Sorry...

Now this is again a prizewinning attempt. There was a creative writing competition for 'Debutante' in which we had to write based on the cues provided. In our case the 'cues' turned out to be a hat, a bouquet and a hand. This was my maiden attempt at romance and people who knew me were surprised at my choice of theme. The story was published in our college magazine 'ethos' in 2007 with printing errors. I received a certificate from the Literary and Debating club for this which I returned because my name was misspelled. I never saw that certificate again though my friend Elna( who is a junior executive of L&D) insists that it was returned.

The setting is named as the village where I spent my vacations with my grandparents but the characters and incidents are purely fictitious. The description of houses with doors opening into the street comes from a vague memory of having seen such houses somewhere. There are no such houses I know of in Edakkara.

I had an English teacher in school -Miss Sandeepa Menoki who tried very hard to bypass the cynic in me and uncover the softer side which she was sure existed. I dedicate this story to her. I am sure she will enjoy the romance and pardon me for the lack of 'happily ever after'.

Sorry…

That Sunday morning found me puffy eyed from lack of sleep; which was due to my own persistence in watching the Saturday late night horror movie which had enough of blood and severed human parts in it to give me a dozen sleepless nights. I could sense the disapproval in Annammachi’s eyes behind me as she got ready to leave for church and I sat drinking coffee. It was the second week of my semester break which I was spending in Edakkara , a village near Nilambur , which had enough flora and fauna to satisfy my amateur photographic zest. I was staying with Annammachi who is now in her 80^th year; and her son Varkkichayan who is in his mid 60s; distant relatives of my father.

Annammachi and Varkkichayan had left for church and I was alone in the house reviewing the day before’s scenes of gore and sipping coffee which was progressively growing colder. Suddenly, a hand appeared, pressed against the window pane, which I was facing. It gave me a severe jolt and the coffee mug in my hand overturned spilling its contents and staining Annammachi’s spotless table cloth. I sat glued to my seat unable even to think of moving my hand to save the rest of the table cloth. A moment later the hand disappeared. It took a few seconds and all the reassurance from the early morning sunshine for me to pick up a little bit of courage to open the door and look outside.

The strange thing about that house was that the living cum dining room door opened directly to the street. The garden was to one side and the farm land stretched in an elongated rectangle to the back. What I saw was still stranger; a man in full sleeves and trousers was just turning the corner in the road and he was wearing a hat! You could name many strange things but few will be stranger than a man in a hat in that country nook of Kerala.

Mallika chechi next door must have noticed the expression on my face. “What is wrong dear?” she enquired with a hint of concern. Surprise had robbed me of coherence-“That man…hand…window….”

“Now, now dear; did Mr.D’Costa scare you? He is a poor harmless soul. I am sure he had no idea anyone was in the house.” She said smiling a bit.

“Why was he wearing a hat?” I asked. Her description of him as a ‘poor soul’ coupled with the hat presented a possibility of mental insanity to my Conan Doyle infatuated mind. D’Costa? Strange name.

Now her smile became a tinkling laugh. ”You see, D’Costa used to be the manager of Mc Morgan tea estates in Ooty. He was a great favourite with the English boss because of his good accent and manners. He was with them so long that he fancies himself three fourths an Englishman. He plays the piano pretty well and he smokes a pipe sometimes….”

The mystery was almost fully solved but the background did not fit.

Well, a fish needs no swimming lessons nor does a squirrel need to be taught to climb a tree and nothing is more natural to a malayali housewife than a bit of juicy gossip. The questions in my eyes must have spoken a clear invitation because she came to the wall and beckoned me over. The story went like this-

“D’Costa was originally from Cochin. By some freak of a chance he met Lillykutty, Varkkichayan’s late sister, fell in love, and married her. Lillykutty refused to leave home and go to Ooty. But he was an affectionate husband and would come to Edakkara once every two weeks and spend the weekend. A few years passed happily. Then somehow her family came to know that he was involved with another woman in Ooty. So the next time he came home he was met with closed doors and a wife who declared in a strong voice in between sobs that she did not want to see him ever again. Gathering from neighbours the details of the situation, D’Costa went back to Ooty. They say he got rid of the other attachment, others say there was no one to get rid of. Whatever be the case, he returned the next week and tried to clear up the matter with Lilly. She refused to see him . In the normal case the issue would have been cleared up in a few months and Lilly and D’Costa would have lived happily ever after. But that was not to be. Being a proud woman and being thoroughly supported in her attitude by her hot tempered brother, she held the grudge till her dying day. After that fateful day, every week Costa would drop a white rose at her door step and a card saying ‘ I am sorry’. After retiring he bought a house in Edakkara and the custom was kept up. Now that she is dead he places a bouquet and the card on her grave every Sunday. It is said that they were a very well matched couple in all respects. A pity it had to be so…Even now on Sundays when he knows the family is at church he stops by the door and stays there lost in thought for some time before shaking his head and leaving. Poor man…”

Now, things were not what they seemed. There was me thinking that nothing out of ordinary could happen in that place and there it was – a romance to shame mills and boon right under my nose. Excitement lead to tactlessness and I brought up the topic at lunch. I echoed the sentiment I had heard and said something to the effect of “poor man.”

“How dare you beatify that bastard under this roof? He ruined my sister’s life. How dare you…” Varkkichayan was livid.

“Varkkee! That will do. What are you jumping at her throat for? She does not know anything” Annammachi intervened.

“How dare she justify that man?”

“Well, you can’t say the fault was all his. Couldn’t she have forgiven him after he begged for forgiveness year after year? A woman should not be that proud. And you, instead of settling the issue and mending the mischief, did you not pour oil into the fire?”

Varkkichayan was struck dumb. I felt transparent as the mother and son glared at each other oblivious of my presence. I knew by instinct that such an argument had never occurred before. Varkkichayan left the table without finishing his lunch. No more was spoken on that topic.

The next Sunday after church I visited the graveyard. I saw the fresh bouquet on her grave and the card -‘I am sorry’. The next Wednesday D’Costa passed away. That night Vakkichayan did not switch channels in the TV as usual. He did not show the usual interest in improving pepper prices. Once or twice he made as though to speak but decided against it. Later after Annammachi had gone to bed, I marked the page in the book I was reading and prepared to go up to my room. I had almost reached the door when Varkkichayan said abruptly- “She told me before she died …to tell him she had forgiven him long ago…I didn’t…” his expression was unfathomable. Never in my life had I seen anything like it. Was it anger , frustration, grief? I didn’t know.

The last Sunday of my stay there I went to church. I stayed a bit after everyone and walked to the graveyard. The romance in the story had drawn me to Lillykutty’s grave again and again while I was there. Now I was about to make my last visit. From a distance I saw something white on the grave. Flowers, fresh flowers. A chill crept up my spine as the deja vu washed over me. Who? Why? He was dead. My legs wanted to turn and run away but I walked on. At a closer distance I saw that the bouquet was not on her grave but on the newer grave adjoining it. The headstone spelt D’Costa a strange name for a strange man with a strange story. The bouquet was on his grave and there was the card - ‘I am sorry’.

Dipti Mohanan
S2 Mechanical
NITC
2007