that we hear during his kutcheris are mere spindrift
from the waves that swell in it. You can’t get close to him just because you
were witness to that. With no care in the world, he drinks, swears and
makes merry. He’ll get her to drink too . . . but that’s where it will end; he
doesn’t let anyone beyond that line. He has no use for affection, love or any
of those blasted things. He lives by himself, on an island in that ocean of
his. An island that no damned soul can reach.’
‘But it’s hard to predict how this will end,’ said Raman, a little while later.
‘Because Madam is who she is. And her drive is such too. It’s impossible to
tell how far she will go.’
‘Madam?’
‘I mean Chandra, that’s what I call her.’
Without pausing to think, Balasubramanian asked the next question that
sprang to his mind. ‘So, did she place her foot on your heart too?’
And just like that, Raman quietened down. It seemed as though he was
spiralling into a deep vortex of turbulence. I shouldn’t have asked the
question, Balasubramanian thought to himself. He waited, wondering it
would be better if Raman resumed speaking on his own. But Raman
continued to lie on the floor with his eyes shut. His eyeballs could be seen
flitting under the closed lids. The organizers had turned on the lights
outside. Loudspeakers cleared their throats. The light beams that filtered
through the leaves of the neem tree cast a swaying lattice of shadows inside
the room.
Saminathan arrived. ‘Anna, please get ready, it’s getting late,’ he said.
‘Has Subbu Anna started?’ asked Raman, getting up.
‘Are you serious? He would have reached the temple by now.’
‘Is she coming too?’ Raman asked, unbuttoning his shirt in a bid to appear
nonchalant.
Saminathan’s eyes twinkled with the hint of a smile and paused for a
fleeting moment on Balasubramanian. When Balasubramanian broke into a
smile, he did too.
‘What’s with that stupid grin . . . like a pig that’s spotted shit,’ Raman
hissed unexpectedly.
‘What’s this, Anna? Instead of breathing fire when it was needed, you’re
directing it at me? Come now. You’re here to enjoy the music, let’s focus on
that. Anna’s in splendid form today.’
‘Of course he’ll be in form . . . after all, the darling whore is with him,
isn’t she?’ said Raman. In the blink of an eye, he grabbed his bag and made
to leave. ‘Dei, flag down a horse cart. I’m leaving,’ he ordered.
‘What’s the matter now? Having come all the way, you’ll leave without
hearing him sing? What’ll Anna think?’
 ‘Tell him to go fuck a buffalo . . . I’m leaving.’
What a novel insult, Balasubramanian thought, smiling to himself.
‘Anna, put the bag down, put it down, I tell you!’ said Saminathan, raising
his voice.
‘Dei, get out of the way.’
‘If you don’t put it down, I’ll haul you there myself . . . you know what
I’m capable of . . . put that down, please.’
Raman set the bag down.
‘Don’t breathe another word. Just go and change your shirt, there’s no
time to shower. The kutcheri must have started by now . . .,’ so saying,
Saminathan turned to Balasubramanian and asked ‘Will you be visiting the
temple?’
‘Maybe later . . . it’ll be quite crowded now.’
‘Dei Saminatha, I feel really restless . . . let me stay back,’ said Raman
pitifully.
‘You’re coming,’ Saminathan said in a firm voice.
‘You say so . . . ?’ said Raman, the characteristic Thanjavurian drawl
rearing its head again. He got to his feet and picked out a shirt. ‘Tch, smells
of cockroach eggs . . . she never listens . . .’ He put on the shirt and said,
‘I’ll wash my face and be back soon.’
Saminathan turned to Balasubramanian.‘That insult you heard before, it’s
quite popular in and around Mannargudi. A high-society insult, though. It
will simply pale in comparison to the ones you’ll hear in the agraharam . . .
even the lowest order of abuse there will be super-strong, like chicory
coffee!’ said Saminathan. ‘Aren’t you going to change?’
‘I already did. Did you know Chandra was here?’ asked Balasubramanian.
‘No, Anna . . . if I knew, I wouldn’t have asked this man to come. He’s
really struggling. Though, I do think it’ll serve him well to be knocked
down by a few lusty blows.’
Balasubramanian laughed. ‘It won’t end so easily. The wound won’t heal
until he writes at least one novel about her.’
‘He used to follow her around all the time, wagging his tail like a dog.
Every one of his writer colleagues cried themselves hoarse. Karichankunju
called me one day “He’s a born writer. Fear and diffidence have got the
better of him. Man up and take him to a few dasis. Once he comes to his
senses, he’ll begin to think from above his waist,” he said, Can you
imagine!’ said Saminathan.
Balasubramanian laughed aloud.
‘What Anna, you’re laughing?’
‘Saminathan, it’s not so easy to explain these things. If it’s a simple matter
between a hole and a shaft beneath the waist, why should there exist all this
music, this poetry, this art? I would say that these phases are like a medium
through which man tries to reach some place else. However, the one we’re
dealing with now seems to be taking him in circles, like Ravana’s fortress,
instead of showing him the way. Sex isn’t his problem. Up until now, he
hasn’t said a word about sex in any of our conversations. Neither has he
about women.’
‘That’s surprising . . . that’s the only thing he ever talks about.’
‘He never talks about women, does he, he talks about their beauty. Time
after time, it’s about beauty. He’s not a slave to sex. He’s a slave to beauty.
He himself doesn’t know what he’s in search of, but he searches,
nevertheless,’ said Balasubramanian.
‘It’s all quite baffling. What you say is true, though . . . he might roam
about in the throes of infatuation, but he will never cross the line. I think
he’s coming.’

•
‘Shall we leave, Balu?’ asked Raman, with new-found enthusiasm.
Balasubramanian smiled, seeing that Raman had attained his next twenty-
minute birth. ‘It’s been three months since I’ve heard Anna sing. There was
a time when I used to accompany Anna everywhere. We would go from
kutcheri to kutcheri in his car and I’d attend every concert of his. He has an
evergreen fan base . . . such is the pedigree of the Madurai school he
belongs to. His fan following down south is pretty big.’
The temple ground was just beyond the agraharam. The sound of the
nadaswaram echoed in the distance. ‘It’s Pillai!’ said Raman, thrilled to the
bone. ‘Bloody scoundrel . . . is that a nadaswaram in his hand or what?
Damn him . . . this is pure murder . . . he melts us like wax, doesn’t he?’
Balasubramanian walked ahead, gently swaying his head in appreciation.
‘Motherfucker, he’s killing us with his music . . . ’ Raman moaned.
‘Anna has listened to this record plate so many times it’s almost eroded,’
said Saminathan.
‘Balu, pay attention . . . in the third charanam of this song, he’ll descend
into the lower register ever so gradually, as though lowering his head in
front of the goddess . . . motherfucker . . . the brahma rakshasan . . . did you
see that?’
The locality was completely deserted. Illuminated by the lamps lined up
on the verandas of the houses, the entire agraharam glowed like a soft-red
brushstroke against the black canvas of the night. ‘Meow,’ cried a solitary
cat seated on one of the verandas. Banana barks, shredded to pieces, lay
strewn all over the streets. ‘Who’s that?’ called out an old man seated on
another veranda.
When he crossed the agraharam and reached the temple’s entrance,
Balasubramanian was astonished by the crowd gathered there. There would
have been at least two thousand people. Seated on bare sand, they were
listening to the nadaswaram resounding through the loudspeakers. The glow
of the brinjal-shaped lights that hung a few feet away revealed reams and
reams of spellbound faces.
Upon seeing Saminathan, Nayakar’s men came running. ‘Chairs have
been arranged, aiya,’ a man who wore his hair in a tuft announced
respectfully.
‘Don’t think we need them . . . why don’t we sit down on the floor?’ said
Raman.
‘He may need it, Anna . . . you’re unbelievable . . . ’ said Saminathan.
Balasubramanian smiled.
‘You’re stuck at Ramanathan precisely because you listen to music
without dirtying your vaetti,’ said Raman, chuckling. ‘All right . . . as you
wish. Let’s listen in luxury this time.’
The men placed wooden chairs by the side of the hall. Balasubramanian
settled into one of them. ‘The thrill you feel before a kutcheri is no ordinary
feeling. It’s the same as what a drunkard feels when he gets a whiff of
liquor . . . yes?’ said Raman
‘I don’t feel that way.’
‘Have you felt that way about anything at all? At least about your
wedding night?’
Balasubramanian laughed.
From the opposite end, they saw Subbu Iyer entering post-haste, with his
accompanists in tow. ‘The high has deserted Anna. He’s rushing to the
green room for another swig,’ said Saminathan.
‘Shut it, will you . . . this place is full of Nayakars, Thevars and many
such Brahmin devotees. They may take offence,’ said Raman.
The ensemble of accompanists climbed on to the stage through the back.
A couple of them began setting up the microphones. ‘Foo, foo,’ they blew
into them to check the sound. Two forms emerged from the darkness and
approached the row of chairs. It was Nayakar and Chandra.
Balasubramanian turned to catch a glimpse of Raman. He looked frozen.
Her saree rustling, Chandra came up to Balasubramanian and sat down
beside him. ‘Settled in already?’ she asked, as she took her seat. She had
changed into another saree. Blue, again. The blue of the skies, this time.
The workmanship in its zari-embroidered borders was breathtaking. When
she swept the free end of the saree and tucked it in as she sat down, it
seemed as though a peacock had unfurled and furled its plumage. What was
it that had caressed him? Was it the end of the saree or the wind in its
sweep, wondered Balasubramanian, enraptured. There wafted in the air the
pleasing fragrance of the screw-pine flower. The fragrance of face powder.
And a myriad other fragrances.
As Chandra tossed her head, Balasubramanian felt as though a calf had
kicked him on the chest. How is it possible that a woman can turn her neck
with such grace? How does a solitary movement become a tremendous
display of artistry? How does one translate it into words? Like the turn of a
peacock’s neck. As though the turn of a peacock’s neck is capable of
finding expression in language. What meaningless words. We try to
recompense one ineffability with another.
The accompanists had seated themselves on the stage. The violin and the
mridangam were warming up for the kutcheri with faint murmurs and
delicate reverberations. A boy entered the stage and rolled out a striped
jamakalam on the dais. He folded it double and spread a silk towel over it.
A large silver jug was brought in and placed on the floor. Raman had once
let slip that they would fill the jug with honey-scented cognac mixed with a
dash of soda. There were fans enough for Subbu Iyer to have cognac
delivered from France every month.
Chandra turned around and rested her hand on Balasubramanian’s. ‘Had
your meal?’ she asked. Her touch sent tremors through Balasubramanian’s
body. He looked at Raman for a fleeting second, before saying ‘yes’.
Without removing her hand, she said, ‘They’ve made adai for the night . . .
for after the kutcheri . . . I don’t have dinner usually.’
‘I don’t like having adai for dinner either.’
‘It’s too heavy,’ said Chandra.
Balasubramanian was anxious for her to remove her hand from his. He
tried to withdraw his hand without drawing attention, but he couldn’t move
it.
Subbu Iyer arrived on stage. As he walked in, the crowd erupted in a wild
applause. The applause grew even louder as he sat down. He folded his
palms together, acknowledging the audience, and waited for the applause to
die down. With a smile, he opened the jug beside him and poured the liquid
into a silver tumbler. Seeing that, the front row broke into loud claps. He
raised the tumbler to the gallery, moved his lips as if to say ‘cheers’, and
drew a couple of sips. He set it down, out of the way, and turned to look at
the accompanist on the violin. Balasubramanian caught a fleeting glance
caress Chandra and brush past her in the blink of an eye.
‘Mmmm,’ Subbu Iyer began humming in a muted voice. He cared little
for tradition when he performed at village fests. He would render songs in
any sequence, in any way he pleased. Until the moment he sat down, he
himself wouldn’t know what he would sing. While the violinist and the
mridangist sat in panic at this predicament, the chap on the tambura was
enjoying himself, mirthfully displaying his teeth to the gallery. To him, the
kutcheri was a game the king played with his subjects, it seemed. ‘Na . . . na
. . . na,’ Subbu Iyer crooned.
‘Anna’s about to begin with the Ashtapadi . . . he’s bringing to us the
divine romance of Krishna and Radha . . . ’ said Saminathan.
‘Nonsense, we are at a Murugan temple,’ said Raman dismissing the idea.
‘But he’s a madcap . . . you should know,’ said Saminathan.
‘How can you tell?’ asked Balasubramanian. He expected him to begin
with Annamalai Reddiyar’s ‘Kavadi Chindhu’, in praise of the deity
Murugan.
‘I know it, that’s all . . . I’ve been listening to him for ages, haven’t I . . .
won’t I be able to travel with him a little?’ said Saminathan, smiling.
‘Ya ramitha vanamalina saki, ya ramitha . . . ’ began Subbu Iyer, just as
Saminathan had predicted. A faint wave of surprise rippled through the
crowd. The song grew into a rapturous crescendo of all the moods of
romance – the pangs of separation, the yearning, the turmoil, the fretting,
the occasional bitterness – seeped into the darkness that sheathed the crowd
and fell like soft, invisible rain.
And then, whimsically jumping to a different plane altogether, he sang
‘Krishna nee begane baro’, a fervent call of devotion. Next, without any
rhyme or reason, came ‘Thoondilpuzhuvinaipol veliye sudar vilakinai pol’,
drawing the audience back into the turmoil of separation, the turmoil of a
worm in an angler’s hook, of the lamp flame fluttering in the wind.
Seamlessly, he moved to ‘Nagumo mo ganale’, a joyous appeal for refuge.
As he extricated himself from the inebriating music, Balasubramanian
understood what was going on. The violin was moaning. The mridangist
was knocking on his instrument with a tuning peg. Yearning indeed. Every
song was one of yearning. Will you not come, have you deserted me, where
are you, why do you not think of me . . . ‘Dhun’, the metallic timbre of the
mridangam, reverberated as though in agreement.
The song that Balasubramanian awaited with bated breath followed next.
‘Alarsara parithaapam.’ A Swathi Thirunal composition he had listened to
as a child seated on his mother’s lap. A quaint rendering of the ragam
surutti. A water snake sailing through a rivulet. An earthworm sliding on
glass. A lone bird gliding northward into oblivion. Can loneliness be this
magnificent? Can being deserted with savage cruelty be so sweet? Can
there be tremendous victory in being utterly annihilated? Vexation and
unrest surfaced without warning. Balasubramanian drew his hand back in a
trice. He glanced up at the gigantic black marquee of night-time. Endless
pores of light. Sparkling, indelible eyes. Why am I here in this moment?
Which great unknowable is toying with me?
Hearing a whimpering, Balasubramanian turned to look. Raman was
seated with both his hands clasped to his chest, tears streaming down his
face. Shorn of its feathers, the bird swam the firmament. As its wings fell
away, one after the other, the bird alone rose upwards. Then, casting the
bird aside, it was only flight that rose upwards. In the vast sky of emptiness,
a solitary soundwave – the sole remnant of ‘existence’ – wiggled in awe at
the sight of its own being. Here I am, it said. Forever, it said. There’s
nothing save this moment, it said, as it remained there.
All of a sudden, as the sound of a chair being moved fell on his ears,
Balasubramanian was severed from his thoughts. Raman had collapsed and
was slumped over the armrest. ‘Be quiet,’ Saminathan whispered to
Balasubramanian. ‘Anna, Anna,’ Saminathan called out softly. Raman had
fainted. ‘Dei, lift him up,’ he instructed Nayakar’s attendant who was seated
behind them. The man hauled Raman up effortlessly. ‘Take the passage
behind the stage and go straight to the bungalow. Make sure you remain in
the darkness and do not attract any attention.’ The attendant carried Raman
out as though he were carrying a baby.
Raman’s spectacles had fallen to the ground. Balasubramanian picked
them up and followed the men out. As he glanced back, he could hear
Chandra talking with Nayakar, as though nothing had happened. They had
to hurry through the darkness. The man in front walked double quick and
lay Raman down on the veranda.
‘What happened?’ asked Balasubramanian.
‘It’s nothing . . . this happens to him on the rare occasion while listening
to music,’ said Saminathan.
 Raman regained consciousness after they splashed water on his face and
fanned him. He lay motionless for some time, and stared vacuously into the
distance with widened eyes.
‘Please have coffee, Anna,’ said Saminathan.
‘I don’t want it,’ said Raman.
‘I say, have it.’ Raman yielded to Saminathan’s chide, received the cup
with both his hands and drank the coffee. He realized only then how much
he had needed it.
Raman sat up. ‘Let me take my shirt off . . . it’s drenched, ’ he said. ‘Dei,
did I scare the others?’
‘Not at all, no one noticed.’
‘Anna would have. He misses nothing,’ said Raman.
‘Is he all right? What happened?’ asked Nayakar, arriving on the scene.
‘It’s nothing, just exhaustion . . . he’s up now,’ replied Saminathan. ‘Anna,
I’m heading back in with Nayakar, you both carry on.’ He turned to
Nayakar. ‘Let’s go, sir . . . how’s the kutcheri . . . divine music, isn’t it?’ he
said, fading into the darkness.
‘What a man,’ said Raman. ‘Did you see that? He intuitively understood
that what I wish for now is to talk with you alone,’ he said.
Balasubramanian smiled.
‘Anna’s given me the answer . . . he has shown me the way . . . he’s a
gandharvan, all right! A celestial being!’ said Raman. ‘Through him, divine
wisdom is passed on from the skies. But the accursed body and mind cannot
withstand it . . . and so he drinks . . .’
Balasubramanian sat up and rested his face on his hands, in a frame of
mind to listen further.
‘You asked, didn’t you, if I too had been defeated? I have been defeated,
disgraced and run to the ground. So much so that I can’t stand up on my
own two feet now. Back in my home town, the villagers dig trenches around
the trees in their co-heirs’ farms and bury the navacharam in it. As the
poisonous salt ascends through the sap of the tree, its shoots, its roots and
its branches, every part of it turns toxic. The entire tree begins to wilt until
it stands dry and parched, as though licked by fire. The poison coursed
through me in much the same way . . . for three years, I’ve been burning
without end . . . ’
‘Hmm,’ said Balasubramanian.
‘Anna has said it now. I am unable to verbalize what he said. But, without
this poison in me, what am I? Wouldn’t I be a mere lump of food? The
poison that courses through my veins and burns me is what pulsates in my
fingertips as music, isn’t it? Every ache in my heart is but music, don’t you
see? Am I blabbering? I am unable to express it, Balu. It is only because I
haven’t been able to express it all these days that I go on expressing myself.
That is what my writing is about. I can’t bear this, Balu . . . my chest hurts.
Come, all ye shrews . . . every one of you inhabiting this world. Come and
hit me with your every ploy, douse me with your every poison – I feel like
getting up and screaming so. Don’t let me cool down. Set me on fire.’
Out of the blue, Raman pounded his chest with his fist. ‘It burns . . .
burns.’
After a while, he shook his head and continued. ‘I am one destined to
smoulder all his life and reduce to charcoal . . . I can’t do this, Balu . . . I
can’t . . . I feel like I’ll die this very day. Please stay here with me . . .
you’re like my younger brother. Everything that has eluded me is in you . . .
the places that I’ve never been to are in you . . . you’re something else
altogether . . . what chiselled looks . . . when I look at you, I feel fulfilled. I
am someone who lives for the day. Every now and then I perish and am
born again. And music exists just to finish me off . . . I can’t, Balu . . . To
amass what is needed for many births with one bilious body . . . I can’t do
this.’
As though completely emptied of words, Raman fell silent. ‘Alarsara
parithaapam’, the violin cooed somewhere far away. The notes fluttered
like brocade in the wind. ‘You asked me why the colour blue captivates me.
There’s poison in it, Balu. Tell me, can there be a hue more apt for
apocalyptic poison than the quiet dazzle of peacock blue? What a hue!
Somewhere in the depths of the forest there is a king cobra the shade of
peacock blue. Surely there is. I have seen it in my dreams. It flows as blue
in the moonlight. ‘Alarsara parithaapam’, it snakes as a song through the
strains of the surutti . . . Now, on top of that hill, it slithers in the cold, in
solitude . . . I see it. I am blabbering once again . . . but tell me, how do I
explain it? I don’t care for wisdom or for salvation. Beauty will suffice.
Even if the venom of pulchritude should set me ablaze, I will crave for
more. You know, the great beauty of being that permeates the entire length
of the body – from the tips of the toes to the strands of the hair adorning the
head, I desire that . . . Anna has sung the very meaning of beauty just now.
Is she the one who possesses it? No, it is in my yearning, Balu. All the
beauty I behold is born from the yearning which blazes like fire inside of
me . . . The very same yearning that this man presents in his music,
squeezing it of every last drop. Is it a mortal yearning? A yearning that’s but
a longing for something? No. It’s yearning, that’s all. It’s the primordial
yearning that pervades this cosmos . . . it doesn’t need a reason to exist . . .
and that man on stage is saying exactly that through his music.
‘You think I’m overdoing it, don’t you? I’m not one to be content with a
Kaveri who flows quietly, she must burst her banks. She must invade the
town and wash away the houses, the streets, the temples, melding all of
them into one . . . the waste, the refuse, the temple garlands – all of it must
mingle and float and swirl in her. Isn’t that why I was born. I’ve been
destined such a life . . . I want more of this anguish, Balu. I want more of
the venom. Every serpent that stings has drawn a drop of my blood. Every
pearl of that blood is music, isn’t it? Pristine music. Not the kind of music
that’s listened to with the ears . . . Listen now, Anna’s still singing the very
same thing. ‘Alarsara parithaapam’ . . . how it courses and twines and
flows! Balu, how the hell did Swathi reign as king, harbouring all this
longing in his heart? Reign as king, you say? Don’t give me that . . . he
thawed and melted, burning to death at just thirty-three. Well, I’m still here
. . . but as long as I’m around, I’ll go on burning . . . Anna sings on . . . now
the stage is imbued with a music that only he can hear. And it is that which
courses through my blood . . . that which sets me ablaze . . . enough . . .
This is the life that’s been bestowed on me . . . this is enough.’
Balasubramanian’s gaze was fixed on Raman, who lay there with his eyes
closed. It seemed as though rapture had imbued his entire face. After a
while, the muscles of his face eased, restoring its peace. With a sigh, Raman
glanced up and said, ‘Balu, why don’t we go via Thiruchendur when we
head back to your place?’
‘Oh, you plan to come with me to Nagercoil? I thought you said you’d be
leaving with Subbu Iyer.’
‘No . . . I feel like visiting Thiruchendur. Nothing important, I just want to
adorn the goddess with peacock-blue silk . . . it’s possible to get something
for a hundred and fifty, right?
‘We can manage that . . . which of the goddesses?’ asked
Balasubramanian. After all, Murugan, who was also the principal deity of
the temple in Thiruchendur, had two consorts.
‘Valli, the tribal queen, of course . . . blue is the colour of the jungle, isn’t
it? If it’s for Deivanai, they say it should be the colour of mango.’
‘We’ll get it done,’ said Balasubramanian.
For a brief while, both sat there, unmoving, listening to Subbu Iyer’s
alapanai. The capering shadow of the neem leaves on the front yard, the
dim whiteness of the walls of buildings in the distance, the red lips of light
in the agraharam beyond – all of it had become the very surutti. The wind
rocked the surutti into a gentle dance. It was only when Subbu Iyer fell
silent, the violin droned solitarily before concluding the piece, and there
arose the sound of the clearing of throats, the ruffling noises and the unified
roar of the crowd that Balasubramanian became aware of the man’s voice.
His was not in the least bit the voice of a songster. Fuzzy diction. A style of
peppering the song lines with whimsical pauses. The alapanai too, like the
placing of kolam dots by hand, would caper along, now grazing, now
planting itself firmly. Still, the kolam is completed by the mind, just as stars
meld into bears and prancing horses, isn’t it?
Raman was snoring softly. The veranda was not quite wide enough for
him, and Balasubramanian wondered if he might fall. But to sleep while
balancing oneself on narrow verandas was quite the custom in Thanjavur.
Subbu Iyer went on to the next song. ‘Brova barama?’ Balasubramanian
got to his feet to make a trip to the toilet. A toilet had been built at the end
of a walkway that led out from a corner at the far end of the huge bungalow.
The light switch was nowhere to be found. After searching for it without
luck, he stepped into the darkness.
While washing his feet, he heard himself murmur ‘Alarsara
parithaapam’. Like a wave crashing hard against a rock, embracing it,
showering it with blossoms, sweeping and cascading over it, he heard the
complete alapanai that Subbu Iyer had just sung, all over again. Overcome
with emotion, he broke into sobs. As the tears streamed down, he washed
his face, splashing it over and over with cold water. Pressing down that
which choked his throat and gripped his heart, fanning it cool with
determined breaths, he wiped his face hard with his handkerchief, and with
a deep sigh walked back towards the front veranda.

OceanofPDF.com
 The Churning Curd

Just as he was about to leave to fetch the professor, Kumar asked me to join
him. ‘Please come, we won’t be long. What’ll you do here anyway?’ he
said.
‘Aruna told me she’ll come. Thought I’ll wait for her,’ I drawled.
‘Right, so you can welcome her with a ceremonious arati, yes? Just come,
will you,’ he said, and held the car door open for me. I got in. ‘One should
be devoted to the wife, but not foolishly.’
He started the car. ‘The professor gets into a rather good mood while
attending events like these. He’s a real treat to listen to then . . . you’ll see. I
didn’t want you to miss out on it,’ said Kumar.
‘But won’t the missus be around, not to mention her hallelujahs?’
‘No, she won’t. We’ve asked her to come in Stephen sir’s car. My van
makes her dizzy, she complained. So I said, fine, please come in the
ambassador, your head won’t spin . . . It’s your job to tactfully move the
conversation to the Kamba Ramayanam. Don’t you let slip words like
“Jesus” or “Bible”. The stream will take the wrong turn and trickle out.’
Kumar drove the car as though he was in no hurry.
‘It’s barely three now. The event doesn’t start until six, right?’ I said.
‘I daresay we are late already. The professor’s transcended all notions of
time. He’ll have no clue if it’s morning or evening. What’s more, all the
motormouths about town will have flocked to him by now and our blessed
man will be hanging on their every word like a little child. We’ll have to get
him to bathe, tie his vaetti and put on a jibba before we take him along.’
‘Do we bathe him too?’ I laughed.
‘The way it’s going, we may well have to.’
The car turned the corner at Punnaivanam. ‘I’ve entrusted Sajin with a job
and I’ve told him it’ll show me whether he has the smarts to handle bigger
things,’ said Kumar.
‘Isn’t it a working day at his college?’
‘Yes, but I remembered this only last night. It’s not a job we can handle,
so I phoned him right away. He was at my doorstep, bright and early at
eight thirty. Too early, actually. So I had to send him on an errand to my
sister’s house before I could station him at the hall. Despite being a Tamil
teacher, he’s a good chap. We’ll see.’
As we’d expected, Professor was seated in the veranda in nothing more
than a vaetti. Exposing his small, shrivelled body, pale as the underbelly of
a gecko, he was hiccuping with laughter. Opposite him, a bare-chested man,
hairy and dark, sat with an arm around the wooden pillar, talking at the top
of his voice. ‘Don’t move. There . . . right in front of you. It’s a water snake,
I said. But by then the boy’s already scrambled up the coconut tree . . .
Anna, Anna, he shrieks non-stop. Watch out, snakes climb coconut trees
with ease, I say. Then he begins to wail Yesuve, Yesuve . . .’ The man
stopped speaking when he took note of us.
‘Kumaru! What brings you here?’ said Professor when he saw us. ‘How
are the children . . . Did you hear what this fellow just said? The snake can
climb the palm, it seems. Can it tap toddy, I ask, ha ha ha . . . ’ he guffawed.
‘I told you. He doesn’t remember a thing,’ Kumar whispered to me.
‘Ready to leave?’ he said loudly.
‘Aiyo! I completely forgot,’ exclaimed the panic-stricken professor.
‘Didn’t realize that today’s a Sunday. See, the church-forgetting days are
upon me already . . . ’
‘It is not a Sunday,’ said Kumar, a wee bit vexed.
‘Not a Sunday?’ said the professor doubtfully, ‘Right . . . so . . . it is
Gnanaraj’s daughter’s wedding . . . ’ he concluded, in a feeble voice.
‘Wrong again, that’s in the month of Chithirai. We’re only in Maasi,’ said
Kumar, settling down.
I sat down on the veranda too. When Professor beamed affectionately in
my direction, I knew that he had mistaken me for someone else. ‘Pastor,
when did you come?’ he said. I couldn’t help smiling.
‘The Kumari Mandram event is happening today. You’re supposed to be
there . . . ’ Kumar went on.
The professor’s face brightened, ‘Right! That’s it!’ he said, blooming into
a smile. ‘Daisy told me just as she was leaving, but I forgot what it was that
she said, Kumaru . . . ’ His eyes rested on me.
‘This is Jeyamohan . . . the writer . . . ’
In a flash, the professor had my hands in his. ‘Aiyo . . . I read ‘Maadan
Motcham’ just yesterday. Now that’s what we call a story. A classic.
Kumaru, have you read it?’
‘I have,’ said Kumar. ‘You haven’t bathed yet . . . Please get going, there’s
no time . . . ’
The professor’s granddaughter poked her head out and smiled.
‘Got the hot water ready?’ asked Kumar.
‘No one told me to,’ she said.
‘Please put it on at once . . . we have to leave soon.’
The moment she disappeared inside, the shirtless man resumed, ‘. . . the
funny thing is, it wasn’t a snake at all, you know?’
‘Then?’ said Professor with great eagerness.
‘Elay, off you go . . . beat it . . . ’ Kumar chided the man, getting him to
his feet. Gesturing with his face, the man took leave of Professor and
cleared out.
‘Where’s the event happening, Kumaru?’ asked the professor.
‘At the Assisi school. All the writers from our district will be there.
Pachaimal’s honouring them.’
‘What’s that got to do with me?’ said the professor, chuckling.
‘Everything. You’re the writers’ owner, aren’t you?’ I said.
The professor broke into a hearty guffaw, choked and spluttered to a stop.
‘Heard that, Kumaru? To rear a writer is no joke, mind you,’ he said, and
cracked up again. I decided to manoeuvre him into the mood for Kamban
right then and called to mind the verse I had already settled on.
‘I thought of you yesterday, while reading a verse from the Kamba
Ramayanam,’ I said.
At once the professor’s face grew tender. ‘You read Kamban? Yesterday?
Must have been a divine moment ordained by the stars. Our hand doesn’t
reach for the great verse without reason. For, it is he who leads it there.
Now that we’ve begun talking about it, he is right here amongst us. I can
feel his presence. He’s an immortal poet, a mahakavi that mankind bore
witness to . . . ’ Enraptured, he asked, ‘Which verse?’ raising his eyebrows
at me. I recited it.
Like the churning curd,
life sways back and forth
beneath the churner
as the senses crumble
in love-mad anguish
How many, the miseries
birthed by your parting
Must I measure
the immeasurable?
‘You shouldn’t recite it so, you must sing it to tune. Try singing it at a
leisurely pace in the abheri ragam.’ He demonstrated it with feeling. Like
clothes fluttering in the wind, the loose muscles of his face rippled with
emotion. ‘You see what he says there? “The miseries birthed by your
parting”. Can there be a greater misery than birth itself? For, man is not a
solitary being. Every human being is connected to another. And that another
is connected to another. Just as the arms, the legs and the fingers are
connected to this body, man is conjoined with humanity. The disunion of an
individual drop from that great ocean is what we call separation. Death and
separation are indeed the same. Every separation’s a tiny death in itself.’
The tremor of old age vanished from the professor’s voice and a different
kind of tremor, one born of fervour, took its place. His voice went up a few
decibels. It was a delicate voice, the kind that could turn shrill. ‘“How many
the miseries . . . must I measure the immeasurable,” he asks. You can’t keep
count of man’s miseries, can you . . . they are truly endless. There are
miseries of all sorts . . . a different kind of pain for every moment of
existence. And when someone says they are separated from a loved one, all
the pain in this world rushes into them . . . Lord! You cleanse man with
unimaginable suffering before you embrace him into your fold. All
suffering is but your divine mercy, my Jesus!’
I navigated the conversation with great care. ‘I get what he’s referring to
as “senses crumble in love-mad anguish”. The sorrow of separation is so
unbearable that it destroys the five senses. But what’s the meaning of the
first few lines? He seems to be suggesting that the life within us is tossed
about, turbulent as curd under the sway of a churning rod. Fine, but why the
“the back and forth”. I don’t get that.’
‘Kamban’s a mahakavi. Great poets are like small children. They don’t
think cerebrally, they simply tell us what they see. Anyway, it isn’t he who
is saying all this, is it? He’s a crazy fellow. It is Saraswathi who speaks
through his tongue,’ said the professor. He got to his feet and swung his
arms about, pretending to churn curd. ‘One has to imagine the scene in its
entirety. The curd’s being churned in a pot with a churner. The pot is our
body. The curd is the life within. And the churning rod is the suffering.
Suffering throws life about every which way. Have you seen how curd
looks when it’s being churned? It will gather to one side, froth and rise, and
threaten to leap out any second. At once the churner will chase after the
curd. Afraid that it’ll be kicked out, the curd will rush to the other side. Not
a moment’s rest can it afford. Foaming and frothing, huffing and puffing . . .
the great suffering man is put through is much the same. The turbulence of
it all – that is torment. This or that. This way or that way. Neither allowing
you to live, nor die . . . that is what Kamban’s talking about.’
I was watching that scene in my mind’s eye. ‘He doesn’t stop there,
though. His words are double-edged swords. Did you pay attention to the
previous verse?’ the professor went on. I wasn’t able to recollect it. ‘You
sing it, Kumaru’ he said.
‘I don’t remember it,’ said Kumar with a sheepish grin.
‘Not a hope in hell . . . the same plight then and now . . . goodness knows
what you studied,’ said the professor and proceeded to recite the verse
himself. “When sadness cometh, there dawns clarity” – that is how it
begins. The verse you mentioned follows this one. When you churn curd,
you get butter. When you churn suffering, you get clarity. Didn’t they churn
the ocean of milk to obtain amudham? Amudham means immortality. That
is what I said earlier, that suffering is the path to Christ . . . Dei, do you
attend church at least now?’
‘I need to,’ said Kumar.
‘Splendid . . . the same bloody face then and now, what else can one
expect . . . ’
The granddaughter peeked out again. ‘The water’s heated up.’
‘I’ll bathe and be back, Kumaru,’ said the professor.
Kumar turned to the granddaughter. ‘Can you put out his vaetti and jibba,
please? He’s heading to a function,’ he said.
‘Dei, will all our boys be there?’ the professor asked.
‘Yes, of course. Carlos, Perumal, all of them,’ responded Kumar.
‘Will Rajam be there?’
Kumar hesitated. ‘He will,’ he said.
‘I want to see him, Kumaru . . . I had a dream last week. That boy’s won a
prize, I don’t know if it’s for poetry or a novel, but the person handing out
the prize was Nehru . . . ’
‘Nehru?’ I chuckled.
‘Well, it was a dream. Anyhow, Nehru lives on only in the dreams of the
khadi-clad like me, doesn’t he? So . . . Nehru’s handing him his prize. Our
boy, dressed in a sparkling white jibba, walks up to him in style, receives
the prize and says “thanks” into the mic . . . he mentions my name. Elay,
don’t forget Kumarapillai . . . you’ve forgotten Kumarapillai of all people, I
cry out. But he doesn’t hear me. Nor do the others in the gathering. And
then I woke up.’ He sighed. ‘I really want to see him, Kumaru. There’s this
feeling in me, you know, that I may not see him again.’
‘Please go on, it’s getting late,’ said Kumar.
‘I’ll be right back,’ said the professor, and disappeared inside.
‘Rajam’s been coming up in every conversation of late. These dreams
seem quite frequent too,’ Kumar said to me.
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Why else . . . that’s a sheep that has lost its way. The shepherd will think
about nothing but that.’
I smiled.
 ‘Last week, while at the wedding feast of Ramasamy’s daughter, the
professor happened to run into Rajam. I was by the professor’s side then.
Just as he was stepping on to the road, Rajam comes by. I don’t see him; it
is the professor who spots him first. ‘Isn’t that our Rajam,’ he asks. Clearly,
Rajam is not expecting him. His shirt is covered in dirt. There is sand in his
hair. With Kattayanvilai Gopalan for company, he has gotten piss drunk and
passed out somewhere on the road. They have just come to their senses and
are walking towards us in that state. “Rajam, is that you, son?” says the
professor. That was that. Rajam collapses to his haunches and covers his
head with his hands. Still unsteady, Gopalan goes on burbling, “small drink,
only whisky”. By then, Rajam’s sobbing as though a dam has broken. I
somehow manage to get Professor into the car. “Dei, take him to the
hospital, he’s not well,” the professor laments all the way back. He has little
experience with drunkards, he wouldn’t have even imagined that it’s
possible to drink so much . . . ’ said Kumar.
‘But the entire town knows about Rajam,’ I said.
‘The professor has known too, for twenty-five long years . . . but not that
this man has turned into such a piece of work . . . that’s what I meant.
Rajam deteriorated right in front of the professor’s eyes, you know. The
professor left no stone unturned to rescue him . . . he was even ready to fall
at the girl’s feet . . . ’
‘Which girl?’
‘Forget it. Why talk about that now?’
‘What’s the harm, tell me,’ I said.
‘In fact, this is the very reason I asked Sajin here. Just so we can present
Rajam before the professor, even if in a half-decent state. I’ve instructed
Sajin to buy him a large peg around three in the afternoon.’
‘Aiyo,’ I said, horrified.
‘It’s all for good reason. No drink all day and he won’t be able to stand up
straight. Down one at three o’clock and he’ll be sober by five. Then we can
whisk him away to Ramasamy’s house, get him spruced up a bit and
produce him before the professor. With that, our job will have been done.
We’ve arranged for fresh clothes to be kept at Ramasamy’s house,’ he said.
 ‘Sajin’s your protégé after all, he’ll manage fine,’ I said.
‘He’s a good chap. But he reads only half of any book I tell him to . . .
makes me cry myself hoarse,’ said Kumar.
‘Was Rajam your batchmate?’ I asked.
‘He was my senior by a year. When I joined college, Rajam was the
professor’s right-hand man. And what a strapping man he was! You know,
they use mature palm logs to erect pillars in the temples around here . . . for,
when you scour that palm, it gleams like black granite . . . that’s how he
looked. He was trained in the art of adimurai too. His was from a
Karainadar family. They had become landowners when the maharajas had
doled out land under karamozhivu. He had sturdy, muscular limbs. Long
hair that flowed down his shoulders. A flourishing moustache, twirled sharp
at the ends . . . he seemed like a character right out of a historical novel. I
was a little frightened by him at first sight. On my first day in college, when
I’d just reached the threshold of my classroom, the professor turned to
Rajam, who was by his side, and said, “Can you find out what he wants?”
The professor’s small-made, he looked pitiable next to this man who stood
towering over him like Hidimban, twirling his moustache from time to
time.’
‘And then?’
‘Scared, I waited outside the classroom. Rajam walked up to me. “Come,
let’s get some chaya,” he said.
‘“Where’s your house?” he asked me as we walked to the tea stall. He
speaks so softly that others can barely hear him, I’m sure you’ve noticed.
The moment I heard his voice, I knew there was no place in his heart for
man’s filth. I was overcome by an urge to hug him tight . . . ’
I smiled. ‘I know . . . Whenever I’ve spoken to Rajam Annachi, I’ve felt
compelled to hold his hand or touch him.’
‘He was a guileless man then, and so he is now. He harbours no hatred,
resentment or jealousy towards another person. Rajam’s forever number
one in the professor’s heart. In the beginning, I too was a little miffed with
the way things stood. I came to understand later that that’s how it will be.
No one can take Rajam’s place in the professor’s heart, not even his own
children. Suppose Jesus were to descend to earth now, Professor may well
say “Rajam, come here”, and introduce him first.’
‘Annachi did not finish his PhD, did he?’
‘How would he? By then, he had been licked by fire . . . ’ said Kumar.
‘What do you mean, fire?’
After a moment’s hesitation, Kumar said, ‘Rajam was uncommonly
tender-hearted. The story goes that when he was watching the film
Praaptham, that tragic love story starring Sivaji Ganesan, he cried his eyes
out and made such a scene that the theatre manager switched on the lights
to check what was going on. Such a man fell in love all of a sudden . . .’
I had guessed as much. ‘Really? Who was the girl?’
‘Why get into all that now? She was from an elite Nair family and was
studying English literature. If I mention her name, I’m sure you’ll know.
Her older brother’s a Malayalam writer. He worked at the Express too.’
‘Oh.’
‘Forget that . . . ’ said Kumar. ‘What’s love at that age? It’s much the same
as kids picking out toys, yes? If it looks different, that’s what you’ll want. If
it’s something you can’t find elsewhere, then you’re all the more certain
that you can’t live without it.’
‘Annachi has beautiful eyes. They are a perfect reflection of his gentle
soul. One look at them and any good-hearted girl will have fallen for him,’ I
said.
‘Well, as a maiden, every woman has nothing but goodness in her heart. A
fruit that is sweet when tender and sours as it ripens, Professor once told us.
Rajam’s allure is what must’ve drawn her to him at first. He may have had
an iron exterior, but on the inside he was soft as ice cream. He fell for her in
no time. He was never restrained in anything he did; could he have been
moderate with his affection? You know how Rajam seemed in those days?
You’ll find these pitiable souls in the back rows of the church, their faces
melting like wax during service . . . Rajam’s face began to wear the same
look. The girl too fell headlong for him, as though she’d slipped and fallen
into a surging river. I’m sure she wouldn’t have expected it to go as far as it
did, but she was helpless.’
 ‘Then?’
‘Then what? It was a dream. One has to wake up from it, right? When her
parents got wind of it, they didn’t spare her. A few stinging slaps were
enough for her to open her eyes and come out of the dream. But he could
not. She herself forbade him from talking to her. Rajam’s a cultured man.
Once she’d said so, he never spoke to her again, not a single word. He’d
simply wait by the streets she took. He’d stand all night outside her hostel,
staring at her window. He didn’t sleep. He didn’t eat. He didn’t speak. Not
even when spoken to. Unable to bear Rajam’s suffering, Professor himself
went up to the girl and pleaded with her. Don’t kill my son, he said, begging
her with folded hands. She broke down and wept. That brought her father to
the college. He stormed to the professor’s room and flung every possible
obscenity at him until there was nothing left to be said. “Are you a teacher
or a matchmaker?” I myself heard him say to the professor.
‘Professor sat in his room with his head lowered, tears streaming from his
eyes. I remember being riled up, burning to know what the girl’s father had
said to push him to tears. I’ll cut the motherfucker to pieces, I told myself.
But when he moaned, “Is there no help for my son any more”, I figured that
he was weeping over Rajam, and my eyes welled up too. Soon enough, they
had the girl taken out of college and admitted some place else . . .
somewhere in Pune or Baroda. One fine day, when Rajam came to college,
he learnt that she was gone. Witless, he ran through the playground like a
madman, rammed straight into a tree at the back of the college and
collapsed. He never saw her again. She came back to Thiruvananthapuram,
almost a couple of decades later, that too on work.’
‘The day she left the college was the day when some of our boys took him
away and poured him a few pegs. From then on, it was an endless slide into
a great abyss. It didn’t take long for him to become an alcoholic. Fifteen
days, tops. He’d plunged right in and there was nothing anyone could do.
Words, tears, pleas . . . they had all been tried. His father had even slashed
his hand in front of the goddess at the Muthalamman temple. As blood
streamed down the temple’s steps, he cried, “Drink this, you accursed
woman . . . drink your heart out and give my child back,” and broke into
loud sobs. There’s nothing more to be said now.’

•
Professor returned after washing up. Blotches of washing blue emerged on
his jibba as water dripped from the ends of his carelessly dried hair.
‘Couldn’t you dry your hair well?’ said Kumar. He got up, grabbed a towel
that lay close by and patted the professor’s head with it.
‘Kumaru, I can’t find my wallet,’ said the professor.
‘What do you need that for . . . have you taken your glasses?’
‘Yes.’
‘That’s enough, let’s go.’
Professor alighted watchfully down the steps. ‘Jesus, my Lord,’ he
prayed, closing his eyes for a second before getting into the van. Kumar
took the wheel. I sat down beside the professor. As though resuming a song
after a pause, the professor began to recite another verse from the Kamba
Ramayanam.
No fruit nor creeper
unsinged in the deep forests
No flower, nor tender leaf
unburnt by the touch
of your beloved warrior:
The one who still hath life,
nay, has something known
by such a name.
In a voice weakened by age, the verse resounded like an ancient mantra. I
felt a stirring in my heart even before the meaning had seeped into me.
‘This verse appears two stanzas before the one you recited. Rama’s
separated from Seetha. And Hanuman is describing Rama’s distress to her.
There’s only the physical body in which we’re told that there is life.
Nothing more. There is life. And there’s the body. But to go beyond those
facts and say, “here is a man”, something else is needed . . . and that
something is absent. What unbearable sorrow! There isn’t a single flower or
leaf in the vast forests that’s survived the touch of your husband’s divine
form. There’s not a single fruit or creeper left unscathed by his searing
anguish. The entire forest has wilted. A sorrow that has made an entire
forest wilt. Just imagine, Kumaru.’
But Kumar was not one to take his mind off the road while driving.
‘Even nature cannot bear such overwhelming sorrow,’ I said.
Professor sighed. ‘What a stunning work. But who reads Kamban these
days. Without doubt, epics are the pinnacle of a culture. What the finial
kalasam is to our temples, Kamban is to our society. But our people don’t
get it. What is it about, they ask. They demand to know the meaning. What
is meaning? Does sorrow have meaning? For someone who has understood
sorrow, what more can poetry offer?’
I was still thinking about Annachi. Professor continued. ‘The Kamba
Ramayanam must not be studied from a book. You’ll get nothing from it.
You’d even think it’s just description for description’s sake. You need a
guru. He must teach you life along with the poetry. Not everyone is blessed
enough to have such a guru,’ he said. It felt as though he was gently sinking
into his memories. ‘Perhaps it’s the merit from a past life that I found my
guru, found poetry, and found the heart for poetry. It must be written in our
destinies . . . what else can I say?’
‘Lord knows where he is now . . . ’ he said, pressing his palms together in
prayer. ‘Not a day passes without my uttering his name. If Kottar
Kumarapillai – bless his soul – hadn’t spotted me, I can’t bear to imagine
where I would’ve ended up and what I would’ve done . . . Jesus!’ Tears
flowed from his eyes, spread through the crevices of his wrinkled cheeks,
rolled down his chin and fell on his lap. For a while he sat unmoving, with
hands pressed together in prayer. Won’t Kumar slow down, I thought to
myself. But it seemed as though he had paid no attention to what had
transpired in the back seat.
Professor sniffled and wiped his tears away. Whenever I have met him,
I’ve seen him tear up over one thing or the other. Over Kamban. Over Jesus.
As though, in the autumn of life, his heart had softened and eased its fetters.
As though, like the cool syrup within tender palm fruit, the soul had filled
his heart. ‘Jesus, my Lord,’ he muttered and wiped his eyes. He turned to
me and smiled. He looked like a child that had cried for toffee and having
met with success was now smiling through its tears.That made me smile
too. ‘Have I told you about Kottar Kumarapillai?’ he asked.
‘Yes,’ I replied. My response didn’t quite matter to him. He had already
started on the story.
‘Back then, it wasn’t an easy task to get admitted to the DVD school.
They would collect the entire fee upfront as most wouldn’t pay up later. My
father was a mason by trade, and the construction job was not what it is
today. Six annas as wages and some kanji for lunch was all they got. After
school was over, I would head to wherever my father was working that day.
He would give me half of his kanji. But he didn’t always have work. When
he was in between jobs, we lived on the kanji doled out at Neyyoor
Hospital. All the same, my father wished for me to be educated. When
those such as he decide on something, they make it happen, come what
may. Souls that have witnessed the very depths of existence . . .’
‘The whole town was flabbergasted when I passed the matriculation
exams. A mason’s son had cleared the matric exams! Now he’ll dress in a
white shirt and stand in front of them shoulder to shoulder! It wasn’t just the
upper castes, even the rich of my own ilk burned with resentment . . .
“Ennade, Gnanam, the boy’s eyeing a government job, huh?” they mocked.
My mother’s gait changed overnight. But my father had moved on to the
next decision. “Elay, will you study further?” he asked me. I said yes. He
took me with him to Nagercoil. There were four Christian schools there, but
all of them refused admission without an advance. Fine, let’s try our luck,
we said, and went to DVD next. It was the same story there too.’
I couldn’t take my eyes off the changing expressions on the professor’s
face. ‘We didn’t know what to do. Right at that moment, Pillai appeared on
the scene. I can still see him in my mind’s eye, walking towards us, passing
alternately through shadow and light. Bald and of pitch-dark complexion,
he always dressed in a collarless white jibba and a fine vaetti. A double-
threaded upper cloth over one of his shoulders, a small notebook and pen
tucked in his shirt pocket, forehead smeared with sacred ash, he walked
towards us with his leather slippers clapping noisily against his heels. As I
beheld the man in front of me, walking towards us with his frame upright,
holding the free end of his vaetti in one hand with panache, I stood where I
was, mesmerized. Sure, a man of wealth may have a certain air about him,
but try as he might he’ll never attain the majesty of a man of wisdom.
‘I went up to him and bowed in respect. By then, I had fallen at his feet a
thousand times in spirit. “What is it?” he demanded to know. “I want
admission,” I said. “Why’re you telling me that? Go see the headmaster,” he
said. “I have taken you to be my guru,” I declared. I still don’t know what
made me say that. Sometimes you see someone and feel you’ve known
them all your life? It was like that. He stood still and held my gaze for a
whole minute. “Come,” he said eventually, and led me straight to the
school. “This is my son,” he announced, and secured my admission. He
guaranteed the fee and expenses and put his name down as my guardian
too.
‘That’s how I managed to enter his fold. The relationship with one’s guru
is unlike any other. I am past sixty-four now. It has been forty years since
Pillai passed on. In all these years, not a single day has gone by without my
thinking of him. His daughter is still around. She’s ten years younger to me,
but I cannot bear to sit when speaking with her. She has a son who’s barely
twenty. A carbon copy of Kumarapillai. I can’t bring myself to sit when he
stands either. Back in those days, the moment I opened my eyes in the
morning, I would think of Pillai and leave for his house straight away. It
took some time for him to open up to me. But once he did, he never stopped
talking. I’d be at his doorstep at seven thirty in the morning. His day would
start with the worship of Shiva. He’d head out to bathe around eight thirty. I
would follow him with towel, soap and clothes in hand. He would recite the
Kamba Ramayanam as we walked through the streets. He had a pretty good
voice . . . if you’d heard him sing, you might have mistaken his voice for
the Carnatic vocalist Madurai Somu. But he had no interest in music. He
put his knowledge of ragams to use solely in the rendition of poetry.’
I could feel the professor’s mind traversing through those lessons. ‘He’d
talk about everything – the grammar, the epic, the tradition. And along with
that, he would impart his life experiences too. Without kindness, you cannot
understand poetry, he’d say. He’d talk until your heart was full and sated . .
.’
Suddenly Professor’s voice grew shrill and unsteady. ‘All that I own, all
that I’ve gained, are mere alms handed out by the blessed man. When you
receive something, you must give back. What can we give the guru . . .
what else but the temple we’ve built in our hearts. Wherever he might be,
the great soul is surely listening to my words here and now. Will my master
not know that this poor man remembers him with an aching heart?’
Professor began to tear up again.
We had crossed Chunkankadai. ‘Kumaru, is this Chunkankadai?’ Kumar
did not answer. ‘Dei, are we at Chunkankadai?’
‘Mmm,’ a sound arose from Kumar.
I thought he might have choked up too. ‘Kumaru, I need to pee.’
Kumar stopped the car. Professor got off, squatted by the side of the road
and relieved himself. He had lived with diabetes for thirty-five years.
When we set off again, the professor resumed. ‘One fine day, maybe a
month after I had first met him, he asked me to bring him his coffee from
the kitchen. Since he had told me to, I went in. He was quite an orthodox
man. The Pillais of the Nanjil region were not what they are today. His wife
was far worse. I was aware of it too, but I’m given to following orders
without question. Outraged by my entry, Aachi strode to the front hall.
“What did you say, that this Nadan low-life dares enter my kitchen,” she
demanded to know. Pillai responded calmly, “A place that’s not for him
does not belong to me,” he said. Aachi stood stock-still. I don’t know what
she understood of the whole thing, but she took one long look at me before
turning on her heel. From the next day on, I was her son. I would grind
masala for the curry, clean the dishes, wash her saree and lend an ear as
she’d pour out her heart’s woes. She survived Pillai by sixteen years. I
visited her almost every week and listened to all that she had to say while I
pressed her tired limbs.’ The professor chuckled. ‘She was terribly upset
that I did not marry her favourite daughter . . . even after I had had four
children and the oldest was in the tenth grade, she hadn’t gotten over it.
‘Once I finished my schooling, Pillai sent me off with a letter of
recommendation to Ka.Su. Pillai at Annamalai University. I did my BA
there. Then an MA. Half the fee was paid by Pillai. After that, I landed a
job at a college in Madurai, which was run by my own faith. But I couldn’t
last three months. I am an ordinary Nadan. Back then, Madurai was in the
hands of high-born Nadar seniors. Heartbroken, I wrote a letter to Pillai.
“Pack up and leave. I am here for you,” he replied. I broke down and wept
when I received his response. With bag and baggage, I went to his house
and stood at his doorstep. He took me to Thiruvananthapuram and got me a
job with Vaiyapuri Pillai, the renowned lawyer and Tamil scholar. “Don’t
tell me there’s no work. He’s my son,” said Pillai. That’s how I started in
this profession . . . this is my dharma, you know. I’m yet to pass on to my
students all that I have received from him . . . ’
My gaze remained fixed on him. ‘The churning curd.’ For no reason, the
phrase kept popping into my head. ‘The verse you recited talks of a sorrow
capable of burning down an entire forest,’ I said. ‘Do you think there truly
exists such sorrow? Doesn’t all sorrow dissipate with time?’
‘A wound will heal. That’s the way our body works. But no matter what
you do, cancer does not. It will take its host down with it.’
A mild shiver ran down my spine. ‘How can one be filled with that much
sorrow?’
Professor looked up at me. ‘I don’t know either. Kumarapillai once said, if
that which we believe to be our very life breaks, we will be claimed by such
sorrow . . . ’
As soon as we entered town, the professor’s mood changed and he began
looking out of the window. Like a little child, he followed every vehicle that
went by, turning his head from one side to the other until they disappeared
out of sight. He tilted his head upwards to gaze at the tall buildings. When
the car turned into the compound of the Assisi church, Pachaimal came up
to us with folded palms and held the car door open. Professor got down.
‘Pachaimalu . . . how are you? I see no teeth in your mouth!’ he quipped.
‘But I have a mouthful of words, sir,’ Pachaimal countered. Professor
laughed.
A noisy crowd had assembled inside. It felt as though a different event
was taking place a few feet away. Everyone was talking at the top of their
voices. Quite unusually for a regular literary gathering, Pachaimal had
gotten the entire place spruced up. A pair of tall banana stalks with bright
green leaves and flowering branches adorned either side of the entrance,
much like in a wedding. Festoons decorated the hall. Perumal walked up to
us, greeted the professor and stepped aside. Carlos followed. ‘Perumalu,’
said the Professor, placing his hand on his to acknowledge him. ‘Still in
Bangalore?’ he asked, moving his hand to Carlos’s shoulder. ‘No, I’m in
Andhra now . . . in Kuppam,’ said Carlos.
Daisybai, the professor’s wife, came in, toting a long umbrella and a
handbag. ‘Where did you go? Did you bring your medicines?’ she asked.
‘Yes . . . we have all the medicines,’ said Kumar.
‘Did you bring the biscuits? His sugar level may drop otherwise.’
‘Yes, that’s there too.’
‘Come, it’s getting late . . . what’s this shirt? I had put out a different one .
. . ’ It was in Daisybai’s nature to rain him with fond chides.
‘Shall we go, sir?’ said Perumal, taking hold of the professor’s arm.
Together, they helped him up on to the stage.
Kumar came up to me discreetly. ‘Jeyan, there’s a small problem.’
‘What is it?’
‘Rajam has given us the slip. Sajin stepped out to help move a desk and he
escaped in the meantime . . . ’
‘Where else will he go . . . must be at some liquor store nearby,’ I said.
‘It’s not that simple, his watering holes aren’t conventional. Must have
gone in search of arrack . . . who knows where one gets that . . . ’
‘Why don’t we send someone who’ll know?’
‘Why, would you like me to buy that chap a drink too?’
The programme had begun. I joined the others on stage and settled into a
chair that was waiting for me by the fringes. It was news to me that the
district of Kumari had these many writers. Professor looked this way and
that. He was searching for Kumar, but Kumar had absconded. Pachaimal
walked up to me, bent down and whispered. ‘Professor’s asking for Rajam.
Do you know where he is?’
 With evil pleasure, I said, ‘Only Kumar will know, ask him.’
‘But where is Kumar?’
‘Ask Sajin.’
I could see distress writ large on Pachaimal’s face.
After wandering about backstage, Pachaimal returned downcast. There
was no news of Rajam, it seemed. In between, the professor got up to use
the toilet. Pachaimal, who accompanied him out, had managed to find
Kumar. I could see all three at a distance, huddled in conversation. The
professor scowled at Kumar and returned to his seat. On stage, the speeches
went on and on. Praise after praise. Formality after formality.
When I stepped out to go to the toilet, I took out my phone – there were
two missed calls. As I returned one of them and walked away from the hall,
my eyes glanced reflexively in the direction of one of the rooms by the side.
It felt as though there was someone in there. Holding the phone, I walked
back a few paces to take another look. Jolted, I stopped mid-speech. It was
indeed Annachi. He was seated on the floor, his back flush against the wall,
staring into nothingness.
The room seemed to be a store for old scrap. There was a desk and a chair
amidst a jumble of cardboard boxes and banners, and a window that opened
outwards. I stepped into the room. I expected Annachi to be intoxicated.
Perhaps I could lead him away gently, get him to tidy up and come with me
to the hall. He lifted his head and looked up at me. His eyes glistened. Like
the eyes of an animal in unbearable pain. ‘Annachi,’ I called out.
‘Mmm,’ he said.
‘What’re you doing here . . . ?’ It was clear that he wasn’t drunk. His
clothes were clean and uncreased. His beard and hair were neatly combed in
place. ‘What happened?’ I asked.
‘I’m not feeling well . . . ’
‘Oh? What’s the problem?’
‘Migraine. That’s why I’m sitting in the darkness . . . Please carry on,
they’ll need you on stage.’
I stepped out, called Kumar on his cell phone and asked him to come at
once. I knew that Annachi would escape if I moved out of there. Kumar
came flying.
‘What’s he doing?’
‘Nothing. Looks like he has a headache.’
‘Drunk?’
‘No. There’s no smell.’
‘Maybe ganja then?’
‘Doesn’t seem like it, you should take a look,’ I said, and made my way
back to the stage. I was the youngest amongst the writers. An anxious
Pachaimal was looking for me to deliver the closing honours.
When we were done, Professor made his way down the stage. As he
walked out, holding on to Perumal’s arm, he kept looking here and there.
Kumar came up to me. ‘I tried, but Rajam refused to come. I told him to
show up just for a bit, but he’s in no mood to listen. Can you try your luck?’
he said. I went back to the room. Rajam hadn’t moved from the spot.
‘Annachi, you needn’t do much. Just come and stand before him for a
minute, that’s all. ‘Ah, Rajam,’ is all he’ll say. They will have to leave soon,
you know he won’t be able to stand for much longer,’ I tried to reason with
him.
‘No. Please. Don’t compel me,’ he said.
I sat down in a chair. ‘I hear that he’s been asking about you a lot these
past few months. Even now he did.’
Rajam said nothing.
I decided to press further. ‘This may be the last meeting, he said. A man
like him will not use such words lightly. If you don’t meet him now, you
may regret it for the rest of your life.’ Annachi did not stir. He lowered his
head a bit and continued to stare at the floor. ‘Please come, just see him this
once . . . please listen to me . . . this’ll be your last chance.’
Annachi looked up. ‘I know that too,’ he said. I was stunned. I had said
those things only to shake him up. ‘No. I will not come. Please leave me
alone,’ he said. I looked at him keenly. It was clear that he wouldn’t relent.
With a sigh, I left the room. Kumar hurried up to me. ‘What’s he saying?’
he asked. ‘He won’t come. There’s no point in forcing him,’ I said.
Sajin came running, ‘Professor’s leaving,’ he said to Kumar. As Kumar
rushed out, I followed behind. Daisybai was already in the car. She poked
her head out of the window and said, ‘What’s he doing there? It’s getting
late.’ Professor stood at the entrance, engulfed by a sea of former students.
‘I wish for good things to happen in all your lives. Christ will bless you. I
don’t know if I’ll see any of you again . . . I’ve glimpsed the other shore . . .
we’ll see.’ He choked up. He turned and looked at Kumar.
Kumar walked with him to the car. ‘Rajam didn’t come?’ asked the
professor.
‘He did . . . but I don’t know where he’s gone now,’ said Kumar.
‘Must have gone to drink . . . that’s his fate, isn’t it? I thought he was the
strongest seed of all. I made my own plans without knowing Jesus’s plans
for him,’ the professor whimpered. Soon, the loose flesh on his neck and
jowls jerked and trembled as he broke into sobs.
‘Get in, please, it’s getting late,’ called out Daisybai. As Kumar opened
the door, Professor stood holding his shoulders. ‘I’ve cried myself hoarse
with prayers but Christ hasn’t heard any of them. All the same, I’ll go on
praying for as long as I live, Kumaru . . . no misfortune should befall my
boy. He is God’s child. Christ must take on all his pain . . .’ Kumar had to
practically lift him and place him in the car. As soon as the door closed, the
car roared into motion.
Once they had left, Kumar turned to me. ‘This is plain arrogance. A few
tight slaps will sort him out . . .’ he said. I said nothing. Kumar turned to
Sajin. ‘Hey, bring the car around, will you . . . I’ll call the others . . . can’t
you do anything yourself?’ he fumed. ‘How’re you going?’ he spat at me.
‘I’ll take the bus. It’s not too late,’ I said.
I remained there even after Kumar had left. In some time, the crowd
dispersed. Behind me, I could hear some engaged in a loud debate about
literature. A few inebriated voices. Just as I turned towards the building to
fetch Aruna, I caught sight of Annachi cloistered in the shadow that fell
from the left pillar of the portico. He did not see me. He was staring at the
road on which vehicles zoomed past with headlights flashing.
Magnetized by the scene in front of me, I stood still. The lights from the
cars that turned the corner grazed the darkened front yard with their
intermittent caresses. The amber glow lit up Annachi’s face, revealing the
tense muscles on his neck and a slightly lifted chin as he stood there,
shivering. Doubling up his vaetti, he stepped forward, bent down, and with
trembling fingers gently touched the earth the Professor had trodden.
Lowering his head, he disappeared into the darkness.

OceanofPDF.com
 Nutcase

On the way to the hospital, my TVS-50 grumbled to a halt. I inched the

moped ahead using my feet and parked it by the side of the road. The chain
had come off too. What a nuisance. I’d dirty my hands if I got down to
fixing it. And no matter how careful I tried to be, my clothes were sure to
get soiled. I was dressed in a white shirt. All the nice shirts I have are white
ones, I admit, but the business I was heading to was of such a nature too.
Even as I was preparing to leave, Appa had followed me around, chirping
non-stop in my ears. ‘Elay makka, don’t you dare display your nuttiness, all
right? They are bigwigs, these people. Since Narayanan put in a word,
they’ve sort of come off their high horse. The girl looks good. They’ll
provide enough and more. If this is settled favourably, you’ll be rather
blessed, understand?’
He had parroted this all through the night. I am going to see-a-girl. No, I
am going so they can ‘see-the-boy’. When I get there, I must act as if I had
come to negotiate a price for their cow. They knew it too, of course, but
neither side was to let on that they knew. Should they like my ‘form and
stature’, as though presenting bran to a cow, or perhaps bran water, the girl
would show her face. Theirs is a Peruvattar family, which had once paid
tribute and land taxes to the maharajas of yore. Even now, there’s no lack of
fields and groves in their names. But they wish to find an educated groom,
I’m told, even though an outsider visiting to see-a-girl was unheard of in the
family.
Having earned a double major in the arts and law, or BA-BL, as we call it,
I work as a junior advocate with Subramania Nadar, for whom four briefs a
year is cause for celebration. The man doesn’t hesitate to sponge some
change off me, even, for tea. But what choice do I have. One has to wage a
war just to be accepted as a ‘junior’. The most eminent advocates take on
only their relatives as juniors, that too largely from the wife’s side. Four
years ago, harbouring grand dreams, Appa himself had a coat made for me
at Leeman Tailors. He has given up on those dreams now, it seems.
I fixed the chain and rubbed my hands hard on the grass. There were no
stains. I could wash them clean if only there was some water around.
Holding my arms away from my body, I walked to a petty shop a few feet
away. The plump akka at the shop proceeded to dunk a small metal pot in a
bucket and poured water on my hands. To no avail. ‘Pour some Pepsi on it,
son. It’ll go, okay?’ Before I could answer, she opened a bottle and emptied
it over my hands. Gone without a trace. Just when I washed up and wiped
my hands dry, it caught my eye – a fingerprint on the forearm of my shirt. I
was astounded at how and when it had gotten there.
As I returned to the TVS-50 and gave it an angry kick, I noticed a man
doddering ahead, holding a greying umbrella. For a moment I thought it
was Manickam Mama, but it wasn’t. I got back on my moped. As I rode
past the man, I wondered how I had mistaken him for my uncle. Manickam
Mama looks nothing like him. And he lives in Esanthimangalam.
Something struck me all of a sudden and I stopped. Indeed, it was he.
Poomedai. Somehow, he and Manickam Mama are always jumbled up in
my memories.
The strange thing is, they really don’t have anything in common.
Manickam Mama is dark and heavy-set. He sports a big moustache in a
square face. He crinkles his eyes and looks down when he talks. Did I say,
talks? It’s just a smattering of words, really, that too, slurred and indistinct.
A man of never-changing enquiries: ‘Hope all’s well, maapla’, is all he’d
say, not failing to address me as though I were his son-in-law, just as
custom demanded. He doesn’t know a damn thing aside of his banana trees
and his buffaloes.
Poomedai’s the exact opposite. A thin, short frame. An oblong face with
no moustache. Wheatish complexion. Ever-smiling eyes. A white khadi
Gandhi cap, a khadi jibba and vaetti. At present, weighed down by a diary
and a miscellany of other items in its pocket, the jibba sagged sideways.
Quite unusually, it had been fitted with a breast pocket, in which were a few
fountain pens, a notepad, a spectacle case and a wallet.
I have seen only one living man wear a Gandhi cap. Perhaps that’s the
reason he had my attention at first sight, becoming an indelible memory. I
recall a rusted bicycle too – his constant and only companion. The way he
was moving at present puzzled me. Is that really him? He was walking at
snail’s pace, placing one foot in front of the other with great effort.
When he neared me, I was left with no doubt. It was indeed him. But there
was no sign of his usual smile and mischievous countenance. His face was
big and swollen, his cheeks smooth and shiny. His eyes were sunken and
narrowed. My hello was met with a ‘vande mataram’.
‘What’s wrong?’ I asked.
‘The leg’s mighty swollen,’ he said. ‘Set out to have it checked at the
hospital . . . the word about town is that my face is finally aglow with the
prideful look of my Pillai clan!’ he quipped.
‘Get on the bike, sir,’ I said.
‘It’s all right, Thambi. You seem to be heading somewhere important.
Carry on . . . ’
‘Not at all, I insist.’
‘I am not used to this, bear with me,’ he said, as he climbed on to the
moped with difficulty. I wondered if the vehicle might struggle. It was quite
old. Unfamiliar with the whole thing, he sat unevenly, his weight dragging
us sideways. ‘This is like an iron donkey, don’t you think?’ he said. I
laughed. ‘But the donkey can bear much heavier loads than the horse,’ he
added.
We started off. ‘You seem to know me, Thambi. Listened to my
speeches?’
‘Not many, just a couple maybe.’
‘No wonder! Listened to many and you’d have spat at me. Ha ha ha,’ he
guffawed, making me laugh too.
‘What do you do?’
‘I’m a lawyer.’
‘Civil or criminal?’
‘I can say that only after I get a case, right?’
 ‘Atta boy!’ he exclaimed, and gurgled with laughter. ‘The bright white
tells me you’re headed to an auspicious event . . .’
A perspicacious man, I thought. ‘It’s only half auspicious at this point.
The other half is in their hands. Auspiciousness has become quite pricey
these days.’
He laughed at that too. ‘Do you read?’ he asked.
‘Yes.’
‘What kind of books?’
‘Stories.’
‘Stories written by whom? Kalki?’
‘Kalki is passé. I read Sundara Ramaswamy.’
‘Oh, the Iyer man who runs the Sudarshan store? Isn’t he a communist?’
‘Yes,’ I said.
‘Keep reading. It’s the one thing that goes no other way but forward.
Doesn’t matter what you read, you’ll reach where you want to go. A pity, I
forgot to bring my magazine today . . . the Truth Drum’s twenty-eighth
edition is out. I’ve written a piece about Vallalar’s practice of light worship
this time, you should take a look.’
I hadn’t read the magazine but I had seen enough posters around town. ‘A
whip for social evils, a hunt for internationalists! The Centrist Monthly.’
A chuckle escaped me as I asked, ‘It’s a monthly magazine?’
‘Supposed to be. But if Sammuva Nadar of Mother Press gives the month
a mighty kick, it will balloon to fifty or sixty days without demur.’
‘What’s the matter with your health?’
‘Preparation for my journey upwards, what else? I’m seventy-two. Been
at the receiving end of some heavy thrashing during both my protests.
Thankfully, our tea stalls serve good tea. So there’s still some strength left
in this body. We’ll see. If overhauling’s all that’s needed, great. But if the
big mechanic decides it’s scrap, that’s fine too.’
I recalled the first time I had seen him. It was when we were living in a
house opposite the Pillaiyar temple at Kottaram. I was in the first grade and
my father was a primary school teacher. With an inner courtyard that
separated the padippura in front and the thaiveedu at the back – the
respective spaces for the male and female members of the family – it was
an old-style, pantile-roofed house. But a huge one at that. The house
belonged to Poomedai. He had retained just one room in the front for
himself, split the rest of the house into two portions, and let them out. But
he rarely ever came there.
I once saw him talking to my father in gestures – his arms flailed and his
head swayed from one side to the other. It was funny, like Kathakali. The
following day, he put on a Gandhi cap and took off on his bicycle. At first
glance, I thought he had placed a folded towel on his head. ‘Poomedai,
Poomedai,’ the children shrieked, chasing after him. As he cycled around,
he threw his arms out wide and cried at the top of his voice, ‘Freedom,
freedom to eternity! Equality is a certainty!’ When he came upon me,
staring wide-eyed, he stopped and said, ‘Certainty! What? Cer-tain-ty!’
Frightened, I scrambled on to the veranda of Konar’s shop.
‘What the hell, Poomedai. Scaring little children out of their wits . . . Get
going, sir! Clear out, will you?!’ said Konar, coming to my rescue. ‘Aren’t
you the schoolmaster’s son?’ he said to me, ‘That one’s a real nutcase . . .
don’t you cry. Want ginger candy? Got change?’ I asked my mother why
Poomedai was gesticulating the other day. ‘Forget him, the blasted cadaver.
Lit up his parents’ hard-earned wealth like crackers on Diwali . . . a total
nut. It seems, a Friday a month, he is on a vow of silence. Wish he’d leave
us the hell alone . . .’ she railed.
I gathered from the talk about town that Poomedai owned tracts of land
and many a house across Kottaram, Nagercoil and Elandhaiyadi. The man
who had left for Thiruvananthapuram in pursuit of an arts major returned
home with a Gandhi cap on his head. From then on, his life took an entirely
different turn – with speeches and satyagrahams, police chases and prison.
‘In the end, his parents died heartbroken. As if that sin will let this dog go
scot-free . . . gone nuts for a reason, hasn’t he . . . the bloody corpse.’
The next time I had seen him was in Nagercoil, when I was studying at
Scott Christian College. While on my way to watch a movie at Picture
Palace, I took a small detour into Titus Tutorial Lane to relieve myself.
There he was, standing atop a spruce-wood box planted on a dark puddle of
urine, trying to paste something on the compound wall. I didn’t recognize
him at first, for he had his back to me. Red letters on white paper
proclaimed: ‘A Sudden Pain-in-the-neck Event!’ I couldn’t help laughing.
‘A land abandoned by the King lives. A land abandoned by the Thoti stinks.
Be warned, little monarchs. Poomedai (The Centrist) Thunders. Public
address at 6 p.m., at the municipal grounds. Gather, all ye Inner Voices.
Flee, all ye False Voices.’ So, he was rising in support of the Thotis this
time, a caste forced to eke out a living as scavengers.
It was when he stepped down, pulled the Gandhi cap out of his bag and
placed it on his head that I recognized him. Addressing me with a smile, he
said, ‘I remove the cap when I’m at work. It’s fitting to wear the Gandhi cap
while cleaning the drain, but it mustn’t fall into the drain either,’ he said
with a wink.
‘True,’ I said, laughing. ‘But that’s usually the first thing to go down the
drain, isn’t it?’
‘Ho ho ho.’ His thunderous laugh shook me up. Besides a paste bucket
and a poster roll, I saw a bunch of greens and a cone of banana flower on
his cycle. Gandhian food, I surmised.
‘You shouldn’t be sticking the posters here,’ I said. ‘Put them up by the
main road, they’ll at least grab some eyeballs.’
‘Thambi, it’s been thirty-seven years since I began pasting posters. This
will be the four thousand eight hundred and eighteenth public meeting that
I’ve organized. I have discovered my methods through trial and error. Have
you seen a man go slowly on the main road? What if Kubera closes the
doors to the treasury before he reaches? He’s always in a rush, isn’t he? In
here, though, man has no choice but to stop for a minute. He’s yet to find a
way to pee while running.’ He released the cycle’s kick-stand with his foot.
‘But the Americans are working on that too, I hear. If we strap a whole
bullock-cart’s load of weight on man’s back, won’t he make pee lines like
an ECG?’ he said.
I decided to attend his meeting. On Saturday evening, I cycled to the
municipal maidan by myself. It was five forty-five when I reached, but
there was no one there. No podium, no lights, nothing. A few old women
were selling bananas at the ground. Numerous bicycles had been parked
there. It looked like the meeting had been cancelled. Having cycled all the
way, I decided to treat myself to dry-ginger coffee and a fried paruppu-
thattai at Pakki Sankaran’s stall. As I stood there, snacking, I noticed
Poomedai coming from the direction of the clock tower, pushing his cycle
forward.
It was the very same cycle, the very same jibba, the very same cap. But
well laundered, starched and ironed, his clothes were crisp and white now.
On the rear end of the cycle sat a broad spruce-wood box. At the front, tied
to the right handle of the cycle, was a tiny loudspeaker. On the left, an old
gaslight. Besides, two large bags dangled from the handlebars too. The man
was smiling and greeting people on his way, with a nod here and a hello
there, even as he walked precariously, aslant under the cumulative weight of
the cycle. I received a smile and nod too as he passed by, but it was
apparent that he had not recognized me.
The cycle careened alarmingly when he stopped. He pushed it upright and
knocked the kick-stand down. Untying the box from the cycle, he carried it
to the northernmost end of the maidan and set it down. He picked up some
flat stones and placed them beneath the box to prevent it from rocking. By
then, ten or fifteen people had gathered there. Some laughed and poked fun
at him. ‘Hey Poomedai, so your new keep’s a scavenger-woman?’ said one.
It didn’t seem like the words so much as even fell on his ears. He dragged a
wire to a petty shop nearby and plugged it in. With the loudspeaker and its
rope-tie in hand, he clambered up a neem tree at the maidan and secured the
speaker to a branch.
He climbed down, dusted his hands, tied a fat bulb to another branch that
hung close to the wooden box, and switched it on. He connected the wire to
the loudspeaker. He ignited the gaslight and let it splutter red flame for a
few moments. ‘Fu fu,’ he fanned it hard until the flame turned white. The
crowd had swelled to a fifty, perhaps even sixty. The onlookers were
scattered in small groups here and there. Maybe I should count the crowd in
front of the petty shop and the tea stall too, I thought to myself. No one
came forward to help him. Indifference was the accepted norm, it seemed.
 It was six thirty by the time he could begin. He held the microphone in his
hand, closed his eyes for a few seconds, and as though sighing, said ‘Vande
Mataram’. That was followed by a few loud and sharp bursts. ‘Vande
Mataram! Vande Mataram!’ After a short pause, he launched into a song.
His voice boomed, his pronunciation crystal clear.
May the country prosper, the good thrive
Families grow and courage take root
Om! Om! Om!
He closed his eyes again for a brief instant as he came to the end of the
verse. With a smile, he turned his head from one side to the other, taking in
the crowd. In a trice, he had begun clapping to beat, and in a resounding
voice launched into the next song.
Think, think, dear masters
My dear aiyas, my dear masters
Aiyaiyo, my dear masters
We are not a herd, but human
Think, think, my dear masters!
As soon as the song ended, he began speaking, as though he was
continuing a conversation. ‘The issue is, dear sirs, a new law was
introduced the other day. The order says: the job of sweeping, mopping and
clearing the Vadassery marketplace will not be reserved for the Thotis any
more, others can apply for it too. That’s good, right? Isn’t it wonderful that
finally there’s a place for equality in this country? You, sir! Isn’t this great
news? Surely, it was also the Mahatma’s message that the rulers must get
their hands dirty, that the king must work as a Thoti too. All right. I ask
you, then, what job will the Thoti do? You, sir! We’ve given them a great
education, haven’t we? Doesn’t English just roll off their tongues these
days? We’ve built them sturdy houses too, I hear! And there, the Thoti sits
comfortably in a chair and listens to the radio, doesn’t he? So, let’s give him
a different job then. Let’s make him the municipal commissioner. Or else, a
private secretary. Why, we could make him a councillor too. Shall we?!’
His argument sounded agreeable to me. He went into more detail as he
spoke further. The clearing of the sewer drains and the cleaning of the
marketplace are both part of sanitary work. But when it concerns the latter,
people of all castes vie for the job and squeeze the Thotis out. For there is
money in every kind of waste at the market. And numerous avenues to
make a quick buck on the side. After they’ve milked the markets to the last
drop, they will of course leave it to the Thotis to clean the drains, he said.
Questions arose as soon as he finished. ‘Poomedai, so you’re saying only
Thotis must work at the market?’ said someone. ‘Let the Thotis do their job.
If there aren’t enough of them, we can allow others in,’ responded
Poomedai. A man with a red shoulder cloth said, ‘So, you mean people
should stick to their traditional caste jobs? Just as Gandhi said?’ Unfazed,
Poomedai replied, ‘Of course, Comrade. Gandhi cleaned the toilets and
hauled shit because he was born a Thoti, right? Which world are you from?’
he said with a crooked grin, and stuck his palm out at the man, deliberately
holding it up in midair for good half a minute. The entire crowd turned to
look at the comrade. A few sniggered.
‘Hey, if you want the Thoti to quit this job, then give him something that’s
better than this. Or could it be that you expect him to throw his job away
and beg on the streets, just as you do? The bosses will throw you some
coins for printing red posters and shouting “zindabad”. The Thoti wouldn’t
even get that, sir.’
‘Elay, Poomedai, go haul the shit yourself,’ shouted someone. With a
flash of real anger, Poomedai turned to him. ‘Why not? After all, I clear my
own shit every day. The man who leaves his shit to be cleared by another
will be born a shit-eating pig in his next life. I am not telling you this, I’m
telling your next incarnation – “Get lost my dear piglet”.’ Everyone
laughed, including the man who had asked the question.
They all treated him like a clown and cracked up at every one of his
impassioned declarations. Truth be told, it was difficult to figure out when
he was joking and when he was being serious. The meeting finished by
eight, and at once he started packing up, all by himself. I wondered if I
should help him. But what would the others think of me? When he had paid
the petty shop for the electricity he had drawn, had had a soda and left
pushing his cycle, he saw me at the tea stall and smiled, again without
recognizing me.
After that, I must have listened to him at least twenty or thirty times. At
first I felt he spoke with great fervour. Then, again, I felt he was just a
clown, tilting at windmills. In some time, I realized that that wasn’t true.
The town was silently responding to him. More often than not, he would be
the one bringing to light the problems of the common man. Or be the first to
point out any wrongdoing. After that, the affected people would take it
forward and find a way to organize themselves. The issue would gather
steam, open up its own unique set of possibilities, and proceed towards
some kind of resolution.
It happened that two years back, a judge named Kanakam was appointed
to one of the fast-track courts. ‘God has handed me a pen. What I write is
the law. And I will determine its price,’ she had once declared openly in the
courtroom. She was well connected with the powers that be in the political
world, not to mention her weighty caste backing. One half of the advocates
bargained with her. The other half seethed with impotent anger. In every
negotiation, she would proclaim that no one could make her bend. When
this news reached Poomedai’s ears, he went to town with posters and tore
her to shreds in his meeting. So, a matter discussed only in private circles
until then soon became juicy tea-stall gossip. The entire town began to talk
about it. The lady could not show her face in public. Within four months
she was dispatched by the high court to an inconsequential place.

•
I stopped the bike in front of the hospital. ‘Shall we have a glass of tea
before we go in?’ I offered.
‘It’s okay, Thambi. You’ve already done enough. I’ll get off here and
make my way,’ said Poomedai.
‘I’ll take you. Let’s have some tea first.’
‘All right, as you please. But I won’t have the tea if you buy it. I’ll pay for
my tea myself,’ he said. Before I could protest, ‘It’s there in the Poomedai
by-laws. Look at rule number eight,’ he said, drawing out a sheet of paper
from his pocket.
 It was a printed sheet, thick but crinkled. Under the heading,
‘Constitutional Laws of Poomedai Association’ was a numbered list of
strange rules. 1. Serve others, throw bombs. 2. Enquire, don’t tire. 3. Be a
friend to the Thoti and the nutty . . . and so on. The eighth rule read, ‘Don’t
feed off loans, sell what you own’. There were twenty rules in all.
‘Resolution adopted on 2 October 1948,’ read the line at the bottom.
Signed, Poomedai. Two thumb impressions bore witness to it. Sundan’s and
Gunamani’s. Some random fellows. I turned away in a bid to suppress my
laughter. ‘But I don’t have the money to buy you tea,’ he said.
I entered the shop and ordered two glasses of tea. ‘Make it nice and thin,
Thayee,’ said Poomedai as he sat down. I watched him draw heavy,
asthmatic breaths.
‘Sell what you own. Sure, but is there anything left to sell?’ I quizzed.
‘Yes. There’s the cycle. It’s an old model. Full of spunk, it’s been to the
Second World War and back.’
‘What about the mic?’
‘That went last month, already. It now struts around announcing “Lucky
dip tomorrow, Lucky dip tomorrow”. When I heard that, I said, “Hey, if you
must take a dip, dip today, who can guarantee you’ll be around tomorrow!”
’
‘So, no more meetings then.’
‘Ha! Won’t quit so easily, will we? I have a megaphone. When I speak
from the foot of the clock tower, I have Kalaivanar NSK himself for
audience. What’s more, the great artiste stands as a statue at the other end,
hands clasped behind his back. Can’t throw stones even if he wishes to . . .
who can stop me now!’
‘Eating away your parents’ wealth is a real profession now, huh?’ I
needled him.
‘Thambi, you speak as though they worked hard and earned it. They just
lorded over the hapless Pulaiyans and Sambans and amassed this fortune.
What is accumulated on a sunny day must be washed away by the rains.
That’s only fair, isn’t it? Forever strive, to do good in every way you can,
wherever you can. Didn’t our very own Valluvar urge us so?’ he said.
 ‘What’s that verse got to do with this?’ I said, annoyed.
‘As though everyone quotes the Thirukkural fittingly. Of what use is it if
you can’t bandy a few lines when they spring to memory. You question me,
but would you dare question Karunanidhi when he reels off a couplet?’
The tea arrived. He drank it with noisy slurps. ‘I assume you’re eligible
for the freedom fighters’ pension,’ I said.
‘As if!’ He laughed. ‘It was in 1946 that I went to jail for the first time. I
was studying at University College back then. One morning, Bodeshwaran
paid a visit to our college. You must have heard of him, he’s poet
Sugathakumari’s father. And a disciple of Chattampi Swami. Sporting a
bright white beard, a long khadi shirt and a khadi vaetti, he stood in the sun
and delivered a speech. And what a fiery speech it was! A crowd of three
hundred, or perhaps four hundred of us students had gathered around.
“When your mother stands buck-naked, why the hell do you need the
headdress of education?” he thundered. That’s when I took the plunge.
Since then, I’ve participated in many agitations, at many different places. It
was for one such satyagraham in Nagercoil that I got arrested, along with
Theroor Sivan Pillai, Eathavilai Arjunan Nadar and other freedom fighters.
‘Back then, we didn’t have the jail that’s there now. The fire station next
to Muthu Theatre doubled up as the police station and court at that time.
And the sheds beside it were used as the jail. I was rounded up with eight
others and herded to the police station, our hands bound together with cloth.
The man who shepherded us there was an inspector by the name Narayanan
Nair. He later retired as superintendent of the state police, in free India.
“Dei Poomedai, you motherfucker . . . obedience will keep you out of
trouble, remember,” he’d say, whenever he caught sight of me. To which I’d
say “Master, I listened to Gandhi and shed obedience a long time ago.”
‘You know what he did that day? With a cattle whip in hand, he beat up
every passer-by as we walked to the station. Even those harmless souls
heading to the shops were not spared. An old fisherwoman walked towards
us just then. He was about to pounce on her too. I couldn’t hold myself
back. “Hey! Why hit her . . . if you want to beat someone up, pick on
people like me who’re asking for it!” I shouted. “And what’ll you do if I hit
her?” he challenged me. “Try it and you’ll see,” I said. He made to hit the
old woman. “Aiyo!” she screamed. “Hai hai hai!” I hooted, as though
driving cattle. He made to hit her once more. “Hai hai hai!” I hooted again.
When the crowd erupted into peals of laughter, the policeman shivered with
rage. He was an uppity Nair after all, how could he take being equated to a
lowly cart driver?
‘He flung the whip aside, pushed me to the ground, and began kicking me
furiously. He grabbed me by the hand and dragged me along the streets. My
vaetti and undercloth came undone. I was naked. I never used to wear a
shirt in those days. He put me down as a thieving beggar and locked me up.
I lay in the jail yard, beside Sivan Pillai, as a matter of fact. My body was
covered with mud and muck, so he did not recognize me. It took me a
whole day to regain consciousness.
‘Four or five days passed by the time Sivan Pillai saw me. M.E. Naidu,
the man who fought for the Harijans’ right to enter the Suchindram temple,
came and spoke for us. He proposed that we be transferred to the political
cell. When he filed a petition, someone was sent to look into the matter. The
man who came was a true-blue Pillai, with thick bands of ash and a nice dot
of vermilion on his forehead. He was none other than our doctor
Ananjaperumal’s father, Manthiram Pillai. Once he was done with his
enquiries, he lowered his voice and asked, just to make sure he was right,
“What are you? A Pillai?” But Sani lives on my tongue, doesn’t he? As
though that cursed fellow will hold his silence. “No. I paid the fee to change
my caste last month. I am a Thoti now,” I said. He wrote up a nice memo
and I languished as a pickpocket in prison for eight months.’
‘That right there is your biggest failing – that stupidity,’ I said. ‘When you
venture into something, you should back it up with proper records. Who can
say now if you’re a pickpocket or a martyr?’
‘Why go to anyone? The martyrs of yesterday are all pickpockets now.
Doesn’t it follow that the pickpockets of yesterday are martyrs now?’ he
said.
‘You’re crazy.’
‘Of course. The entire town knows that already. My mother was the first
to discover it. “Elay, is Gandhi soft in the head too,” she asked me in secret
one day. He he he.’
‘Yes, laughter’s exactly what you need now,’ I said, though I felt for him.
‘That’s not why I laughed. The prison wardens were so wary of me, they
used to feel their pockets whenever they saw me. He he he.’
‘Tell me . . . won’t they consider giving you the pension if Sivan Pillai
were to recommend it?’ I asked.
‘You don’t say! Find me a soul who cares about Sivan Pillai first; he was
long forgotten after we got our freedom . . . Then, in 1953, I joined
Nesamony and his able associate Thanulinga Nadar. With them, I plunged
headlong into the movement to unite our region with the Tamil state.
Protests, again. By a happy coincidence, it was Narayanan Nair who beat
me up this time too. He had been promoted. He gave me a good hiding and
threw me in the police van. Fine, he’s an old friend, let me be cordial, I
thought, and asked, “Sir, how are you?” He beat me for that too.
‘I was taken straight to the courtroom, our very own swadeshi court. It
even had a ceiling fan. And a picture of Gandhi, full of glee, like a child
caught eating sand. But for those, the courtroom was exactly the same as
before, the same Davali-peon, the same old papers, the same law. The judge
was an Iyer. He looked at my previous sentence. The swadeshi government
had been ordered to follow the procedures of the British to a tee, hadn’t it?
So, he too charged me with robbery and sent me away. But I must say, if
you go in on the count of robbery, rather than politics, the denizens of the
prison treat you with special respect. They’d pick the vegetables out of their
sambhar, put them on my plate and say, “Eat, sir.” You know Kadar of the
Edalakudy butcher shop? His father, Moideenkannu, was my jail-mate. In
for twin murders. He continued to visit me, until the day he died. He would
discuss everything under the sun and not leave until we’d had a glass of tea.
A good man . . .’
‘But you would have got the Mozhipor pension if Nesamony had put in a
word . . . I think the government announced something for the martyrs of
the pro-Tamil movement . . . ’ I said.
‘As if his word’s enough. Don’t they need mine? In fact,
Chidambaranadhan came to Kottaram one day to meet with me. “Listen, let
bygones be bygones. If you were to die on the streets, it’ll be a shame for
us. All you need to do is sign for the pension. Sir will take care of the rest,”
he said. I was disillusioned by Nesamony’s entry into politics by then. “The
big man’s mounted the elephant, hasn’t he? Can he even see the ground
beneath?” I asked. “Fine. Damn the politics. But this is money your own
sarkar is doling out,” he argued. “Those who take money from the sarkar
also seem to accept bribes. So, if I take this money, can I accept bribes
too?” I asked. “Get me a letter that says I can and I’ll sign,” I said. All said
and done, there should be no discrimination, right? If I’m worth less than
the government’s peon then where’s the respect for the Gandhi cap? “Go to
hell!” he cried, slapped his forehead and stormed off.’
‘You’re too cocky for your own good,’ I said. ‘He came to meet you out
of respect, you should have reciprocated it. That’s what you’re paying for
now. Homeless and in the care of the streets . . .’
‘Thambi, the great saint Pattinathar was in the care of these streets too.’
‘Excuse my asking, but wasn’t Nesamony much senior to you? You
should have gone and met with him at least once.’
‘I am a different man, Thambi. Gandhi has two sides to him . . . one is the
Sarkar Gandhi – the diplomat. The other is the Thoti Gandhi – the activist.
This man in front of you is a Thoti Gandhi, all right. The following week, I
called for a meeting in front of the courthouse and tore Nesamony to shreds
for one whole hour . . . how could I pass up the chance?’
‘All in all, the pension’s dead and buried,’ I said.
‘Grains of rice for the dead, that’s what a pension is. I’m still alive and
kicking, Thambi. Tell me, would Gandhi have accepted a pension?’ I didn’t
quite follow his argument. ‘You draw a pension when you’ve retired from
work. I’m still in service, aren’t I?’ he said.
‘How about the Congress chaps? Will they at least part with some change
for your treatment?’
‘The protégés of the great Nesamony, the man who had the Kanyakumari
Congress under his thumb, walk to office now. And the fellows who once
scrubbed its floors drive to the party’s office in Contessas . . .’ So saying,
Poomedai turned to the lady and asked, ‘How much for a tea?’
‘One and a half rupees.’
‘No discount?’ he asked, as he handed her the change. I paid for my tea.
As soon as we stepped out, ‘So, I’ll see you then,’ he said. ‘There’s a
meeting coming up next week. I hear that the Sisters feed rotten vegetables
to the children at the orphanage. Who gives a damn about all this in our
country?’
‘Let me accompany you inside,’ I said.
‘Whatever for? You have things to do . . . ’
‘Never mind . . . I can be with you until we see the doc, let’s go.’ He
relented and got on the moped.
‘When was the last time you were in jail?’ I asked.
‘Aside of being whisked away for fun? Some constables just can’t stand
the sight of me. They launch into colourful language whenever they see me.
Sometimes they whack me too. When Stephen Gnanaraj was the
superintendent, he’d take me away every now and then, lock me up for a
few days without registering any case against me and release me after a
good thrashing. But for that, he’s a nice boy. The last time I was booked in
the true sense of the word and sent to jail was in ’89, on Gandhi Jayanthi.’
‘For a satyagraham again?’
‘Cha cha, no . . . ’ he said, dismissing the idea. ‘Right from the morning
that day, they were piling garlands on top of garlands on Gandhi’s statue.
He can do with some style, I thought, and placed a cap on his head. Some
journalist happened to click a photograph of it. So they arrested me and
filed a case.’
‘What cap was it?’
‘A red cap, and a lovely velvet one at that. I had seen a poster announcing
a circus at the Kazhudhai Sandhai maidan. The clown in that picture had a
red cap on. Great, I thought, and bought cloth with my own money, had a
beautiful cap stitched and put it on Gandhi. It wasn’t for fun, I promise.
How handsome and refined he looked! He threw me a cheeky smile . . . I
think he liked it too . . . they locked me up for six whole months for that.
What was the crime I committed, I asked the police, and then the court. But
they refused to tell me.’
‘A big mouth and smartass, is what you are,’ I said. ‘Else will a man go
looking for trouble all the time?’
‘Thambi, there’s pleasure in being beaten up. Some women can’t sleep
unless they get a good hiding from their husbands, it’s like that.’
‘I’ll have none of your blasted antics now . . . let me do the talking at the
doctor’s. Please keep your mouth shut, all right?’ I said.
‘We’ll see. I’m not in the pink of health, to be honest. Been urinating in
drops for nearly four or five days now. I wasn’t sure if it was urine I was
passing or acid, and so I touched it to check . . . ooh, such excruciating
pain.’
I parked the vehicle in the front yard and helped him up the stairs. I had
been to the government hospital a few times in connection with some cases
that had come our way. But I didn’t know there’d be such a crowd in the
mornings. All across the huge veranda of the hospital, rows and rows of old
men and women, children and their mothers lay on the bare floor or sat
leaning against the pillars and walls. Spit expectorated by incessant bouts of
coughing was scattered everywhere. The stench of wounds and the smell of
medicine pierced the air. Street dogs roamed freely through the premises.
Cows too.
Poomedai sat down, resting his back against a pillar. ‘You should leave,
Thambi. It’s fine, I’ll manage.’
‘I’ve come this far. Let me put in a word to the doctor,’ I said, and got to
my feet.
‘Just a minute!’ he said. That’s when I got a glimpse of his fearsome side.
‘I will wait in line like everyone else. Understood?’
‘Fine,’ I said, defeated. He chuckled all of a sudden. ‘The queue is
democracy, all right?’ he said with a teasing wink. ‘And a stationary queue
is a thriving democracy.’
‘You stay here. I’ll stand in the queue. I hope that’s acceptable.’
‘Of course. But when Yama comes with noose in hand, don’t you go stand
in that queue too.’ He chuckled. A big cow with a muzzled calf in tow came
to Poomedai and sniffed him. He stroked its forehead.
 There must have been two hundred or three hundred people in the line. A
middle-aged woman in a white uniform sat behind the counter that was
separated from the queue by a barred window, writing out tokens without
looking up even once. Files were stacked on the racks behind her. Above
her, hung an old ceiling fan. All of a sudden, the woman stopped writing,
went out and returned after ten minutes. The speed at which the queue was
moving tested my patience. Two old men in the queue sat down on their
haunches with their hands on their heads. They moved forward without
changing their posture. At the front of the queue, while collecting her token,
an old woman said something to the nurse. ‘Ei, it’s written in there, isn’t it?
Go on now, clear out,’ the nurse hissed. Muttering something under her
breath, the old woman hunched over and hobbled away.
Just then, I spotted the head constable, Muthusamy, making his way in. I
knew him. As soon as he neared the pillar where Poomedai was resting, he
recognized him. Poomedai had dozed off. ‘Hey, you!’ yelled the constable,
kicking him hard on the thigh with his boot. Almost keeling over, Poomedai
grabbed hold of the pillar. I felt a flash of heat course through my body. But
I clenched my teeth and closed and opened my eyes deliberately, to calm
myself down. ‘What are you doing here?’ the constable demanded to know.
Poomedai looked at him with reddened eyes. It was apparent that he was
still in a daze.
‘Constable aiya!’ I called out from across the veranda.
‘Who’s that? Oh, you! What brings you here?’ he asked.
‘I . . . came with Poomedai. My senior asked me to,’ I said.
‘What, has your senior gone crazy? He’s a total nutcase . . . a dog that
bites the hand that feeds it. Don’t be fooled by his appearance, he’s a
poisonous prick. Our SI, Bhaskaran, lost his job thanks to him. He now
grinds rice at the mill, you know,’ he said.
‘Fine, but my senior asked me to,’ I repeated.
‘So . . . what’s up with the Kaanjaambaram case?’ the constable asked,
switching to a whisper, the expression on his face changing all of a sudden.
‘Any chance it’ll be ruled in your favour?’
‘I wish. The case has been adjourned. He has no money . . . ’
 ‘Indeed. If he had money, why would he come to you?’ he jibed. ‘Okay,
I’m off . . . there’s another case waiting for me . . . a hand-chopping,’ he
said, and cleared out.
I turned to the window-lady. ‘A token please,’ I asked.
An ‘Mm?’ was all I got.
‘Token,’ I pressed.
She looked up at me, and after a few seconds, asked, ‘For whom?’
‘The man over there, Poomedai Ramaiya.’
‘Let him come and stand in the queue, move aside,’ she said, without
looking at me.
Blood rushed to my head. ‘But he’s unable to stand up,’ I said.
‘If he can’t stand, leave him there. We’ll take him inside when he’s dead .
. . make way now,’ she ordered.
I stared at her, unable to believe that a woman could speak so harshly. I
took a few moments to compose myself. ‘All right, I’ll call him,’ I told her.
‘He has to join at the back of the queue . . . you move out.’
Before I could respond, an old man standing behind me whispered, ‘Give
her a fiver . . . that’s the way it works here.’ I used my body to block the
window from Poomedai’s line of sight and placed a five-rupee note in front
of her. She opened a drawer, slid the money in, and without saying another
word, asked, ‘Name and age?’ I gave her the details, collected the token and
went up to Poomedai. I gently helped him to his feet. ‘Room number
thirteen,’ I said.
‘What a lucky number!’ he said. ‘Did you hear it right? What if it’s the
mortuary?’
‘If it’s the mortuary, they won’t tell us to go there. They will take us there
themselves, I’m told.’
‘That stately a place, huh? Perhaps it’ll be air-conditioned too.’
There were no benches in front of room number thirteen. At least fifty
patients were standing in line, and another twenty were seated. Four or five
were stretched out on the floor too. I asked Poomedai to sit down and joined
the queue myself. It was reassuring to see patients stream out of the room as
rapidly as they had entered it. I glanced at my watch. They’ll be waiting for
me there, the cow and the girl. What will she be like? A Peruvattar
offspring will not lack in temerity, but temerity does add charm to the rich.
My turn arrived in an hour. I looked at Poomedai – he was fast asleep. In a
heartbeat, I was inside the room.
‘Yes?’ said the doctor, as he eyed me doubtfully. A middle-aged man with
thick-set spectacles and combed streaks of hair plastered across a bald head.
His shirt and trousers were loose fitting and billowy.
‘My name is Ganesan, I’m a lawyer,’ I said. I was pleased to see the look
in his eyes change. ‘An acquaintance of mine is unwell. I’ve brought him
with me.’
‘Is it a police case?’ he questioned as he leaned back.
‘No. He’s known to me, that’s all. He’s old. And there’s no one to care for
him. He will not allow himself to be taken to a private hospital either.
Please do all that you can for him here. I’ll take care of the expenses. He
needn’t know.’
Inclining his head, the doctor looked at me. ‘How’s he related to you?’
‘I’ve known him from when I was a child.’
He nodded and said, ‘Bring him in.’
I helped Poomedai in. The doctor took him to an adjoining room, made
him lie down and examined him. I waited outside. After washing his hands,
he summoned me aside. ‘The kidney’s shot, he’s in a very critical condition.
It’s a wonder he’s able to stand up at all,’ he said.
‘A tough constitution,’ I remarked.
‘He’s quite old . . . can you somehow bring him to my clinic?’
‘He won’t come. Please do everything that you’d do at the clinic, in here.
I’ll pay for it.’
‘You aren’t a blood relation, you say. It’ll cost a lot. Let’s see . . . we’ll
need at least five thousand right away. And it’s sure to run up later with this
and that.’
I drew a determined breath. ‘That’s fine, I suppose there’ll be a few souls
willing to pay for him . . . please admit him.’
‘All right.’ He began writing a note, but paused midway. ‘Please wait for
some time. Let me inform the ward,’ he said. Lowering his voice almost to
a whisper, he added, ‘It’ll be perfect if we can get the money first up.’
Our eyes met. I understood what he was hinting at. Once more, I struggled
to restrain myself. ‘Doctor, you just said that he’s in a critical condition.
Please admit him . . . I’ll be back with the money in an hour.’ Anger had
crept into my voice without my knowing it. The doctor’s lips curled into a
smile. ‘You aren’t related to him, what if you leave and don’t return . . . just
hypothetically, I mean. There’s an accepted system at the special ward.
Even helpers who just stroll by that side will want their palms greased.
They won’t believe that I haven’t accepted any myself. I can’t pay them out
of my pocket now, can I?’
The light smile on his face made it clear that he wasn’t in the mood to
listen. ‘Fine, I’ll be back with the money,’ I said, drawing a deep breath.
Just then, another patient entered the room. An old woman. Her arms and
legs seemed to have a life of their own, as she shivered uncontrollably.
‘Ponnu saare,’ she appealed to him. Without so much as looking at her face,
he wrote out a slip and held it out to her. ‘Okay,’ he said to me.
‘So where can I leave him?’ I asked, while the old woman continued to
lament in the background. ‘I’ve had this fever for four or five months . . .
and now–’
‘He can wait in the veranda outside.’
‘He’s really . . . ’ I started to protest, only to be cut off at once. ‘Sir! Most
of the cases that land up here come in this condition. If I begin lending an
ear to all this, I’ll never see the end of it.’ So saying, he turned to the old
woman who was still speaking in laboured fits. ‘You! Got your slip right,
out with you,’ he chastised her, and rang the bell for the next patient.
I woke Poomedai up. ‘What did the doctor have to say? What’s his
opinion, to burn or bury?’ he asked.
‘He said he’ll do a post-mortem first . . . just come, will you?’ I said,
leading him out. ‘They want to have you admitted, and before that they
have to run some tests. You wait here in the veranda for a bit.’
‘And where are you off to? I don’t really care for wreaths,’ said
Poomedai.
‘Fine. I’ll get four mozhams of strung jasmine, happy? Can you shut up
for some time . . . I’ve to take care of a small matter . . . I’ll wrap it up and
be back in ten minutes.’
He lay down next to the pillar. I drove my TVS-50 as fast as I could.
Where would I find five thousand rupees? I didn’t know of anyone who
would have that much ready cash. Whom could I approach in the name of
Poomedai? The politicians? Five thousand, right away!
But my instinct knew where I was to go. I headed to the girl’s house. It
looked like they were expecting me. Three elders were seated in the
veranda. One of them, who sported a walrus moustache like Ma.Po.Si,
resembled our former chief minister, Kamaraj. He, who had been speaking
as though a firecracker had gone off, stopped the moment he laid eyes on
me. He pointed me out to the others. The talk ceased and they fell to
observing me. I parked my bike and hastened up the stairs. The man of the
house must be the bare-chested one, wearing a coloured vaetti and chewing
on betel leaves, I figured.
‘It’s me, Ganesan, the lawyer,’ I said to him.
‘Welcome,’ he replied.
Only then did I notice that my clothes were dirty and full of stains. ‘I
came to see you about an emergency. My father has taken ill. He’s in the
hospital now . . . I need some help,’ I said. Without allowing him time to
think, I pressed on. ‘I need five thousand rupees at once. Appa sent me
here. He said, this is the only place we can go to.’ The man of the house
looked at the other two men as if he wished to say something, but dithered,
uneasy. How could he possibly refuse me, now that such a blatant request
for money had been put to him, and more so, in front of other people? He
would never have encountered such a situation before.
‘Time’s running out . . . I’ll return the money to you by five in the
evening. Please, right now . . . ’ I insisted. When he spat the betel juice and
opened his mouth to say ‘wait’, I folded my palms at once and said ‘a great
help’. After yet another moment of doubt, he finally went in and re-
emerged, counting the notes. ‘It’s a big help,’ I repeated. I collected the
money, and without bothering to check the sum said goodbye and sped
away on my bike.
 I knew something was up even as I stepped into the doctor’s cabin at the
hospital. It was crowded and I could hear a lot of shouting. I parted the
crowd and went in. It was the doctor who was hopping mad. The moment
he saw me, he burst out, ‘You . . . this is all your fault . . . take this damned
man away . . . take him away this instant . . . or else I’ll throw him out.
What the hell do you take me for? You think I’m a halfwit numbskull? I
wasn’t born yesterday,’ he raged breathlessly.
‘What? What happened?’ I asked.
‘One stinging slap and this man would have dropped dead. You’re lucky
that didn’t come to pass . . . get this fucking corpse out of here . . . this very
second,’ screamed the doctor. His body reeked of sweat.
‘Doctor, wait, listen to me . . . just as you said . . . ’ I signalled that I had
the money.
‘Even if the President of this country were to tell me, this man won’t be
admitted here . . . I shouldn’t see him anywhere in this compound . . . take
him away right now . . . ’
‘What’s he going on about?’ Poomedai piped up. ‘Whatever is the sarkar
hospital for if orphans can’t come here to die in peace.’
‘You crazy motherfucker!’ Beside himself with rage, the doctor pounced
in Poomedai’s direction. I grabbed hold of the doctor and wrestled him to a
stop. With that, my restraint flew out of the window. ‘Hey! Who the hell do
you think you are! You’ll hit him, will you? Let me see that too!’ I shouted.
The doctor backed down. ‘As long as I’m alive this man will not set foot in
this hospital. I’ll see to that,’ he said, walking away from the scene.
‘What did you say to cause all this?’ I asked, turning to Poomedai. But,
unable to carry on, he had curled up on the floor already. A uniformed
hospital attendant came up to me. ‘Saar, you’re with him? Isn’t he our man,
Poomedai?’ he asked.
‘Yes, he happens to be my client . . . I’m a lawyer,’ I said. ‘What
happened here anyway? Why such a ruckus?’
He lowered his voice. ‘The thing is . . . the Congress chaps, Devasagayam
and Karunakaran were here . . . Seemed like they’d put their knives to use
somewhere and landed here, straight. They demanded backdated
admissions – that’s been the norm here forever, you know. They didn’t
stand in the queue. Simply waved a salute and marched right in. The doctor
was all smiles as he welcomed them and made the admission. Our man
happened to see that. So he’s gone up to the doctor and asked, “What about
the queue? Forty people have been standing in line since morning.” To
which, the doctor’s said, “They’re from the ruling party, no queue for
them.” ’
A sigh escaped me. ‘That’s when this nutcase showed his true colours,’
the attendant chortled. ‘He walks out in right earnest, catches hold of a cow
grazing by the roadside, with its calf to boot, and leads them straight into
the doctor’s cabin. Shit-scared, the doctor scrambles on top of his desk. Our
man says, “The cow and calf are the Congress’s symbol . . . there’s no
queue for them either.” The cow entered the room, upset everything in its
way and bolted out, leaving the doctor shrieking “aiyo, aathaa” . . . it felt
like a scene straight out of the movies, for a while!’
The crowd broke into cackles of laughter. ‘Oh, so this is him? Couldn’t
recognize him with that swollen face of his,’ said someone. ‘He was such a
wealthy man at one time. Blew up every last scrap for the sake of his
meetings . . . this is what madness does, then.’ ‘It’s his fate to be relegated
to the streets, what else.’ ‘Neither wife nor children?’ ‘Has no children. The
wife’s departed before him.’ ‘What difference does it make where he dies?
Some solace if he pops off here with dignity.’
Amidst the cacophony of voices, I bent down to check on Poomedai. His
face had become pale and yellow. As the sound of my movements fell on
his ears, he opened his eyes and smiled. ‘Made a mistake,’ he said, ‘. . . my
last mistake perhaps.’ I almost blurted ‘What a time to realize it’, but bit my
tongue. ‘The Congress’s symbol changed in the year seventy-eight . . . it’s
the hand now, isn’t it? I completely forgot,’ he said, before closing his eyes
again. I laughed, despite the situation we were in.
Those were his last words. I called for an autorickshaw and was moving
him to another hospital when he died on the way. His funeral was
performed with the five thousand rupees that had turned my world upside
down. It was a grand affair, complete with a tricolour flag and a tricolour
wreath. Everyone who attended the funeral was given a Gandhi cap –
sprinkled with grains of rice for the dead.

OceanofPDF.com
 One World

I asked him the first question that’s posed to every white-skinned person.
‘Which country are you from?’ But that is in fact the foremost of questions
one should not ask him. Or perhaps, when I think about it now, it was the
very question to ask if you truly wished to understand him.
He must have been around seventy-five. A mouth that had slumped
inwards, effacing the lips, a straight German nose that drooped almost
imperceptibly at the tip, and a few creases lining the corners of his mouth –
these were the only discernible signs of his age. He looked to be a seven-
footer. Those as tall as that acquire a mild stoop from the constant strain of
talking to shorter people. Furrowed and sunburnt, his balding pate, arched
forehead and somewhat saggy cheeks resembled the tilled red earth. He had
ripe, metallic eyes. The sturdy arms of an athlete with protruding green
veins. Broad shoulders. A firm, taut stomach. And a gait that made it seem
as though his knee joints were fitted with iron springs. He was dressed in a
shirt and khaki trousers.
He peered affably through the rather thick lenses of his glasses and
answered me with a question. ‘What is your nationality?’
‘Indian,’ I responded, a bit puzzled.
‘Oh,’ he said. ‘And who told you that you are Indian?’
I considered the question carefully and replied with caution. ‘According
to the law, I am Indian.’
‘So, a government established in this land called India has bestowed an
identity upon you. It is what calls you an Indian citizen, correct?’
So, I had locked horns with a difficult man. But that’s quite a routine
occurrence in the countryside of Ooty. The foreigners who visit Ooty town,
or those who frequent its tourist spots, aren’t like this. With enormous bags
strapped on their backs and large boots attached to their feet, they come to
climb mountains, or venture into the jungles, armed with cameras and
binoculars. Or they are couples who exchange a kiss for every four steps
they take. It must be said, though, that unlike in Kodaikanal, you won’t find
too many junkies here. Shaggy-haired foreign youth throng Kodai in search
of a particular variety of mushroom. Ooty’s visitors, on the other hand, are
usually in the pink of health.
There are numerous gurukulams and ashrams in the villages scattered near
the outskirts of Ooty. And plenty of meditation centres and Christian
monasteries too. The folks who visit these places are the ones who take the
village roads. This bunch of foreigners have a unique quality about them.
They are far more eager, as compared to other tourists, to mingle with the
locals, to talk to them and to drink tea from the tiny roadside stalls. What’s
more, unlike the others, they aren’t obsessed with taking pictures
everywhere they go and of every single thing they see. While they come in
myriad shapes and sizes – dreadlocked hair, saffron attires, shaved heads
and rudraksham beads around the neck – a perennial smile or a liberated
look adorns every one of their faces, proclaiming that they are ‘different’.
This man in front of me now had secured his straw-coloured hair in a
ponytail.
Upon arriving from Kozhikode, I alighted at the Ooty bus terminus in
order to get to Fernhill. That was when I saw him. They said buses wouldn’t
be running that day. There were no autos or vans either. ‘Ooty bandh’ – a
strike was under way over some issue concerning the price of tea leaves.
There was no option but to walk. The first time I saw him was when he
walked past me after getting off another bus that had just arrived from
Kerala. When I began walking, I spotted him again, striding ahead of me
like a leopard. I caught up with him and said hello.
All right, I said to myself. Let’s see where this conversation goes.
‘This country doesn’t merely provide me with an identity. It offers
protection too,’ I said.
‘From whom?’ he asked.
‘From the people of other nations.’
‘Who are these others? Do you mean those who have been bestowed
identities by their respective governments, just as you were by yours? Are
they your enemies? Do they wish to destroy you?’
I was unable to answer him.
‘It’s the governments of other nations that attack yours. It is a war
between the governments. It is those who use you in such battle whom you
consider to be your protectors.’
I understood him instantly. Isn’t it typical of a gang to wield power over a
neighbourhood on the pretext of protecting its residents from a rival outfit?
But, reluctant to admit defeat, I said, ‘We need the concept of a nation, if
people are to stay united.’
‘Which people? Pakistanis and Indians?’
‘I mean Indians,’ I retorted, indignant.
‘If that is so, why should Ooty be with India? Why not declare this hilly
region an independent country? Won’t everyone in the hills stay united
then? Why, we could make even the town of Masinagudi an independent
country.’
I figured the direction in which he was headed and held my peace. ‘If
Ooty can unite with Tamil Nadu, if Tamil Nadu can be with India, can’t the
world be united as one?’ he said. Something in that question made me
smile. The hilly roads of Ooty seem to make one think like a saint.
‘You laugh. You call it madness. I have noticed the same laughter in many
thousands of people across the two hundred and fifty countries of this
world. A hundred years ago, when told that the black man and the white
man are equals, they would have laughed like this too. Two hundred years
back, when it was said that it’s a sin to barter men as slaves, they would
have laughed like this too. When it was said that women are equal to men,
I’m sure they would have laughed their heads off.’ Even though he spoke
loud and fast, there was no trace of anger in his voice.
‘We put forth so many progressive ideas, why do we not think about this?
Let’s think. Let’s debate. Let’s put it into action, if only in a small way.
Every noble thought is bound to sound crazy at first. It is indeed the crazy
who take them forward. Thoreau, who argued for civil rights, was in fact
considered an eccentric. There was no immediate meaning in the small step
that he took. What difference does it make if a man refuses to pay taxes and
takes to a cottage in the woods by a lake? But it was a symbolic act. Look at
this . . . ’
He pulled out a thick blue diary from his bag and handed it to me. Only
when I held it in my hands did I notice that it was a passport – of the same
colour and form as the American passport. In fact, I had assumed it was an
American passport. But there was a picture of a globe on the cover and a
motto printed under it. ‘One World, One Nation’. In bold lettering further
towards the bottom, it said, ‘World Passport for World Citizens’.
There was an explanatory note on the second page – ‘Passport for a world
citizen who bears no allegiance to a country but considers the entire world
his nation.’ The same line was printed in many different languages. The
International Registry of World Citizens, located in the city of Ellsworth,
Maine, United States, had issued the document. There was only one
condition to obtaining that passport – you could not hold the passport of any
other country. You could not serve in the military of any nation. You had to
take an oath, wholeheartedly, accepting the entire world to be your nation.
There was a photograph of my new companion inside the passport – a
black-and-white picture from forty years earlier. He sported an enthusiastic
smile in an oblong face with a faintly receding hairline. As though Laurel,
of the Laurel and Hardy duo, had put on some weight. His name was Garry
Davis. Born in the United States in 1921, he had declared himself a World
Citizen in 1948.
One man’s idiosyncrasy, I thought to myself. As though in response, he
said, ‘This document’s been accepted by sixty countries. I’m travelling to
India on this passport for the seventh time.’ As I leafed through the pages, a
tremor of surprise went through my hands. Extra sheets had been added to
the passport, taking the count to nearly two hundred pages. The pages bore
a variety of stamps, entries in red and green, deletions and corrections in
many different languages and in many different hands. The document
resembled a squirrel that had twisted and tumbled all over the world map,
ending up with a colourful body.
While flipping through the pages, the signature of Jawaharlal Nehru
caught my eye. ‘I recommend that the Republic of India recognize this
passport as an official document. Jawaharlal Nehru, Prime Minister of
India’ – signed in green ink on 18 July 1954. Alongside his signature was
the official seal. Below the seal, were the words, ‘A noble ideal. The
Government of India endorses it’, in Indira Gandhi’s hand. ‘See this,’ he
said, directing me to a specific page in the document. ‘With this, I, a World
Citizen, grant permission to Garry Davis, a World Citizen, to enter France’
– signed Albert Camus.
What tomfoolery, is all I felt even then. But Egypt’s Nasser and
Yugoslavia’s Marshal Tito had signed it too. There were notes of
recommendation from many world leaders, urging their respective nations
to recognize it as an official document. It was the United States that had
taken the lead in endorsing it. I handed the passport back to him. ‘You’re
welcome to join this organization. I will issue you a passport,’ he said.
‘Where are you headed?’ I asked.
‘To a place called Narayana Gurukulam. That’s where I am staying.’
‘Ada!’ I said, pleasantly surprised. ‘That’s where I am headed too. I’m a
disciple of Nitya Chaitanya Yati.’
He grabbed hold of my hands in his. What strong arms. ‘What a surprise!
I am a close friend of Nitya’s. Rather, I should say I am his guru’s friend.
Happy to meet you,’ he said.
‘You knew Nataraja Guru?’
‘The two of us worked together for twenty-five years. I had accepted him
as my guru, as my teacher.’ I looked at him with wonder. ‘In 1954, I visited
Sorbonne University to meet Henri Bergson, with whom I had been in
correspondence. Nataraja Guru was there to attend a conference. It was then
that I met with him and John Spiers. Later, we decided to join forces and
work together for the idea of one world.’
I continued to chat with him as we walked towards the gurukulam. It was
around half-past eight in the morning. Daybreak was making a hesitant
arrival in Ooty just then. A flock of parrots heading towards the potato
fields glided to a landing, blocking the road. The grassy pastures by the
roadside glistened with dew. Hefty cows were grazing on the pastures, their
bodies dissected by a light beam that filtered through a gap in the clouds.
Tiny insects, like sparks of fire, hovered around the tails that twirled about
in the soft light.
Scarcely a year had passed since I had become acquainted with Nitya
Chaitanya Yati and had begun visiting the gurukulam. I knew little about
the gurukulam, or for that matter about its many residents and followers.
There were surprises in store for me on every visit. That was the time when
the world’s pre-eminent educationists, thinkers and travellers came visiting,
either as a friend or a disciple of Nitya’s.
Further up, we found a few horses coming from the opposite end of the
road. One was white. The other three were copper, the shade of tender
mango leaves. In the yellow of dawn, they shone as though made of gold
and silver. Their coats bristled, their tails swirled and their hooves clip-
clopped under the swagger of taut muscles as they marched forward. One of
them turned to look at us, and a ripple ran through its mane. ‘Gold and
silver,’ said my companion, echoing my thoughts. His face was a-bloom as
he stopped to take in the sight. ‘Boundless treasures that belong to no one,’
he said. I understood that that fundamental idea was ever-present in his
mind.
Once we reached the Manjanakorai hamlet, we took a turn towards
Narayana Gurukulam. There was a new house being constructed near the
junction. Garry Davis turned to me and said, ‘When I first came here in ’54,
there was not a single house in this vicinity. There were some potato fields
in the valley, but the slopes were all covered with dense thickets and
eucalyptus trees. The gurukulam appeared like a tin box someone had left
behind in the woods.’
Those were the days when Nataraja Guru had lived by himself in a tin
shack he had built with his own hands, on land gifted to him in the midst of
the lonely woods. Back then, very few knew about him. He had cut ties
with all the organizations associated with Narayana Guru, his predecessor,
and lived out of sight, hidden from the world. It was the pupal phase of his
transformation into Nataraja Guru. John Spiers had arrived in the beginning
of the fifties. Nitya Chaitanya Yati joined them soon after, quitting his job
as a professor at the University of Madras.
‘Was Nitya already here when you first visited?’ I asked.
‘Yes, but I did not meet him then. He was in Varkala. John Spiers was in
Bangalore and was busy publishing Values, the monthly journal. Nataraja
Guru and Chidambara Theertha were the only ones who were here.
Chidambara Theertha was yet to become a monk at that time. He had just
returned from Burma and was still holding a job.’
We reached the gurukulam. ‘I stay in that small cottage up there. Don’t
hesitate to visit me,’ said Garry Davis and left, climbing past the water tank.
I went directly to Nitya’s room and paid my respects. We began talking.
‘Guru, I met Garry Davis,’ I said. ‘We arrived here together.’
‘Oh, he’s here, is it?’ said Nitya, laughing. ‘Did you manage to chat on
your way here?’
‘Yes. I had never heard of him before today.’
‘That can only mean you weren’t interested,’ he said. ‘Have you read
Nataraja Guru’s memoir, The Autobiography of an Absolutist?’ I had just
begun reading it and was a couple of chapters into the book. ‘It talks of
Garry Davis in quite some detail. Nataraja Guru’s idea of one world was
something he had developed together with Garry. The two of them worked
together to create the blueprint for the East-West University.’
‘It makes me sad to think that I hadn’t heard of him all this while.’
‘Well, you’ve heard of him now, haven’t you? What’s more, you’ve had
the opportunity to meet him too.’
When Nitya began receiving visitors, I left for the kitchen. Dr Thampaan
Swami was busy cooking. Beside him, Karunakaran was chopping up
radish.
‘Come, come, come,’ Thampaan Swami welcomed me in Malayalam as
soon as I stepped in. ‘How’s the writing going?’ he asked.
‘Going somewhere on its own,’ I said, as I dunked a cup into a large
aluminium vessel and helped myself to piping hot black tea. I sat down on
the bench beside Karunakaran.
‘Looks like you met Garry Davis?’ said the doctor.
‘How did you know?’
 ‘I know everything, sami. I’m a seer who knows the past, the present and
the future,’ he said.
I looked through the window that opened into the backyard. The path
through which we had arrived was visible.
‘He’s a great man,’ I said in Malayalam.
‘Writer sir, have you read Henrik Ibsen’s Enemy of the People?’ he asked,
continuing in the same tongue.
‘Yes, I have.’
‘That work created a personality type that befit the thinkers of this world.
Individualism, as a philosophy, began to gain importance in Europe from
the seventeenth century. The freethinkers were shunned as outsiders, by the
religions, by the government and even by the society of those times. They
were labelled immoral, incendiary and anarchist – labels that were
extremely dangerous in eighteenth-century Europe.’
The doctor went on. ‘And in that manner, thousands of scientists and
intellectuals were ostracized, hounded and killed by the public at large back
then. But they were the ones who forged the very civilization of Europe. It
was as a representative of all those people that Ibsen created the character
of Dr Thomas Stockmann. Back in those times, Europe was filled with
many such Stockmanns. That play had a big hand in changing the popular
discourse about such thinkers. It showed that only those who had distanced
themselves from society could present it with a new path. These outsiders
are a society’s most precious assets.’
‘Srrr,’ the greens sizzled as Dr Swami tossed them into the wok and
stirred them; he peered at them before sprinkling a pinch of chilli powder.
‘If the Europe of today is a land of wisdom that bequeaths to the world both
intellect and technology, it is because it learned to celebrate its outsiders.
Indeed, all of human civilization has been shaped by the crazy. Writer sir,
have you read Carl Sagan’s Broca’s Brain?’ he asked.
‘No,’ I admitted.
‘Right answer,’ said Thyageeswaran Swami as he passed through the
kitchen. ‘The perfect way to defeat a book is with this one word. What if it
has pages and pages of things to say? It will stop in its tracks, open-
mouthed, upon hearing this single word.’ I laughed.
Dr Swami smiled at him. ‘There’s a chapter in that book called “Night
Walkers and Mystery Mongers”. It’s a wonderful essay about the
boundaries of science. We all think that science is strictly rational and that
there’s no space in it for craziness. But that’s textbook science. The only
kind we know. Our boys read no further either. But doesn’t science grow all
the time? New shoots that emerge from it, are all endeavours of the crazy.
They never stop propagating all kinds of loony hypotheses. While most
such ideas find their way into the bin, some go on to be proven as scientific
theories. But for the loony nightwalkers, science wouldn’t exist.’
Dr Swami took the wok off the stove and placed a pot on it. I dipped the
raw radish in salt and popped it in my mouth. ‘You should eat raw radish
without the salt. Salt perverts its innate nature. That which alters the true
nature of another is enemy to the latter. When you soak bitter gourd along
with tamarind, its bitterness will vanish. Why should one eat bitter gourd
without the bitterness? A cucumber will suffice then, won’t it? Why do we
need a Jeyamohan without the literature? Then a BSNL clerk will do, won’t
he, sami?’ he said. He continued in the same breath, ‘If this be the state of
science, imagine what philosophy and the arts will be like. All those
tranquil and worldly people will not so much as get an entry ticket . . . ’
‘Outsiders are accorded a place in our country too,’ I remarked.
‘In its heydays, India indeed celebrated its night-time wanderers and
explorers of mysteries. It emphasized the need for society to support and
protect them. This mindset lasted several years and was assimilated as a
rule of society. Since these rules later developed into religious faiths, they
live on in the hearts of many, to this day. That’s how Nataraja Guru
wandered about for six whole years in this country, surviving on alms.
Nitya roamed the land for four years. There would easily be at least five
lakh such itinerants in our country. They are nurtured by this society.’
The doctor dropped the potatoes in boiling water. He came and sat down
beside me and began slicing carrots. ‘But it is only where the Hindu,
Buddhist, Jain or Sikh faiths are strong that this mindset survives today. Our
educated class views these things as superstitions. What they absorb from
Europe are mere trifles – either technology or economics. They think that is
all Europe’s about, they have no idea about Europe’s soul.’
I pondered over it even as the doctor carried on. ‘But it has to be said that
this fundamental state of mind always existed in Europe. The evangelists
who took Christianity out to the world were outsiders too. Columbus and
Vasco da Gama, who boarded ships in search of new worlds, were made of
the same mould. I used to be in awe of Herman Gundert as a young boy.
He’s a real paragon amongst the missionaries. To board ship for an alien
land and cross many a sea at the age of eighteen, to live in that land his
entire life, to learn the native language, codify its grammar, compile a
dictionary and be such a pioneer – what an incredible feat that is. If we stop
to think how many amongst us would have dared to do what he did, we’ll
readily grasp the meaning of such zeal.’
‘There was a time when such spirit existed in India too. Bodhidharma
went all the way to Japan, armed with a mere peepul leaf. But that strength
of will and that consciousness capable of embracing the entire world was
later lost to us. We’ve become a society with a shrunken mind. The only
one who managed to revive the earlier mindset was Swami Vivekananda.
When he called for youth capable of renunciation, that’s what he had in
mind. But our feet are still mired in the swamp of worldliness . . . It’s a
rarity to find amongst our youth those with dreams, those with a sense of
adventure . . . ’ Disconnected from his being, the doctor’s hand was
stacking the sliced carrots into a tower of golden coins.
‘Garry Davis possesses that quintessential European mind. To be
adventurous, to be different, to harbour great dreams, to be ready to die for
your firmest beliefs, to be self-assured enough to speak to the world – he
has all of those qualities. That’s what’s made him what he is today. There’s
a great article about him. I’ll give it to you,’ said the doctor.
I got to my feet. ‘I’ll have a bath and be back, Dr Swami,’ I said.
‘Take these two vessels to Garry sahib,’ said Dr Swami.
‘Why?’
‘He’ll fill the large vessel full of craziness and the small one full of
dreams and hand it to you . . . you can blow on it and drink at leisure.’
 I laughed.
‘Please give them to him, sami,’ said the doctor.
I climbed up the slope and reached the cottage. Having stripped down to
his shorts, Garry Davis was standing outside the hut, like a giant carrot in
the balmy sunlight. He was sunbathing, I figured. The khaki clothes lay
near him. He received the vessels and thanked me with a smile. He filled a
little water in the vessels, dunked his clothes in, scrubbed them with a small
brush and began washing them in a bizarre way. A water-sparse method of
washing clothes learnt from the naturalists of Europe, it seemed.

•
Before I met Garry Davis again that day, I made sure to read up on him. I
was amazed to learn that he had once been a Broadway actor. That explains
his expressive face and crystal-clear enunciation, I thought to myself. I
discovered that he had been trained in diverse fields. He had graduated from
an episcopal academy but gone on to study technology. After that, he had
become an actor, and later a pilot. He had even won an award for being an
‘outstanding young pilot’.
Rebellion of one kind or another was an abiding feature in his life. He had
left home many a time. He had tried his hand at varied fields of study and it
seemed that his innate talent was in a frantic search for an outlet to burst
through. He enlisted as a pilot in the Second World War, going on to bomb
cities that were under German control. On one of those occasions, he
chanced upon the photographs taken from his B-17 aircraft.
His superior, who had invited Garry Davis to his room to applaud him for
his service – for perilously swooping down and hitting the target with
precision – showed him the pictures. When he set eyes on those black-and-
white photographs laid out on the table, he felt a heavy iron ball slam into
his chest. He struggled for breath and held on to the corner of the table to
stop himself from falling. Houses on fire. People running amok. Tongues of
flame rising towards the sky. It was as though hell had been photographed.
All through that night, Garry battled with himself. Is it the slumbering
remnants of priesthood in him that makes him a coward? Up until that day,
he had successfully battled his emotions and his upbringing, with a solitary
word called ‘manliness’. Manliness has no meaning sans daring, sans
victory. Then again, what’s so daring about this act? Does bravery consist
of being a mere rivet in a phantom-like machine? The machine does not
have a mind of its own. It is not responsible for the destruction it has
caused. He is the one who is rendering it heartless. He is not responsible for
its victories; he is responsible for its sins.
He spent the night smoking, drinking and roaming about the camp in the
darkness. But in the morning, everything would find its equilibrium, its own
justification. A faint unease is all that would remain, a gentle twinge
somewhere in the deep recesses of the self, gnawing and squeaking like a
rat. Each night, as soon as he hit the bed alone in the darkness, every bit of
resolve that had held him together until that moment would shatter. Unable
to bear the torturous barrage of thoughts, he would strike himself on the
head with his hands. He drank with such vengeance that his liver throbbed,
his body writhed, and his consciousness faded in and out as he lay witless
through the night.
A month later, he was sent on another bombing mission. ‘No, I cannot do
this,’ his insides screamed. ‘No, I will not kill my fellow beings any more,’
he imagined declaring to his senior officers, playing the scene in his head
many hundreds of times. As he paced up and down alone, repeating those
words to himself, the colleagues who happened to see his face gripped by
emotion were befuddled. ‘This is cowardice,’ he decided in the end. ‘I am
merely trying to convince myself that this isn’t cowardice but a sense of
morality.’
With that acquired bravado and a state of mind that willed him towards
danger, he got into the plane. As soon as he was airborne, all connection
with the ground was cut off. In that moment, he was struck by an urge to
just fly away, to disappear. Not to fly some place else and land in another
territory, but to dissolve into the wind and cease to exist. As the aircraft
gained speed, so did his desire to vanish without a trace. He cartwheeled in
the sky at top speed.
As he flew over German territory, bombs began to explode all around
him. When he saw the shells directed at him burst into plumes of yellow,
orange and red before blackening out, he was overcome with boundless joy.
He wished for one of the shells to hit him. But it must choose him. It must
conquer and vanquish him. A treacherous sortie followed. Miraculously,
however, nothing happened. Not a single shell hit him.
He flew as low as he could and surveyed the city – its snake-skin like
streams, lakes that resembled a woman’s hand mirror, green swells of trees,
and heaped mountains. The trigger to detonate a bomb was right beside his
hand, but he was unable to place his hand on it. He made a few desperate
attempts, calling his entire reserve of will to action. But his hand had
hardened to steel. Finally, he quit trying, and instead began to enjoy the
scenes below. Soon he reached a state of pure ecstasy, and the entire outing
turned into an adventurous game. He flew his aircraft with an intent to
tease. ‘Hey,’ he yelled, as he wove in between the German shells that
whistled past. He wanted to swoop down and flash the victory sign at them.
When he ran out of fuel, he returned to the camp without having dropped
a single bomb. The news had already reached the camp. They took him
away at once and began their investigation. Garry was still in the same
exuberant mood. Ecstasy rippled through his entire body and oozed through
every pore of his skin. ‘I have finally understood it. This is an amazing
game! It’s not too late yet. Send word to Washington right away . . . just like
that, we can turn the war into sport. And so, even if there’s death, there’ll be
no suffering. Let’s create a wondrous game within this game of life, and
defeat our Lord, the Father. Let’s go!’ he declared. He embraced the
investigating officer and kissed him. He took the hand of the helper who
had just stepped in to serve coffee, and danced with him.
So they took him away, at first for psychiatric treatment, and later to
prison. He was subjected to forced labour and torture. The war ended soon
after. When he had been freed from the military, Garry felt a great
emptiness within him all of a sudden. After having lived life at its apogee,
both in the military and at the prison, it felt as though he were now standing
on the barren floor of a meaningless, quotidian life. He travelled to
overcome that feeling. With a small bag strung over his back, he would set
off at any moment, to any place he wished. The usual tourist destinations
held no attraction for him. He was an ardent admirer of the mountains, but
within a few months he grew bored of climbing them too. The only thing
that held his interest was living with the downtrodden in the slums of the
cities.
Possessed by an idea that sprang from nowhere, he set off to Germany. He
stood witness to the nation’s poverty and the shame that its people felt. To
feel guilt, in the midst of such massive destruction, to feel guilt even as
their children agonized in hunger – isn’t that testimony to the German
people’s strength of character, he thought. Even though America had
handed Japan destruction of equal magnitude, it was his opinion that no one
in America felt any guilt about it. That deathly blow, they believed, was as
an act essential to the achievement of world peace. Their government and
their nationalists had shepherded the people to such an understanding. If, by
chance, Germany had won the war, it was equally possible that this mass of
people, with their elementary sense of morality, would have been convinced
that concentration camps were instruments of world peace too.
He visited the regions that he had bombed during the war. Fresh
vegetation had now taken root, burying the rubble and metal with the
vibrancy of new life. People had begun reconstructing their lives, leaving
behind their memories of the devastation. Pale-cheeked children in
uniforms were setting out to school, squealing and chattering
enthusiastically. Women selling their produce sat by the roadsides with
baskets of fresh fruit and vegetables. There was life everywhere. There was
only life everywhere. It cared two hoots for the man who had once turned
up there in his murderous machine, on a mission to fill the place with death.
He stood alienated, a thorn ejected by the pus and scabs birthed by living
flesh.
‘I’m the man who came to kill you all,’ Garry Davis screamed silently.
‘Throw stones at me. Nail me to the cross. For, without reason for enmity,
without knowing who you are, I came to wipe out every last one of you.’
But the effervescent life on the outside turned a deaf ear to his entreaties.
Lined by trees with boughs laden heavy with golden blossoms, the road
stretched ahead like a swathe of gold. Sitting on a bench in a park by that
roadside, Garry turned to the man beside him. ‘Brother, I am the man who
tried to destroy this land and its people.’ It wasn’t clear if the man had heard
him right. ‘Welcome. May Jesus be with you,’ he replied with a benevolent
smile.
Garry wished to stop each and every person in that town and declare that
he was the murderer who had come for them. But he felt that no one would
care. Yes, two years ago, one half of the world set out in a mad frenzy to
destroy the other half. They wiped out a considerable chunk of the world’s
population. But no one who had participated in it was a murderer. No one
harboured anger against another. They were told that it was their duty and
they had believed it, that was all. The people who had taught them this had
now shaken hands. There was no need to kill any more. Those who had
died and those who had killed were both innocent. Why should there be
animosity between them? Or censure of each other?
In the cold of the night, Garry Davis sat alone in the park and wept. He
understood then why Jesus had cried out as he had. The one who had cried
‘Father, why have you forsaken me’ was the Jesus who represented Man.
He was one amongst many millions of people forsaken by God. But the
man who had entreated ‘Father, please forgive them’ was a fragment of God
himself. Is the heart of every enlightened soul in this world composed of
just these two lines? Are their lives but an oscillation between these two
ends?
In the spring of that year, Garry left for Paris. At a world conference that
was taking place in the city, he declared that he was renouncing his
American citizenship and went on to burn his passport in public. ‘I peeled
off my skin, cast it aside and stood naked of flesh in the middle of the road.
There, I was born again.’ He was arrested for that act. The articles that were
written, and the interviews that were taken of him, made sure that all of
Paris talked about Garry. The intelligentsia of Paris, including Andre Gide
and Albert Camus, rallied in his support. France deported him.
From France, Garry Davis went to Geneva. There he entered a meeting of
the United Nations General Assembly as a spectator. At an opportune time,
he stood up and proclaimed: ‘Stop partitioning the world. Nation is an
imagined outline drawn up by marauders. Let people live in unity. One
world, One people!’ The security threw him out. But many members of the
assembly applauded him in a show of support.
After that, Garry Davis’s life became one long struggle. The very next
year, he founded the International Registry of World Citizens and made
himself a passport. He travelled from country to country, in order to get the
world to accept the document. He was imprisoned two hundred times,
across one hundred and fifty countries. He visited India in 1954, holding the
very same passport. When he was thrown into jail by the Indian police, his
friend Nataraja Guru wrote letters to the government as well as to the
country’s intellectuals, in a bid to protect him. R.K. Laxman, Mulk Raj
Anand and many more rose in support. Jawaharlal Nehru authorized his
entry and set him free.
In the tin shed of the Ooty gurukulam, Nataraja Guru and Garry Davis sat
under the light of the chimney lamp, charting plans for their audacious
dream of ‘one world’. It was a golden period for both, a time when their
minds were veritable fountainheads of ideas. Nataraja Guru drew up a
remarkable blueprint for the countries of the world to unite over time into a
single world order without having to give up their economic wealth. Garry
Davis, on his part, worked on a prototype of a unified humanity that would
yet retain its heterogeneity in culture, religion and learning.
After three whole years of work, they published a manifesto in Paris’s
Sorbonne University. With that manifesto in hand, Garry toured the world
and enrolled many lakhs of people as members in his organization. ‘Some
day, we will certainly be a world community. Why not begin right now?’
His call to action found considerable resonance in every part of the world of
those times. The wounds from the war were yet to heal. An entire
generation spawned amidst the war was marching towards the ‘hippie age’
– a time when Charlie Chaplin and Bob Marley were in dialogue with this
world.
Garry had faith in Vedanta, and in Gandhi. He believed that Gandhi was
living testimony to how a non-violent struggle could influence people’s
thoughts, thereby acting as an agent of great social change. He had a keen
interest in India’s Vedantic philosophy. ‘Vasudhaiva kutumbakam’ – the
phrase that captured the idea of the world as one family – had permeated his
heart as a mantra. His understanding of Vedanta, in fact, originated from
that very line. He obtained a master’s degree in Vedanta from East-West
University at Somanahalli, in Bangalore. The university had been founded
by Nataraja Guru with assistance from John Spiers, with the objective of
bridging Eastern and Western thought.
As long as Nataraja Guru was alive, Garry had made at least one trip to
India every two years. Later, as his travels and consequent imprisonments
became more frequent, his visits to India dwindled. He was now visiting the
gurukulam after a gap of many years.

•
That afternoon, I walked up to Garry’s hut to meet with him. The door was
ajar, but he wasn’t there. Must be somewhere nearby, I thought. ‘Sayyibu
has gone out,’ said Karunakaran. But the door is open, I told him. ‘Sayyibu
has no lock.’ He laughed. When I went down to the road, I found Garry
Davis, in the khakis he had washed and put to dry in the morning, seated in
a jeep. A long-bearded brahmachari, attired in full white, was in the vehicle
with him.
I went up to them. ‘Hello,’ he greeted me.
‘Where are you off to?’ I asked.
‘To the western mountains. I’m going to the Ambadevi ashram first and
then to the Western Ghats.’
‘Okay.’
‘You want to join us?’
‘Sure.’
‘Get in then.’
I got in at once, without bothering to go back for my things. Will he ask
me to let the folks know before leaving, I wondered. But then, he didn’t
seem to be the kind who would take leave or plan his departures.
The jeep bounced and trundled along the muddy roads. Garry Davis
travelled in silence, gazing out at the small tin huts, the side lanes blocked
by big cows chewing cud, the sloping potato fields with water sprinklers
that swivelled and spat in bursts. He waved cheerily at children. When a
dog chased our vehicle and barked its head off, he met my eyes and
laughed. I wished to talk with him. But I felt I wouldn’t be able to strike up
a conversation during the drive. As soon as we reached the Ambadevi
ashram, Ambadevi herself – an elderly, saffron-clad lady, with a crown of
matted hair – came out to welcome Garry. ‘Hari Om,’ she said, as she
greeted him. ‘Om! The absolute is adorable,’ responded Garry, and winked
at me.
After he had extended his courtesies to Devi, we sat down on the veranda
of the ashram, waiting for a young monk who was to be our guide. The
garden out in front was in full bloom. Like girls with infant siblings perched
on their hips, the plants slumped under the weight of their own blossoms.
‘I spent my day reading about you,’ I said.
‘Hope it was interesting,’ he said, with a twinkle in his eyes.
I laughed. ‘I have to say, I am not entirely convinced about your
activism.’
‘Tell me more.’
‘You travel to a country of your choice in order to talk about your idea.
You break their laws and get jailed. But what do you wish to achieve by
going to prison?’
‘Must I explain civil disobedience to Gandhi’s own country?’ he asked
with a smile. ‘If a law comes in the way of basic humanity or impedes the
spiritual growth of man, every human being has the right to break such a
law. In fact, we are duty-bound to break it.’
‘But we are talking of countries that are not your own.’
‘I don’t have a country of my own.’
I struggled to articulate the question in my mind. ‘You undertake this as
an act of rebellion. But when you do it as a lone man, the act is reduced to
mere playfulness,’ I argued.
‘All I do is put forth my ideas. I plant the seed of my dream of a unified
world wherever I go.’
 ‘But why go to jail for that?’
‘The entire world is composed of ideas. The proliferation of the media in
the twentieth century has led to a real surfeit of ideas. Billions and billions
of them. Every idea is backed by its own logic. One might argue that there
is a need for this multiplicity too. But the reality is that no one engages
deeply with these ideas today. Out of the many billions, which ones will
draw your attention? Which ones will come to be accepted? From amongst
the many thousands of sentences in a book, which line will catch the eye of
a reader who only skims through its pages?’ He put a hand on my shoulder,
looked into my eyes and said, ‘The line that is underscored.
‘My young friend, how does one underscore a sentence? There are only
two ways. One is through authority. A sweeping majority of the ideas that
are popular amongst us today are those propounded by authority and drilled
into our heads through propaganda. But ideas for the morrow are seldom
backed by the might of authority. So, how does one underscore them?’ He
patted me again. ‘Through sacrifice. That is the only way. When I go to
prison for my ideas, those ideas become impossible to brush aside. If a man
is willing to give up his belongings, his life, give up every last thing that is
his, all for the sake of an idea, that idea acquires unimaginable power. That,
in fact, is the Gandhian way.’
I sighed, taking his words in.
‘I learn everything there is to know about a country before I visit it. I
satisfy myself that there already exists an intellectual movement in that
nation. After that, I land up there and challenge their laws. I advocate for
myself in their courts. I write to their newspapers and their intellectuals. For
as long as I stay in prison, I go on speaking about my ideas. It offers the
best way for me to place my idea in the intellectual milieu of another.’
Once the young monk arrived, we set out. After a while, the jungle roads
that bordered Emerald Estate began to climb uphill. Giant green mounds of
mountains stood afar in deep quietude. In the distance, where the farthest
mountain pierced the sky, the Nilgiri tahr moved as small, languid dots
against the horizon. The evening was yet to turn crimson, but the light was
fading fast, rendering the air nippy enough to make us shiver. I had a thick
sweater on – I never take it off when I’m in Ooty. The khaki shirt was all
that Garry was wearing.
Quite unexpectedly, Garry started the conversation this time. ‘Before I
arrived here, I was in a prison in South Africa for four and a half years.’
I stopped in my tracks. ‘Four and a half years!’
‘Yes. It was a seven-year sentence, but they let me go.’
I did not take my eyes off him. He continued talking as we hiked up the
hill. ‘I had never been in solitary confinement until then. They locked me
up all alone. I spoke barely a hundred sentences in those four and a half
years. I was not granted permission to write, there was nothing to read and
there was no access to any kind of media. Complete solitude.
‘To be alone, is an excellent exercise. When we are alone, we witness our
inner selves by projecting it on to the surrounding ether. Everything in our
mind is amplified – from one to a hundred, to a thousand. For those who
cannot bear themselves, solitude is the greatest hell there is. As a matter of
fact, for most people, hell is being alone. Sartre was wrong. Hell is other
people, he said. If they had locked him up alone, he would have changed his
mind. No Exit, the play he wrote, talked of group and not solitary
confinement.’
‘So, what did you do?’ I asked.
‘I thought. I put all my training in Vedanta to use,’ said Garry. ‘The
challenge in solitary confinement is that there exists no world outside of the
self. The cell was eight feet by ten feet and was surrounded by white walls.
There were a couple of windows at the height of two stacked men. When
they closed the door, I was completely walled in. Only I, and nothing else,
was there on the inside. I could not see my own body, and so my
consciousness had no inkling that I existed as form. My consciousness is all
that remained there, or so it felt.
‘And that is the problem – the existence of pure consciousness to the
exclusion of all else. Pure consciousness has no form. Bodham or
consciousness always recognizes itself, by reflecting itself on to objects in
the outside world. As consciousness stagnates within bare walls, little by
little, it puts paid to the myriad perceptions of its own self. Consciousness is
a never-ending act of reflection against its surroundings, and when that act
comes to a halt, it slowly fades out. When consciousness fades, abodham or
the unconscious raises its hood with great fury. A man trapped in solitary
confinement is sure to turn insane within a year.’
‘True, I’ve read about it, in Henri Charriere’s Papillon,’ I said.
He laughed. ‘Yes, it is indeed an invention of the France that also taught
culture to the world.’ With another chuckle, he said, ‘And the other nation
which taught the world philosophy also invented the gas chambers.’
The intensity of the moment eased, and I joined in his laughter. ‘But how
did you handle such torment?’ I asked.
‘For my consciousness to be aware of itself, I need an outside world. That
I had come to realize through the wisdom of Vedanta,’ said Garry Davis.
‘But the outside world is merely what my own mind creates. Vedanta tells
us that too. In other words, my consciousness needs the pretence of an outer
world. That is what we call maya, illusion. So I set about creating that
illusion. I bent the meal plate and used it to draw the world on the wall.
Where I stood was the centre of that world, a point in the Himalayas. When
I turned eastward, east Asia was ahead of me, and behind me was Europe.
To my left was the Arctic. And to my right, Antarctica.
‘I drew the cities, the mountain ranges, the rivers and the oceans of every
region. I jotted down in broken words whatever I knew of the people in
those areas. And then, I began living in that world. I’d reach the Alps on a
whim. Four steps would get me to the Himalayas. Another four steps, and
I’d reach the deep oceans of the Pacific. I could stand in the Atlantic Ocean
and reach for the deserts of Arabia. I filled the world and lay spread over it,
as the Supreme, All-Encompassing Man – the Virata Purushan.
‘I chose a different land each day. I lived amidst its people and became
one of them. Then, I would connect that land with another that had
absolutely nothing to do with it. I made the Hans of China speak Swahili. I
took Tamil culture to Latin America. I mixed a bit of Coimbatore in Sierra
Leone. My body turned into a gigantic electric network. Through me,
different cultures communicated with each other. Human hearts recognized
one another. Lands became one. Oceans merged into a larger, more dynamic
whole.
‘Sometimes, I became a huge land mass stretched between two regions.
Mountains rose over me. Waves rocked the sea. Great rivers surged and
hurtled down from my mountains, towards the seas. At my zenith stood
radiant, vapoury clouds; and at my trough, blind fish flitting about, fins
flapping in the darkness they knew as light. Rain fell upon me. Green
shoots shivered to life. I turned the salts of my body into the sweetness of
fruit and into the myriad hues, scents and nectars of flowers.
‘Sometimes I lay down, laden with an acute awareness of Earth’s pains.
Tunnels lay agape at my surface, like lesions that refuse to heal. Machines
burrowed into me like worms. Life-giving liquids and buried diamonds
were sucked out from my depths. My stomach was heavy with refuse. Acid
and poison coursed through my veins. My lap dripped red with the blood of
my children.
‘It was this remarkable self-awareness that ensured I survived. It told me
that I was limitless, that I would not be destroyed, that I was a lap capable
of bearing even those who tormented me. I became Bhoomi, the very earth.
I became one with boundless mercy, with limitless suffering, and possessed
of an inner fire that blazed on without end.
‘Out of the blue, the courts released me one day. It turned out that a social
worker in South Africa had approached the courts on my account. Once
again, the news about me spilled over from the courts to the papers.
Governments have but two options in dealing with such a situation. One is
to deport me. The other is to accept my proposal. South Africa chose the
latter. When they asked me where I should be sent next, I said India.’
‘Why?’ I asked.
‘Nitya had written letters to me while I was in prison. He wrote untiringly,
a letter a month for four long years. Though he did not receive a single
reply, he still wrote to me. He sent copies of those letters to various people.
He kept telling them that it wouldn’t be so easy to hide me away. In one of
those letters, he had written – “Dogs are the biggest irritants to those who
bury things. No matter the depth to which you may have gone, and no
matter the care you may have taken, the dog will somehow sniff its way to
the site and start scratching away.” So, in a way, it was indeed Nitya who
clawed me out. I wished to see him.
‘But when I set foot on this land, I realized there was a still more
important reason. I had understood freedom. I liked freedom, the freedom
to wander unfettered. And that exists only in this land today.’
‘You don’t say!’ I said, taken by surprise. ‘What about America . . . and
France?’
‘Young man,’ he said, laughing, ‘they feel it suffices that the idea of
freedom freely roams about. They are countries which abound in
surveillance. Questions are thrown at you all the time, no matter where you
go. Every entrance requires an identity card. Even fellow men will keep an
eye on you in those countries. They’ll observe your customs, and they’ll
make a face if you deviate from the norm to the faintest degree. Of course,
they do make room for departures. But they come up with newfangled
traditions to sanction the departures as well.
‘Such simple people,’ he said, laughing out loud. ‘They are conditioned to
organize everything, to give it structure or create a system, an order, and
they are unable to free themselves from that mindset. They seem to have
drawn nothing from the chaotic but unparalleled creative force of nature.’
Placing his hand on my shoulder, he said, ‘On the contrary, to this day,
there’s been just that one officer who looked over my passport when I
landed in this country. There has not been a single question since, nor any
restrictions. This land is wide open in front of me.’
‘In that case, this country is unsafe,’ I countered.
‘Not at all. This country is safer than any of the European nations. The
number of crimes seems to be incredibly low.’ In an awkward Tamil accent,
he said with a laugh, ‘Evvazhi nallavar aadavar, avvazhi nallai vaazhiya
nilane.’ As the people of the land, so the land itself. ‘It’s from the
Thirukkural,’ he said with a chuckle. ‘No . . . it was some other woman
poet. Avvaiyar. Was she a woman poet? Yes, that’s what I was told.
‘I came here in June. I travelled through Varkala, Aluva, Thalassery and
Kannur before I reached here. Later, I set off to Bangalore and visited
Vinaya Chaitanya at Somanahalli and then went straight to Goa to see
Freddy Swami. From Goa, I went to Bombay. And then to the Ajanta and
Ellora caves. Then to Varanasi. I stayed there for a whole month, right by
the ghats.’
‘Oh yes. I’ve stayed there too.’
‘From there to Calcutta via Allahabad. Then Bhubaneswar, Madras,
Trivandrum, Thalassery again, and then onwards to Kannur, reaching
Ezhimalai, where I stayed for ten days. I returned to the ashram via
Mananthavady.’
‘And that was this morning?’ I asked, incredulous.
‘Yes.’
‘But you didn’t have a single bag on you?!’
‘I had a change of clothes with me, that’s more than enough.’
We reached the top of the hill. By then, the evening had ripened to a deep
crimson. There was just a smattering of clouds in the sky. A rare sight in
Ooty. Blood-red kissed the fringes of a tiny heap of white clouds that lay at
the foot of the horizon, as though they had slid down the arc of a clear,
glassy blue sky. The sun hung above, a dark circle shorn of all its heat. Like
the stationary pendulum of a gigantic, broken-down clock. Crimson light
pulsated from its margins and diffused into the sky.
The cool wind brushed against our earlobes. One by one, the sambars on
the opposite peak got to their feet, pricked up their ears and watched us.
The deer stood unmoving, like statues pointed in different directions. The
loud chirping of birds rose up from the Shola forests that floated like clouds
of verdure in between the mountains. The air was soon filled with the damp,
leafy smell of eventide.
A solitary tree stood on top of the hill. Silver oak. But unlike the silver
oaks of the tea gardens, this one was not without branches. It swayed its
luxurious limbs and rippled joyfully in the wind. We went and stood under
it. There were no birds resting on its boughs. A large herd of deer must have
passed through the meadow, for it was scattered with droppings over which
tiny insects now hovered. For them, this was the nectar of life, a bassinet for
their newborn, a cradle for them to flourish in.
The silent young monk detached himself from us, sat down some distance
away, and after gazing at the horizon for a few minutes, closed his eyes. As
though sliding on ice, the sun slipped further and further, until it had all but
buried itself in the abyss. The sky was lined with red streaks. It was only
then that we discovered the infinite creases of clouds in the sky. All of a
sudden, the deer on the opposite hill scampered away, disappearing into the
bushes in the distance. A solo red-headed vulture circled above, gliding and
sailing through the sky. It dipped low, like a lonely feather hurtling towards
the ground, and in a trice came to life, flapping its wings and ascending
again.
Garry Davis sat down on his haunches. His bald pate, as though shorn of
its skin, had turned a shocking red. The pale afterglow of twilight puddled
in the lenses of his glasses, wobbled. It seemed as if he was in a trance. The
upper perimeter of the sun was all that was left of it. The solitary bird of
prey had disappeared somewhere into the depths of the firmament. ‘Sil, sil,
sil,’ we could hear another bird cry, but couldn’t spot it.
I heard the sound of dry coughs and turned around. It was Garry Davis.
The loose flesh on his double chin was twitching. Was it some sort of
epileptic attack? His face contorted, as if the muscles had been pulled to
one side. There was that cough again. He covered his face with his palms
and bent forward so that his head rested on his knees.
After a while, he lifted his head up and stared at the misty afterglow of the
setting sun. He kept shaking his head. He lifted his hands as though he was
about to say something. Instead, he ran his palms over his head and
appeared to relax. He sat with his eyes closed for some time. Perhaps
feeling my gaze on him, he turned to look at me. ‘Man, this is horrible,’ he
said with a smile.
I continued to look on in silence. After a few more minutes in the same
position, he got to his feet, and I followed. ‘For the first few minutes, I felt
the boundlessness of this world. But . . . ’ he said, running his hands over
his head, before bursting into a flurry of words, ‘. . . all of a sudden, I began
to feel that this world is but a room. And a very small one at that. If you
stretch your hands and your legs, you’ll cover every corner of it at the same
time. A room closed on all sides. With no hope of redemption, humanity
has been locked inside it for eternity . . . Jesus!’
I needed some time to absorb his words and turn them into my own
experience. But as soon as I felt their import, my body recoiled in fear. I felt
I would not be able to stand there for another moment. I wanted to run away
and lock myself in the safety of a small room. Only then would I be able to
feel the limitless world outside. And know freedom.
‘Om.’ The young monk opened his eyes. Without saying anything, he
began his descent down the mountain. Darkness fell like a shroud around us
and swallowed the Shola forests. A mute incandescence lingered on the
outline of the mountains. The faint light on their peaks was receding, like a
carpet being rolled back.
The mountain path appeared in front of us like a thin line as we made our
way down. Through the clamour of the cicadas, the night had begun making
sense of its cold, of its darkness, of its sounds, of its stars. My feet faltered
under the heavy tumble of thoughts that descended with me.
On the path ahead, Garry Davis stopped on a whim and turned to me. ‘We
should draw the entire cosmos here, shouldn’t we?’ he said. I stared
wordlessly after him as he walked down the hill.

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 A Note on the Real-Life Characters
The following are a few notes on the real-life characters who have been
fictionalized in the stories in this book. The protagonists who don’t find a
mention here are personally known to the author and their names have been
changed in the stories to protect their privacy.

A. Nesamony (‘He Who Will Not Bow’)

A. Nesamony (1895–1968) was a political leader from the Kanyakumari
district of Tamil Nadu. Post-Independence, the present-day district of
Kanyakumari was part of the Travancore kingdom (now part of Kerala)
even though the majority of its population was Tamil speaking. Nesamony
led numerous campaigns demanding union of the Tamil regions in
Travancore with the Madras state (later, Tamil Nadu). He came to be fondly
known as Marshal Nesamony. Under his leadership, the movement met
with success when, on 1 November 1956, the new Kanyakumari district,
made up of the four taluks of Thovalai, Agastheeswaram, Kalkulam and
Vilavancode, merged with Tamil Nadu. This earned Nesamony the title
‘Kumari Thandhai’ (Father of Kumari).
Nesamony was born on 12 July 1895 in Palliyadi in Vilavancode taluk.
The second son of Kesavan Appavu Nadar and Gnanammal, he grew up in
Marankonam – his mother’s village – in Kalkulam taluk.
After completing his BA from Maharaja’s College in Trivandrum, he
worked as a teacher for some time. He then studied law at Law College,
Trivandrum. In 1921, he registered himself as a lawyer in Nagercoil and
commenced practice.
On his first day in court, faced with a discriminatory seating system, he
kicked away the stool meant for ‘low-caste’ lawyers and sat in a chair
instead, putting an end to caste oppression within the courtroom. Similarly,
at the Nagercoil Bar Association, he broke the separate drinking water pots
kept for lawyers of different castes and replaced them with a common water
pot.
Upon entering public life, he served as chairperson of the Nagercoil
Municipal Council, following which he successfully contested elections to
become a member of the Legislative Assembly. In due course, he became a
member of Parliament, a position he held until his death in 1968.

Dr V. Krishnamurthy (‘Elephant Doctor’)

Dr V. Krishnamurthy (1929–2002), popularly known as ‘Elephant Doctor’,
was a pre-eminent conservationist from Tamil Nadu who dedicated his
entire life to the elephants.
He was a wildlife veterinarian in the Tamil Nadu Forest Department.
Under his supervision, the Theppakadu Elephant Camp in Mudumalai
National Park became world famous. He was the medical supervisor for
elephant sanctuaries throughout Tamil Nadu, and the elephants across all
these camps knew him well too.
Known as Dr K the world over, Dr V. Krishnamurthy authored several
research papers in leading scientific journals. His final essay appeared in
the British journal Nature, in the year 2000. Dr K was a member of the
International Union for the Conservation of Natural Resources, Asian
Elephant Specialist Group and many other international research
organizations. He won the prestigious Venu Menon Animal Allies Award
for animal welfare, also in the year 2000.
Dr Krishnamurthy emphasized at every possible juncture that the carcass
of every wild animal must undergo a post-mortem examination. He holds
the world record for the highest number of elephant autopsies as well as for
the highest number of elephant births supervised. He was an expert at both
tranquillizing and treating elephants and performed many hundreds of
surgeries. He insisted that elephants be weighed at regular intervals so as to
monitor their health. His treatise on captive elephant management has been
used the world over.
He proposed a plan for rehabilitating the temple elephants of Tamil Nadu
and led the implementation of rejuvenation camps for them. He campaigned
for putting an end to the use of elephants as utility animals and as
decoration at temples. Dr K was known to be a brilliant conversationalist;
he was eloquent on subjects ranging from Lord Byron’s poetry to Sangam
literature.*
Dr Krishnamurthy died on 9 December 2002, at the age of seventy-three.
His house in Topslip, Tamil Nadu, is now the site of a photo exhibition set
up in his memory.

Komal Swaminathan (‘Peruvali’)

Komal Swaminathan (1935–95) was a Tamil writer, film director and
journalist. Considered the foremost amongst the progressive Tamil
playwrights, Swaminathan was born in Komal, a town near Thiruvarur in
Tamil Nadu. Drawn to the theatre, he came to Chennai in 1957 after his
graduation and joined S.V. Sahasranamam’s theatre group, Seva Stage.
After working for a brief while as an actor, he wrote his first play, Pudhiya
Padhai (A New Path), in 1960.
Around the year 1963, he got into the film industry and worked with the
director K.S. Gopalakrishnan, assisting him with dialogues for his movies.
He did not get too many opportunities in films at that time. Even though a
few of his plays were adapted for the screen, they did not garner much
attention.
He quit the film industry in 1971 and founded Stage Friends, a theatre
group. Under its banner, he wrote and staged thirty-three plays, fifteen of
which were staged more than one hundred times each. Komal also served as
head of the Progressive Writers Association in Tamil Nadu. More often than
not, he wrote about the political and moral issues of his times and was
fiercely left-leaning.
Thanneer Thanneer (Water Water), the play Komal wrote in 1980, was
made into a movie by the Tamil film director K. Balachandar. The film
went on to win a national award and brought Komal many accolades.
Following that, many more plays of his were adapted for the screen. Komal
later turned director with the films Yuddha Kaandam (1982) and Oru
Indhiya Kanavu (1983).
In the last few years of his life, Komal suffered from spinal cancer. He
disbanded his theatre group and channelled his energies into journalism. He
was a literary enthusiast who had earlier worked alongside Si.Su. Chellappa
(author of the novel Vaadivasal) in Ezuthu, Chellappa’s literary magazine.
Later, he took over the running of Subamangala, a periodical started by
Shriram Chit Funds, and transformed it into a literary magazine.
Subamangala created waves in the Tamil literary world by introducing
many writers, whose works had only featured in ‘little magazines’ until
then, to a wider audience. Subamangala pioneered a new niche of ‘middle
magazines’ between the worlds of the avant-garde little magazines and the
mainstream commercial ones.

Dr Somervell (‘The Palm-Leaf Cross’)

Theodore Howard Somervell OBE, FRCS (1890–1975) was a British
surgeon, mountaineer and social worker. After taking part in two
expeditions to Mount Everest, he came to India, where he worked as a
doctor for forty years.
Somervell was born in the town of Kendal in Westmoreland, England. His
parents ran a shoe factory. At seventeen, he attended Rugby School and
joined a rock-climbing club. He went on to study natural sciences at
Gonville & Caius College, Cambridge, during which time he also
developed a strong Christian faith. He then trained as a surgeon at
University College Hospital.
Between 1915 and 1918, Somervell served in France with the British
army. The scenes of the war turned him into an ardent pacifist and deepened
his religious faith. During the Battle of the Somme in 1916, he was one of
four surgeons working in a tent of many hundreds of wounded men. While
in the camp, Somervell observed that not one of the wounded soldiers asked
to be treated ahead of the others. He relinquished his commission in 1921,
by which time he held the rank of captain.
In 1922, Somervell climbed the Lake District and the Alps, proving his
mettle as a mountaineer. The same year, he qualified to join the 1922 British
Everest expedition. He formed a close friendship with George Mallory, who
was part of the same team. The two had a shared love of Shakespeare and
would read poetry to each other.
On 18 May 1922, on their Everest expedition, they reached the North Col
at 7,020 metres above sea level, the highest man had ever been on the
mountains until then. In their first attempt to summit, they took the North
Ridge with sherpas accompanying them. They planned to climb further and
set-up camp again at 8,000 metres. However, they were unable to cope with
the thin air at that altitude and their plan failed. They sent the sherpas down
and set up camp at 7,600 metres. The following day, they climbed to a
height of approximately 8,200 metres, despite suffering from frostbite, but
they could not proceed further. They had not carried oxygen with them on
that attempt. Nevertheless, they reached the highest any climber had been
on Everest until then.
Within a few days, another group of climbers, headed by Geoffrey Bruce
and George Finch, commenced a second attempt to summit Everest, this
time with the support of oxygen. Somervell was part of that effort as well,
but it too failed.
Somervell and Mallory argued for making a third and final attempt to
summit Everest, even though Charles Bruce, the leader of the expedition,
opposed the idea. On 7 June, a team of climbers, including Somervell,
began the climb along with fifteen sherpas. However, an avalanche
triggered by the climb crushed seven sherpas to death, marking the end of
the expedition. It was Somervell who had made the call to climb in waist-
deep snow, and so he came to deeply regret his decision.
After travelling the length and breadth of India, Somervell reached
Kanyakumari in Tamil Nadu. Saddened by the poverty around him, he
joined forces with the London Missionary Society in Neyyoor, a town near
Kanyakumari. He was shocked to see nearly three thousand patients being
attended to by a lone doctor in a single day. He cast aside the bright future
that awaited him back in London and instead stayed in Neyyoor to serve as
a doctor.
In 1924, Somervell took a break from medical work to go on another
expedition to Everest. While heavy snowfall prevented his team from
completing the climb, four sherpas refused to descend the avalanche-prone
slopes and remained on a ledge overnight. Somervell went back for them
the next day and brought them down to safety. Then he made another
attempt with Edward Norton, and the two of them went up to 8,570 metres,
a world-record climb, which was eventually broken by the Tenzing–Hillary
team in 1952.
From 1925 to 1948, Somervell worked in Neyyoor, alongside the London
Missionary Society. Under his leadership, the hospital in Neyyoor became
one of the largest missionary hospitals in the world. He put together and
trained a large team of medical professionals. He invented many new
techniques in surgery. In 1938, he was awarded the Kaisar-i-Hind Medal for
Public Service in India (a medal awarded by the Emperor or Empress of
India between 1900 and 1947). In 1949, he joined Christian Medical
College in Vellore, Tamil Nadu, to teach surgery. In 1953, he was appointed
an Officer of the Order of the British
Empire (OBE).
After he retired from the medical profession in 1961, he returned to
England and served as president of the Alpine Club for three years.
Somervell died in 1975 at the age of eighty-five in Ambleside, England. In
honour of his memory, the CSI Hospital at Karakonam in Trivandrum
district has been named Dr Somervell Memorial CSI Medical College
Hospital.

Professor C. Jesudasan (‘The Churning Curd’)

Professor C. Jesudasan (1919–2002) was a college professor, literary
historian and critic who deeply influenced modern Tamil literature.
Professor Jesudasan was born into a humble family in Vattasenavilai
village of Kalkulam taluk in the Kanyakumari district of Tamil Nadu. He
did his schooling in Colachel and Trivandrum, graduating in the Tamil
language. He went on to earn a postgraduate degree in Tamil Literature
from Annamalai University, Chidambaram, where he was a student of
Ka.Su. Pillai (K. Subramania Pillai), a Tamil scholar and professor known
for his seminal work on the history of Tamil literature.
After working briefly at the American College, Madurai, he joined
University College, Trivandrum, in 1945. He also worked at Chittur
College, Palakkad. In 1974, he retired from his post as head of the
department of Tamil at University College, Trivandrum, but continued there
as a visiting professor for five more years.
Professor Jesudasan was primarily a teacher. His contributions in other
spheres, literary criticism included, were offshoots of his teacherly life. He
was known for his elaborate expositions while teaching both classical and
modern Tamil literature. He was a Tamil scholar who had a deep attachment
to the Kamba Ramayanam. The epic travelled with him from the very
beginning of his life to his final moments. He was known to deliver lectures
on poet Andal’s works as well as the Kamba Ramayanam in a way that
conveyed an expansive appreciation of their poetry. He belonged to an old
school of teaching that rendered poetry as song.
Professor Jesudasan had an active interest in modern literature too. At a
time when Tamil education departments across the state ignored modern
literature, he made every effort to get educational institutions to
acknowledge its importance and include the works of many great modern
writers, including Pudhumaipithan, in the Tamil syllabus. Under the
professor’s guidance, Hephzibah Jesudasan, his wife, who was a Tamil
novelist, wrote Count-down from Solomon, Or, The Tamils Down the Ages
Through Their Literature, an important and comprehensive history of Tamil
literature.

Poomedai Ramaiya (‘Nutcase’)

‘Poomedai’ S. Ramaiya (1924–96) was a freedom fighter from Nagercoil in
Tamil Nadu. Born in Kottaram, a town near Nagercoil, he was initiated into
the freedom struggle at a young age and went to prison twice. In 1953, he
participated in the post-Independence movement to unite the Kumari
district with the state of Tamil Nadu. Poomedai was a nickname he had
accorded to himself.
Till the very end, Poomedai remained a man who was beyond party and
power politics. He did not align himself with any organization and therefore
remained an individual campaigner all his life. He liquidated his properties
in Nagercoil and Kottaram to fund his political activities and died in penury
in 1996.
Poomedai was deeply interested in Saint Vallalar’s teachings. He followed
Vallalar’s idea of light worship – the concept of worshipping the flame of a
lighted lamp as a symbol of the eternal power – but he did not hold any
religious beliefs. In an effort to spread his own principles, he started a small
magazine called Meimurasu (Truth Drum).
Poomedai was an independent activist whose primary means of outreach
were public meetings. He campaigned tirelessly to bring to light the
corruption and negligence of those in power as well as the degeneracy of
party politics in Nagercoil. In order to publicize his meetings, he would
print posters at his own expense and put them up all over town. He would
arrive at the meeting venue – which could be as varied as the municipal
grounds in Nagercoil, the Assisi school maidan, the Vanchiadhithan New
Street or Vadiveeshwaram – at six in the evening, lugging a small spruce-
wood table, a loudspeaker and a fuel lamp. He would address those who
had gathered there for about an hour.
Poomedai Ramaiya’s talks were tongue-in-cheek, sarcastic and fiery, all at
once. He quoted extensively from the Thirukkural and from Vallalar’s
works. He never made personal attacks on anyone through his speeches and
neither was there any vulgarity or obscenity in them. A crowd of nearly two
hundred would usually turn up for his talks, proving that he had an audience
he could call his own.
More often than not, the politicians of the city dismissed Poomedai as
some sort of clown. They mocked the way he dressed in a khadi jibba and a
Gandhi cap. No one took his questions seriously enough to respond
responsibly. However, that did not deter Poomedai, who must have held at
least a hundred meetings every year for forty years.
Even though Poomedai, the individual, was ignored by society, his
meetings brought to the fore several cases of corruption. He was
instrumental in the founding of the shopworkers’ union and the functioning
of the sanitary workers’ union in Nagercoil. It was only after his demise
that he came to be acknowledged as the conscience of Nagercoil. He passed
away without receiving any recognition or respect for his work.

Garry Davis (‘One World’)

Sol Gareth ‘Garry’ Davis (1921–2013) was an international peace activist
who created a ‘world passport’. He vowed he would never be the citizen of
any particular country and declared himself a ‘citizen of the world’.
Davis was born on 27 July 1921 in Bar Harbor, Maine, USA, to Meyer
and Hilda Davis. He graduated from the Episcopal Academy in 1940 and
attended the Carnegie Institute of Technology. Davis, who had previously
worked as a Broadway actor, served in the Second World War as a pilot in
the US Air Force. Davis flew the B-17 in bombing missions over Germany
and its territories. However, the photographs he later saw from his bombing
expeditions caused Davis great mental turmoil. Through them he realized
the evils of nationalism and decided that he would no longer belong to any
nation.
In 1948, while in Paris, he renounced his US citizenship and declared
himself a citizen of the world. On 22 November 1948, Davis interrupted a
session of the United Nations General Assembly in the city and shouted
slogans demanding ‘One Government for One World’. He was arrested and
jailed for the act.
Davis founded the International Registry of World Citizens in 1949, and
more than 750,000 people registered with it. In September 1953, Davis
formed the World Government of World Citizens, asserting that it is a
fundamental human right to consider the world your own.
The following year, he founded the World Service Authority as the
administrative organ of the new government. This organization began to
issue ‘world passports’ to its members. Armed with this document, Davis
visited India for the first time in 1954. The phrase from the Rig Veda,
‘Vasudhaiva kutumbakam’ (the world is one family), had captured his heart
and contributed to the formation of his ideas. He also subscribed to the
Gandhian perspective. Therefore, he hoped India would issue a clarion call
for world citizenship.
While he was in Paris, Davis became acquainted with Henri Bergson, the
French philosopher who was then a professor at Sorbonne (University of
Paris). He also struck up a friendship with Henri Bergson’s students, Dr
Natarajan (who later became Nataraja Guru, disciple of the philosopher and
social reformer Narayana Guru) and John Spiers (who later became a
student of Nataraja Guru) and came to India to visit them. After Davis had
spent a few days in prison for unauthorized entry, Jawaharlal Nehru
intervened and the Indian government recognized Davis’s passport. Davis
stayed at the Narayana Gurukulam in Ooty for eight months and travelled
across Kerala from there.
Davis visited one hundred and seventy countries around the world on the
passport that he created. He went to prison two hundred times for violating
border laws. Nevertheless, through peaceful protests, he got one hundred
and fifty nations to recognize his passport. Back in Paris, pioneering writers
such as André Gide and Albert Camus came out in support of him and even
set up a support committee composed of many writers and artists. In 1956,
along with Nataraja Guru, Davis wrote a memorandum for a world
government, along with a common economic plan. The memorandum was
published in Paris and debated extensively.
Davis received his first master’s degree in Advaita Vedanta from the East
West University in Bangalore, founded by Nataraja Guru. With that
foundation, he strove to establish Nataraja Guru’s gurukulams in the US.
Davis ran for mayor of Washington DC in 1986 as the candidate of the
World Citizen Party, which was also founded by him. He received 585
votes. He made a bid to run for the 1988 US presidential election too, as a
candidate of the same party.
Davis wrote many books espousing his dream of one world, one nation.
The World Service Authority’s website, which also contains Garry Davis’s
blog can be found at: https://worldservice.org/.
List of books by Garry Davis:
• The World Is My Country: The Adventures of a World Citizen, Putnam,
1961.
• Passport to Freedom: A Guide for World Citizens, NWO Publications,
1992.
• World Government, Ready or Not!, BookSurge Publishing, 2003.
• Letters to World Citizens, BookSurge Publishing, 2004.
• A World Citizen in the Holy Land, World Government House, 2001.
• Cher Monde, Une Odyssée a travers la planete, World Government
House, 2005.
• Dear World: A Global Odyssey, BookSurge Publishing, 2006.

* ‘An ardent conservationist’. The Hindu. 20 July 2003. Archived from the original on 7 April 2014.

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 Translator’s Acknowledgements

I owe a debt of gratitude to Jeyamohan for trusting me with this book. After
having tried my hand at translating a few of these stories, I wrote to him
with the unthinking lightness of a beginner. He replied instantly, granting
me permission to translate and backed me with the same quiet trust
throughout the journey to this page.
I am immensely grateful to my literary agent, Kanishka Gupta, without
whom I could not have navigated the world of publishing. My thanks also
go out to Keshava Guha and Chiki Sarkar for believing in this book and
giving it a home at Juggernaut. I thank Arani Sinha, Kripa Raman and
Devangana Ojha for editing the manuscript with care and empathy.
I feel fortunate to have been selected as a fellow in the 2021 South Asia
Speaks mentorship programme, which gave me the opportunity to share
many of these stories with the brilliant Arunava Sinha. His feedback was
invaluable and gave me the confidence to move ahead.
I thank my friends Selventhiran and Suresh for helping me decode some
of the regional dialect and local references. I owe much gratitude to
Suchitra Ramachandran, writer and fellow translator, for being generous
with her time, her thoughtful feedback and the countless voice notes we
exchanged about the stories themselves. My sincere thanks to veteran writer
A. Muttulingam and friends from the Vishnupuram Literary Circle, USA,
for their constant words of encouragement this past year. Much love to
Rajhesh and Amrutha upon whom I inflicted my initial drafts.
Lastly, I cannot but thank Vijay for raising hell when I suggested I put
these stories out on a blog, for putting up with my endless anxieties and for
helping me in every capacity possible. I could not have done this without
him.
OceanofPDF.com
 Copyright

JUGGERNAUT BOOKS
C-I-128, First Floor, Sangam Vihar, Near Holi Chowk,
New Delhi 110080, India
First published by Juggernaut Books 2022
Originally published in Tamil as Aram by Vamsi Books 2011
Copyright © Jeyamohan 2022
English translation copyright © Priyamvada Ramkumar 2022
10 9 8 7 6 5 4 3 2 1
P-ISBN: 9789393986177
E-ISBN: 9789393986184
All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced,
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permission of the publisher.
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