Odiyan

Before the dazzling electric lights, there was an age of darkness. There was a time of twilight and glimmering lamplight and flickering torches and shadows. The people gathered in the light to tell stories of the darkness - of moonless nights, travels through lonely paths, near escapes and what happened to others who did not escape. The darkness harboured many creatures. They struck fear in the hearts of the strongest men; for what use are muscles against the supernatural? One of these myths (if indeed they were) was the Odiyan. The Odiyan is a man by daylight, a Paanan some say. He has a drug which gives him the power to change form and become an ox or a cat or a fence; or to snap his enemies in two by bending a twig he calls by their name. Odimariyal they called it. In Malayalam ‘odi’ means to bend and ‘mariyal’ means to change form. The victims of the Odiyan were mostly women…pregnant women. They say, when the Odiyan calls his prey, no doors or locks can stop the woman from going out into the inky darkness into the arms of certain death. They say, the thought comes from her mind’s depths and the pull cannot be resisted. Sometimes they find the broken body…sometimes they don’t.

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Karanavar, Keshava Menon’s diary

1100, Midhunam 12

It is most disturbing that my nephew has developed a somewhat confused sense of honour. I cannot imagine what gave him the idea that he is honour bound to marry the girl. I cannot seem to hammer into his thick skull the truth that she is a peasant and her being pregnant is of no consequence. However the matter has been taken care of. She will not see sunrise tomorrow. The boy will be fine - how long will an infatuation persist if its object is removed?

There seem to be some discrepancies in the accounts of coconuts sold from last month. Is Kochappan up to his old tricks? If he is stealing again I will have him whipped- son or no son. I just hope marriage straightens him out. Ammukutty is a good girl but I don’t envy her luck…to be married to my son. It is fortunate that Madhava Menon is desperate to have his nephew marry into money. No one would agree to a mattakalyanam if the deal included Kochappan. Shasthave are you done testing me?




1100, Kanni 24

It seems that happiness is not in my destiny. My son is quite a new man as have been writing every other day. I have seen the lout for so long now that each day I see the change and thank the gods for the miracle. I will never cease to wonder at the influence of a female. It is also a female, curse her, who has sent my nephew to his death. Today, they found a sandal near the chathuppu . There is no hope of recovering the body. Devi is distraught. Till now she had some hope for her son. Now there is none. From the day the Odiyan got her, he started drinking. My boy who never touched liquor turned into a drunk. What should I have done? Let him marry her? Throw mud over the family name? Never! Never in a hundred years and more. I have never repented my actions if they be for the family’s good. If my nephew’s life is the payment, I’ll pay. Duty must come before grief. Shasthave, what consolation can I give my sister?


Chanthu Nair’s diary

1950 March 14

A curious incident happened today. I got a letter from a dead person. I was only five when the Odiyan got Chinnammu cheriyamma. I remember my father cursing himself for leaving her alone at home. Later I learnt that she was pregnant at that time with the child of the janmi’s nephew. He died three months after the incident. It was just another story but the difference being that the girl was not the only one who ended up dead.

This letter I got today was signed Chinnammu. I have burned it after reading as instructed. It said that she had come to know of my decision to build an extension to the house. It also said that if I dug a hole about 3 feet deep to the left side of the old cow shed, I would find an Odiyan’s skeleton. The letter advised me to get rid of it because skeletons dug up can be a problem for us ordinary folk unlike some who can afford to dig up dozens.

1950 March 17

I was able to get the house to myself as everyone has gone to attend Janu’s wedding. I dug a hole at the place mentioned in the letter. I found a skeleton as predicted. I put the bones in a sack which I weighed down with a big stone and dropped into the chathuppu. I filled up the hole and planted some seeds for good measure. I am not a curious person. I don’t intend to pursue the matter any further. Let the dead keep their secrets. I just hope there are no more skeletons that I have to know about.

My Diary

1995 May 27

The supernatural has always been a topic of interest for people. I have always been of the opinion that you need not necessarily fear spirits. Isn’t the spirit the remnant of a person? An echo left behind after death and therefore of lesser vitality than a spirit alive and encased in bones and flesh? I am not a student of the occult and therefore I can only speculate. However I believe that it is necessary to fear living people. Humans can think, scheme, plan, moreover a hand is solid, it is real, it can hold a knife, it can take a life. But again, I also am human. I can also scheme and plan. I can cut off the hand that holds the knife – what is solid can be destroyed, what is alive can be killed. I believe in the knife I keep under my bed when I am alone at home. I believe in it because it was with a knife thrust between the ribs that my grandmother killed an Odiyan. My grandfather always said it was his blow with a piece of wood that broke the Odiyan’s skull. It was always their favorite tale and we never tired of hearing it. How she ran away after the Odiyan’s death and how he stayed behind to fake his lapse into grief, enslavement to drink and subsequent death. They always spoke with pride about the killing. They only ever argued about who had actually done the deed. But it just serves to prove my point – what is alive can be killed.

* * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * * *

A broken neck can be a cause of death. For a person well versed in the martial arts, it is easy to cause a broken neck. In an age where people did not deem it necessary to lock their doors, kidnap might have been easier to achieve. What if the Odiyan’s drug was something that rendered the victims unable to defend themselves? What if the Odiyan was a man with the necessary skills recruited by those with resources to eliminate obstacles in their path? If he is indeed a being of supernatural prowess, should we fear him on the nights when the old darkness comes back aided by our own incompetent electricity board? We can only wonder.

Ragam Story

I might as well dedicate my blog to the deity(if any) of crazy topics for creative writing. I have begun to suspect that creative writing as a competition item in our college highlights the creativity of the people setting the topics rather than a few like me who actually take those crazy cues(which usually point in entirely different directions or sometimes point nowhere at all) and try to piece them together into a coherent whole.

This time's Ragam CW topic was as usual pictorial,
a windmill, a wig(or a face with no features, or a weird easter egg) and a perfume bottle.
I wrote my first ever gay story (I did not mean 'happy'). Of the people who have read it so far, one got the point in the first try, another got it in 2 and others had to have it explained to them. So, here it is...comments and criticism welcomed(as usual).

What Not For Love

Mr. Jack Darwin squirted a little of the perfume on his wrist. First edition Balenciaga Prélude, 1988. He inhaled the heady scent and smiled. The salesman saw the smile and was quick on the uptake. “An exquisite choice, Sir. The lady would appreciate it.” “ I am sure she would”.

She had come home yesterday with a diamond on her finger. Philip had sprung the engagement as a surprise at the party. He had been incensed. He had watched her reflection on the mirrors that decorated the room as she glided past on Philip’s arm, accepting congratulations. He had been angry and jealous but even so, he could not keep himself from admiring her, most beautiful of all the women present. He had to concede, she was perfection. The wavy auburn hair always perfect (bad hair days happened to other people), the supermodel figure, the lean sculpted limbs and clear skin… in a word, acme.

Philip was a hypocrite, he knew. Philip had preferred men from the start. He had known it from the time he had met Philip in college. But even with the new supportive legal situation, Philip wanted to stick to the façade of the successful business magnate with a big house and a poster wife in it. She was a smokescreen to hide himself from the eyes of the world. Philip would never admit he was gay.

He walked into his apartment carrying the expensive box. He could see her things scattered around. The Gucci boots were lying in two different corners as though she had thrown them. The solitaire sat glinting on the bedside table beside the toy windmill. She had bought it on a whim some years ago after reading Don Quixote. She loved to picture herself as a princess who had a knight to fight her battles for her. He wound it up and the windmill started spinning with a tinkling melody which was dragging a little. The batteries were running out, he should remember to get them replaced. Tomorrow, she was going to lunch with Philip’s parents. To plan the wedding and so forth. Everything happened so fast that he had been helpless. He would try to convince her to put an end to things. But she would not budge, he knew, she loved Philip. So did he; he would never hurt Philip. He switched off the light, in the thin stream of light from between the curtains, the dummy wearing the auburn wig looked just like her.

He admired her in the mirror as Andrè put the final touches to the white wedding gown. She looked like an angel. She was going to be Mrs. Philip Everard in two hours time. He smiled a little wistfully. His life was going to change, in a big way. The limo was waiting. He got in. The church was three streets down. He tapped his heels, restless for it to be over and done with. He even considered turning back. After what seemed like an hour, the limo drove up in front of the church. He took a deep breath, checked the clothes again, opened the door and she stepped out. Julian was waiting. Everyone turned to see the bride as the choir stuck up and she glided in on Julian’s arm. Philip turned slightly and smiled. When he took her arm, he whispered in her ear- “Thank God, Jack! I thought you were never coming”

Angel

This one is somewhat cliche but it seems to be the best among the pile which turned up for the creative writing contest organized by L'nD as a part of Spitfire'08. Nowadays I seem to be able to write only when someone gives me a topic and a deadline...This time we were given 3 pictures a pig, a cellphone and a pair of spectacles. Someone in L'nD is a major animal lover...for Ragam, we got a baby elephant, an i-pod and an ancient manuscript. That one fetched me Rs.500 in virtual cash as first prize.Well, this time, it got me the chance to shake hands with the great Chetan Bhagat...ironical given that I despise his work. Anyway here is the fruit of my imagination, you may draw your daggers.


Angel

Chinnappa was drunk…as usual…The silent hills took up the lyrics of his song like a tipsy chorus. I tried to make myself as inconspicuous as possible on the pile of hay where I had been lying on my back trying to make sense of the muddled mess my life had turned out to be. I might have succeeded if it had not been for my white shirt…no, that would be wishful thinking.If he was up to his eyes in the stuff today, he was swimming in it the day he found me lying in the mud beaten within an inch of my life on one of the forest trails one evening 2 years ago. And that day my shirt was not white- I don’t remember if I even had one on me then... I steeled myself for a few hours of ‘You know, Sahib, when I was young…’ but the old guy was silent today. He was in one of his rare ruminant moods. Finally he turned to fix me in his beady gaze- “Sahib, you see those pigs? They have an easy life don’t they? Eat, sleep and shit. What else do they do? Lucky buggers aren’t they? No, Sahib, poor creatures, they are alive today just so they can die another day- who wants salted pork when you can get fresh. But look at the cow, she will live till God decides she has to die, she is more useful alive, see? Me and you, we are also like that. We live today because we are more useful that way. Always remember that Sahib. Always see that you are more useful alive than dead”. I was startled, aghast- he had spoken what I had been thinking for some weeks now. My work was nearing completion. Soon I might be of no use alive…

I was barely alive when Chinnappa found me. I was delirious for two weeks before some subconscious part of me which was not beaten yet decided to pull the rest of me back to life. After I became strong enough to walk and my head became clear of the hummings and buzzings that had been filling it, I met him. My first impression of him was of his imposing stature. But I noticed later that he was neither very tall nor broad. It was his carriage, his posture all exuding confidence and power that intimidated people. He did not introduce himself but started telling me my life history. He knew that I was the best student in my graduating class. That I had a first-placement with a package of 8.5 lakhs. That I had quit 6 months later to join an energy firm ‘Helios’. He knew that my wife eloped with a man who had lesser brains and more machismo. He knew why I had been beaten up by those thugs and left for dead. He knew that I was now a dead man in the eyes of the world. This was what he said last- ‘You are a dead man in the eyes of the world. You enemies like dead men to stay dead. But here we believe in ghosts. This is a sea where ghost ships sail, they have no anchors to drop, nowhere to make port. You are one among many. Outside, your life has no purpose any more -you have no family, no future and no dreams. Here I can give you a purpose; at least for some time. Think about it. We will meet again.’

A week later, he came again to see me. We walked together on the sunny slopes. He stopped in the middle of a large bare expanse and turned to me, his glasses glinting in the sun. “Mr. Quasi, I am an honest man, by and large but I find that to keep this land of ghosts functioning, I have to steal. I steal power from the hydroelectric project in the opposite valley. I pay for it in other ways but stealing is stealing. I have come up with an idea to amend the situation. I need your help to implement it. Have you thought about what I told you earlier?” I agreed and we went back to my quarters where he showed me the blueprints of the project. It was a solar power plant for want of another phrase, that he proposed to set up. A large area of collapsible solar panels equipped with sun seeking systems, using a new type of tandem sells giving 60% output and a new formation for maximum irradiation. This man was enormously rich and the man who designed that was surely a genius.
“Who designed this?” I asked hardly unable to restrain my curiosity.
“I did.”
“Then why don’t you build it?”
“Unlike you Mr Quasi, I am not dead and therefore, I don’t have an eternity of inactivity stretching before me. Can you or can you not do it?”
“Of course I will. This is a dream of every energy engineer. I would die for such an opportunity”
“Since you are already dead, that will not be necessary.”

Days passed. The work started. One day I got a package from him. It was a
mobile phone of the latest model. A small handheld wonder - a camera, music player and a computer all rolled into one. But there was a snag. He could call me. I could call no one. Not that I wanted to. I still did not know what he was called. Everyone spoke of him as Saab or Sirjee or some other salutation indicating respect. I learnt that the other ghosts were escaped convicts who were supposed to have been executed for crimes not their own. A Doctor who was ‘silenced’ by those whose organ transplant racket he refused to entertain. People to whom the world had not shown justice. I was given an assistant- Prakash. He was a murderer who killed rich bad men for other rich bad men. I learnt that the Boss owned a pharmaceuticals manufacturing firm in the outside world and the ghost land was a sort of vocation. He was also feared by all the bad guys for reasons that no one was very sure about.

The work progressed finely. I had lengthy discussions with him almost every day and each left me more impressed with his intelligence. Now for a few weeks we have been going over the last stages of trouble shooting. In a few more days, we will have a field of green solar panels that open to face the sun in the morning, turning to face him throughout the day and folding up like umbrellas in the evening safe from winds that blow down these slopes. The power output will suffice to sustain the settlement. In a few more days I will outlive my utility.

The day after the plant started operating, I stood again on the same slope with him.
“Mr. Quasi, you have done well. I am no longer a thief. Have you thought about what you want to do next?”
“No.”
“You were in trouble because you refused to be a part of murder. Because you
loved your country. Because you believed that you could be an Indian and a Muslim. Isn’t that correct .”
“Yes”
“You did not like the fact that young men of your community were taught to believe that Allah sanctioned these holy wars”
“No, I didn’t”
“Would you like to be an angel Mr.Quasi?”
“What do you mean?”
“Just like you have to contend with these elements in your community, I have to deal with their saffron coloured counterparts. I have a group of people from different communities who work to draw the poison before it spreads too far into the brains of our youth. I call them my angels. Would you like to be one?”

I did not respond for some days. I did not trust him. Like Chinnappa said I had to
be of more use alive than dead… Wasn’t this whole missionary thing a pretty picture painted to get me into some communal riot and out of the way? I noticed that Prakash was hanging around in the area all the time and was that bulge at his side a gun?

I was taken blindfolded to the outskirts of the nearest town. I had a new voter’s ID, passport and driving license in the name Mohammed Iqbal. I had seen him before leaving. He had said- “You are the only man who has ever gone back from this land of the dead. You will not betray us in any way. It is true that you know nothing of danger to us, but if you even try to, I will know. In sending you back I give you life, I will take what I have given if the situation arises that I have no choice. Please see that such a thing does not happen. And keep the phone as a token from me for the wonderful job that you have done. Goodbye my friend, if I need your help I’ll know where to find you.”
I took up my bag and set off down the road to the railway station.

What did he mean by he would know where to find me? Must be the phone. Must be bugged or something. Such a thing will be child’s play for his ingenuity. It was with regret that I threw it into a bush by the roadside. It was a beautiful piece of technology.
Throughout the short distance, I had the feeling that I was being followed. But whenever I turned, there was no one behind me. I got a ticket to my destination and got into the train. As it started pulling out, I saw someone running down the platform and jump into the carriage two bogies behind mine. It was Prakash and he had something black in his hand. I was going to die. I decided to go to my seat and wait in peace for my death. It was of no use to run. Since it was a train from a rural area, the compartment was empty. Two minutes later Prakash sat down opposite me. He reached for my water bottle and started gulping down water.

“Aren’t you going to kill me?”
“What? Oh, yeah…Boss said this might come up. Good that you are not fighting. I am a little out of breath for that”
“O.K. Then get it over with”
“Oh, we are talking gangster style aren’t we? Who do you propose I kill Ahmed Quasi? He died two years ago. Or is it to be Mohammed Iqbal? I hardly know him. My dear Mr.Iqbal, I am with you to see that you come to no harm. Here is your phone and next time you chuck it in a bush you can get it yourself. Every angel has a halo. I am yours. Sorry that I don’t come in gold.”

A Face to Remember

This is my first attempt at descriptive writing - to be exact-writing purely based on a single object. This is the outcome of an hour of musing in the indoor badminton court at the LH whence we(2nd year BTech & BArch girls 2007) were banished while the third years gave the farewell invitation to the fourth years. The thing once written seemed to be a faint shadow of what I intended it to be, but friends who read it liked it very much. So going by the saying something is better than nothing...

Read this after reading the main part...

Please don't ask the question- 'who is he?'. If you didn't feel like asking, congratulations you are the reader of my dreams. For the others- let me explain... The whole point of writing this was to make you see the person through my eyes. This is not about who he is or what he is as people see him. This is about how I see him. Enjoy the picture I paint and seek not the model lest reality disappoint you...or you feel that I have not done justice by the original...again such opinions are personal. Then again if you wish to be nosy, go straight ahead and welcome.

A Face To Remember

Faces I have seen…many of them - handsome ones, plain ones, innocent ones, grave ones, arrogant ones, servile ones…so many faces… I have always seen a face to a person as a label to a pickle jar – a mere identification device. I never thought there was more to a face than two eyes, a nose and a mouth. I never thought that a face could move one… could inspire… That was before I saw this face.

It is an ordinary face; as most people would see it. I would call it handsome (or once handsome) were it not a crime in the eyes of my peers to call any face above 30 years of age handsome. It is the sort of face you generally associate with someone’s father - bespectacled, with a receding hair line graying at the temples.

I will describe it or attempt to do so. It will be like trying to paint with words; to breathe soul into expressions. I might fail miserably but then I would have tried. If I should never see that face again I would at least have a memory.

Everyone endeavoring to describe a face begins with the eyes and I will be no exception. Kind eyes, tired perhaps but ever twinkling behind the lens of the spectacles. Eyes that have not forgotten they once belonged to a child. Eyes, that forever smile. Not the eyes of a fool with everlasting good humour that makes him the subject of every jest. Much wisdom sits on the brow and many cares have left contours on the forehead that time will not rub away. The eyes still prefer to smile…

The nose I have to admit has nothing to recommend it. Neither straight aristocratic nor aquiline… that feature I admit is rather flat. The chin is firm with determination; not arrogantly square…just firm. Lines of care and laughter alternate around the mouth. A mouth that could probably go very thin in a bout of anger…but I have never seen it so and hope never to. Dimples play on the cheeks when smiles come - often…

The description does not strike me as out of ordinary in black and white. Why is it that I cannot express in their entirety the feelings that inspired me to write this in the first place?

I have seen many faces as I am sure have you. We pass a multitude of them every day of our lives. The face of a stranger cannot inspire… a human face is after all a mask to some. This face has a name and I know the owner well. It may be because I know what really is, that I can wholly appreciate the serenity that adorns this face at all times. It is difficult, almost impossible, to be at peace with the world at all times. People I know; every single one of them have different faces like in some poem I read- an office face, a home face, a visiting face…the faces change with situation. A beaming kindly face turns cruel in an instant; tis but a funny world. The owner of this face has only one face. There are expressions of course but they enhance the emotions rather than create them. Everyone has a bad day once in a while…the creased brow says it all. This face shrugs at the troubles and chooses to smile when it would have been all too easy to frown. I am failing entirely in my purpose so I had better stop.

I would just say, I want to remember this face for ever. When the world throws troubles in my way, when everything goes wrong, when friend turns foe and when tears are near... I will remember the face that smiled through all and feel strong. To see that face is to feel assured that the world can do much to you but you can choose to smile and that choice is entirely yours to make. To see that face is almost like a prayer.

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

When the tempest broke

This was the story that won me the prize in 12th std. The title became cliche but my imagination failed me at that moment when writing time was almost up and I had to name my story. Being in std 12 and being a computer science student and of course intending to appear for engg entrance, I had started thinking more seriously about my career. The branches and streams available were just names to me. The placement statistics of various institutes and prospective pay packets of passouts had started appearing in the papers and were the topic of many a discussion amongst friends (and relatives). I wanted a job with a decent pay- my dreams involving money being-
1)Keeping a dog(or two)
2)Having a library with carpets and wood paneling and a comfortable armchair
3)Buying a car.

Economy class dreams.

One thing I was clear about; that was - family first. I didn't want to be like my uncle who never saw his kids grow up. Nor my relatives who couldn't get leave to attend the last rites of loved ones. I didn't want to be a mother who couldn't be her children's best friend and playmate because she was too busy, nor the wife who only met her husband on the doorstep ,nor the daughter whose love was manifested as envelopes of cash or expensive presents for anniversaries she could not attend ,nor the sister who could only take phone calls on sundays.

In this story I have overdramatized a bit- but the effect appears to be good.

P.S: I believe my father came home reasonably early for some time after reading this story.

So this story I dedicate to my father ( who tries very hard to 'make' time)

When The Tempest Broke

He stood erect on the beach facing the sea, his arms folded and face set as though preparing for one of his executive meetings. But, someone who had met Mr. Narendra Varma at least once would know something was not quite right; and Ram Menon who had been that man’s shadow for the past forty years knew much more. Varma gazed at the sea; but, his eyes did not see the white edged clouds and frothy waves, the warning of an approaching storm. He did not see the catamarans rushing to safety on land and being pulled high up on the beach, out of reach of the hungry waves. He was oblivious of the stares his attire was drawing from the crude fisher-folk. He stood there, his tie flying in the wind and coat billowing behind, lost- for the first time in his life, in his own thoughts.

His life had been one long winning streak. Born into a relatively wealthy branch of the royal family, he had known no want in his youth. Ram Menon, he knew from his school days; but as the years passed the equality of friendship slowly gave way to the relationship between the master and his ‘right hand’ man. Business seemed to course his blue-blooded veins, and by the age of thirty he had moved out of his uncle’s benevolent shade – a rising sun. Of marriage, he had felt no need; but as parental grumbles grew louder and came oftener, the practical business man took the practical way out. It troubled him now that he could not remember how she looked then; forgetfulness was not among his faults. His brows wrinkled in concentration. She must have been beautiful- and rich. He had married her with everyone’s consent. The bills that came afterwards, he could still recall; but her face was in the shadow. He had simply appended her to his list of concerns and gone on with his life.

“What about your children?” a voice spoke inside his head. “Children? Ah yes…… ‘The Green Valley’ housing project- a roaring success, ‘The Pioneer’ his venture into the textile industry – a money minting machine, ‘Chanakya’ the I.T giant.” His lips curved into a small smile. Then, two small faces swam into his mind- a chubby girl with brown eyes and pigtails and a lean handsome boy on his bicycle. ” Yes, yes …my children. Arathi and Adithya. Then who were they - the pretty young woman and the moustached handsome man, I left at the hospital today morning? So big……so soon”

Narendra Varma was known for his lightning quick decisions – sharp, unbiased and always right. He had never hesitated, never doubted himself, but now, standing there as he was, he faced questions. Questions he should have asked himself years ago; but which now could be put off no longer. Had the ideal businessman failed in his duties as a husband, a father??

“No! Never!” his spirit retaliated. “I fed them, clothed them, kept a roof over their heads (and an expensive roof at that). They had anything and everything money could buy.” He was amazed. The list seemed ridiculously short. His spirit put up one last fight. “They could ask her – their mother, had he not done everything he should have?” Even as the thought crossed his mind he remembered; she couldn’t tell them even if she would.

“Did women usually have heart attacks, that too at forty five? After all what worries did she have? Had she always been that frail figure he had left on the hospital bed that morning?” He had known there was no hope even before the white coated figure shook his head, she was too weak. The sinking feeling inside was new to him. “Was it sorrow? How was it that he had never felt that way at his fathers passing or when he held his mother’s hand as she lay on her deathbed?” He strained his memory again. In a flash he saw the beautiful face, the vivacious eyes, the red bindhi, the sindhoor……smiling at him across the breakfast table. In an instant the vision vanished and the hospital room came into view, but the figure on the bed had the sheet pulled over its face. He did not know if it was the shock or a touch on his arm that had woken him from his reverie. Ram Menon was speaking to the sand, “It is over.”

He followed Menon to the car like a small child. The wind was getting stronger. They were speeding towards the hospital when the tempest broke. Torrents of rain buffeted the windows and the windscreen wiper couldn’t move fast enough. Narendra Varma did something he had not done even once since he was a five year old. He broke down and cried.

By

Dipti Mohanan

XII A(2005)

When the bell tolled...

This is the story that won me a prize in 11th std. There is a definite 'Manhapra' influence in this story. Manhapra is my maternal grandfather's family name- the menon family were one of the biggest landowners in Pallipuram(on the banks ot the Bharathapuzha) once upon a time . I grew up hearing stories of my grandfather's childhood in his family home an 'ettukettu' and a visit to the 'tharavadu' in seventh std influenced me profoundly. I was overawed by the sheer size of the house. All skepticism I had felt when Grandfather told me about getting lost and losing track of direction inside the house vanished when I took a wrong turn and found myself in a bedroom instead of the veranda where I was supposed to be heading, and could not navigate to any familiar place on my own. Stories of the feudal era were plenty in my Grandpa's stock. The deeds of my ancestors (some of kindness, others of brutality) were all stories that afforded me entertainment on the long afternoons of my summer vacations I spent with my grandparents. The myths and legends of the family deity Ayyappan appearing in the Karanavar's dreams had thrilled me and the complicated genealogy and the old inheritance laws intrigued me.

Having the family history written was a dream of Grandfather's. With his passing this March the dream has become more difficult to realize because the number of people who lived in that illustrious era is fast dwindling. If I ever have the resources for it and the sources for such a work, I will make that dream paper and ink. This story was born out of my fascination for the elegant clan I heard stories of and of the mammoth house I visited as a child. I dedicate this to my beloved Grandfather( who insisted on reading it that there were absolutely no similarities with people or places he knew).

When The Bell Tolled

“…and then it is time for the head of the family to give up his seat and his mortal self.” Krishnan Nair wound up the story just as Raju walked in with his friend Ashok.

“What’s that?” asked Ashok.

“Oh! Some crap about old times.” Raju’s voice held all the bitterness and sarcasm that had pent up over the past few years. His was the same old story, M.Com with distinction and present status – unemployed.

“C’mon pal, let’s hear the yarn.” Ashok persisted.

“ Krishnamama will tell you.”

“I am sorry young man. But as you seem to have forgotten; I have to milk the cows.” and with that Krishnamama beat a hasty retreat.

Krishnan Nair was a tall man whose aristocratic features proclaimed a noble birth that was not his. He had been there for as long as Raju could remember ; more a member of the family than a mere servant. Even in times when utter poverty had befallen the once mighty family, Krishnamama was always there.

Raju was awakened from his musings by Ashok who was dying to hear the story that his friend had no wish to tell him. Meanwhile, Raju’s cousins had come in from the fields. It seemed one of those ironies of fate that the heirs of those who had lorded over the land should brood over the prices of coconut and pepper.

“Which tale does the little boy want?” asked Ravi mopping his face and joining the group.

“Oh that of the bell.”

“Come on then; let’s hear it.” Ravi said.

The matter was settled . Raju started off reluctantly.

“Well! Once upon a time, our family was the mightiest of the land. The head of the family Kunjan Menon was the landlord who presided over the land from the banks of the Bharathapuzha to miles around. It was during his time that the family seat was shifted from Kuttippuram to Pallippuram that is right here. This house is only a quarter of the original and is a few hundred years old. Then it is said that a dispute arose among the youngsters regarding the post of the head. They wanted some young blood at the top. Kunjan Menon who was also a known magician found the way out. The myth goes that he installed a magic bell somewhere in the house and when the bell tolls it is time for the head to give up his post and his ‘mortal self’! That’s it!”

Ashok was staring at Raju.

“You mean to say you are descendent of …”

“Oh yeah!” Raju cut him short.” But the only thing I seem to have inherited is my name. Mepparambath Rajashekhara Menon – magnificent, isn’t it?”

“I never knew you were called all that!” Ashok’s sincerity triggered a laugh.

“Listen! Raj; will you take me around the house? Just to look around. We may find it; who knows?” Ashok was as excited as any toddler.

“What? The bell?” there was a hint of sarcasm in the laughter that followed.

“That was a myth- no don’t interrupt. Now let me tell you some facts. Bell or no bell- there was an heirloom, a ruby ring, which was worn traditionally by the heads of the family. The stone, it is said, matches with those in the earrings of the idol at the family temple. During the Moplah rebellion the head of the family had passed on the ring to his little son before sending him off with the women to a safe place. The head was killed by the rebels and the little boy was never heard of again. Probably killed too.” Raju’s face was flushed. “ Now there it is! There is no bell, no ring and no heir. It is just plain crap.”

“One should never talk of things beyond one’s knowledge or understanding.” Krishnamama left the room. No one had noticed him come in.

Ashok got his wish; but the search proved futile as predicted. After dinner the family retired. It was a typical summer night - hot, moist and not even a breeze. The wood paneling did not creak as usual and even the crickets seemed too lethargic to set up their usual racket. The silence was broken around midnight by a wild tolling of bells. The ancient walls and corridors took up the sound and echoed it until a hundred bells seemed to toll at once. The family leapt out of bed and crowded the main hall. There was light in Krishnan Nair’s room. The family filed in - quiet by instinct. Krishnamama lay sprawled at his desk – dead. He had been at his diary . Raju made to close it but the name on the front page caught his eye. He held it up for his cousins to see; it read –Krishnanunni Menon , Mepparambath. They looked at each other. The wide eyes asking the same question-

“For whom will the bell toll next?” Raju’s eyes were on the small object lying in the shadow of the pen stand- a gold ring with a ruby set into it.

- Dipti Mohanan

XI-A(2004)