Category: A01 — SHORT STORIES

Rain, Rain go away.
When the Mother in law, entered the household as a daughter in law, some thirty years ago, there was no water supply, in the kitchen or anywhere nearby. She had to bring it in a big brass or copper Kodam, vessel, carrying all the way from a distant well, after pushing and pulling- pushing other women and pulling the water.
Drrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrrr 30 years fly away.
She needed glasses for reading the newspaper but not for seeing the young lady, just entered, smelling scent and smiling meant, drawing water by a gentle turn of the tap, by her gentle hand, from the kitchen, from the bedroom- everywhere.
When the Prestige grinder or pressure cooker screamed, the MIL recalled her dream to possess those gadgets, when she was young. She fumed at the DIL.
‘How I had to struggle with crude granite grinders, when I entered this house!”. She sighed.
“I know, mom”
“How did you know? Your speaker -box mother told you?”
“No, mom. Your son told me”
“He is intelligent. He loves me, unlike his father’
“Shall I make some fresh decoction -coffee for you, mom?”
“Why? Am I paralytic in my hands? I can prepare coffee or whatever I want. This is my house. and this is my kitchen. I ruled over this land for thirty years and even now it is mine”
“I know, mom”
“How did you know? My son told you? My son has told you everything about our family within three days and nights, he spent with you?”
“Three days and four nights, mom”
“You talk too much. We never had any of these modern gadgets, then”
“I know. Those days are gone, mom”
“You are very lucky to come to our house as my DIL”
“I’m, I know”
“These gadgets didn’t fall down from the sky, to make your job easy and comfortable”
“I know”
“What you know?”
“My hubby bought them”
“Your husband is my son!’
“I know”
“Everything you know! Others here, are not uneducated fools”
“I know”
“You know everything under the sky! Are you the Adi Sankara who mounted the Sarvajna peetam?”
“No, I’m your son’s wife”
“You are talking too much”
“No, mom. I’m talking the truth”
——————–
You  know nothing.
“You never bother what happens here. The girl who came yesterday behaves as if she is the queen Elizabeth’s younger sister”
“I know. Her birth star is Makham. Not Moolam, as yours”
“You are talking too much. You sit looking at the sky and counting the stars. I have a
lot of work in the kitchen. It is in a mess”
“Our DIL has kept the house speck and clean. You’re complaining unnecessarily”
“What do you know about the house maintenance? What do you know about anything in the world? You  only talk and talk”
“No. I look at the sky and count the stars!”
“Fit only for that. Knows nothing”
—————————–
Rain, rain go away.
“Your wife is talking too much. You should keep her well under your control”
“Why mom? She is not a criminal and our house is not a prison”
“Now, you are talking too much. You know nothing ”
————-
After a few months-
‘Tata’
‘Bye. Take care’
——–
After an year-
Kuwa, kuwaaaaa. Beyond oceans
———–
“You sleep like a Kumbakarna. Get up, please”
“What is your problem? It is only 4am”
“Our little baby grand daughter, is calling me kuwaaaaa , kuwaaaaa , from America. Get up. Let us go”
“Crazy woman, America is not Pollachi or Perinkulam, to catch a bus and go. We have to get visas to go there”
“Get those visa or Pisa soon. Quick!”
“We have to have passport first. Our son has to send us some papers for that ”
“Get everything, but do that fast”
££££££££££££££££££
After three months, in America .
“She is so sweet. I was exactly like her as a baby”
“I know, mom”
“How do you know? Have you seen me as a baby?”
“Your son told me”
“He knows everything”
“I know ”
“How do you know?”
“He could make a dad. He is Pinky’s dad”
“Who is that Pinky or Wanky?”
“Your grand daughter, mom”
“GuruvAyoorappa! You didn’t give her my name?”
“It is the short form of your name, Pinkala Vardhani. And Pinky rhymes with Venky, your son’s name”
“And also rhymes with monkey, donkey ”
“Talking weird always, this old man”
“Ignore him, DIL, beloved.. You carry on with your work. I will take care of the baby.
Vavooo, vavooo, Unni vavoooo.
Chethi, mandAram, Tulasi,
Pitchaka mAalakal charthi
GuruvAyoorappa Ninnae kanikAnenam”
“Mom, why don’t you sing ,’Rain, Rain Go Away’
“Sure.
Rain, Rain go away, far far away, not you, meri DIL
Will I go away, leaving my Pinky? chances nil.
Pinky meri dil, Venki meri dil, DIL be meri dil.
Old is gold, let my man too stay; I know he will.

 
My Meenasister had sent a dozen packs of Avakkai pickles from Hyderabad, for distribution here, to our relatives in USA . We Andhrites are crazy about Avakkai and the moment our pack came yesterday, I tasted and called her to tell that I liked her gift immensely.
‘Was the salt-chilly proportion OK?”
When I replied in affirmative, she posed the next question, ‘Was there too much oil in it?”
Avakkai pickle preparation is an elaborate job. Time consuming ; needs concentration. ( I have seen my sammandhi, prof. Nandur, an expert, preparing it, though I know only to eat and not to make it ). My sister took the trouble of preparing the pickle and getting it hermetically sealed on the eve of her knee surgery and it was natural that she wanted to hear that we all liked the product she had sent with love. The fun is, she is aware that her brother’s certificate is of no value, as he can hardly differentiate between good and not -so – good or even between good and better, when it comes to food taste. Still, she wanted to hear my word of appreciation.
Women are like that. I know because, I had a woman at home, a culinary artist, who used to wait eagerly looking at my face, for a word of appreciation, every times she served food.
‘Is it too spicy?’ , ‘is the salt ratio alright?’, ‘did I inadvertently add a pinch of extra tamarind?’ – she used to ask such questions, not one day, but every day, but I hardly took note of her aspiration to know my opinion. She had expected me at least to ooze out some sound, such as, ‘besh ‘ or a even make a head nod or a single finger movement, to convey my appreciation of the hard work she had put in.
But, I did at last realize the importance of acknowledging her sincere service, before it was too late and I’m happy about that. Many things I’m happy in my relationship with her and this is one among those.
Won’t you say, ‘thanks’, to a peon when he hands you over a file? Then why not to your own wife, sister or even mother, who serves your food wholeheartedly?
You need not say, ‘oh, what a wonderful food you made today!’ etc. simply smile in appreciation if it is your mom and if it is your wife, gently pat her back. If she is someone else’s wife, be discreet and be careful. If you are smiling, smile gently.
Tapping her back, never. But, by habit, I tapped at the back of a relative in India and the sharpness of her staring pierced my eyes and all the other organs on my face.
I assure you, my heart was milky white as the bleached and pressed Kerala dothi.
If you still suspect my intentions, I’m prepared to tell you what happened, so that you don’t carry my bad image.
She had prepared pAl adai pradaman and knowing my love for that pAyasam preparation, the kind lady invited me for food. She didn’t wait near my table to know how I liked my favorite sweet preparation, as she was not my wife but the woman in her could not resist the temptation, to know about it. Soon after I finished eating, she enquired, and as I was exalted , I tapped her back and said, ‘Akka, Adi poli’.
‘Adi poli’ is a superlative phrase to express extra ordinary satisfaction of any product.
Don’t you agree that I was fully justified in my action? Even the daughter in law of the good old lady agreed but when I enquired why was her MIL harsh with her looks, the
reply shocked me more than the angry look of the old lady.
“It was your addressing as, ‘akka’ and not your tap that angered my mother in law”
“But, pray, why?” I asked, “she is elder to me! Did her age step down, below mine, after she returned from America?’
“After her return, she wants to be addressed by her surname, if not by the given name. ‘Even my grandchild, Ruk is addressing her teacher as Duck. Why don’t you guys call me by my name?’ She asks.”
“What about her husband?” I enquired. ” I never heard him addressing other than by monosyllables, ‘enna, pinnae’ etc
“He said ‘no’ initially. But when my MiL refused to serve him Paladai pradaman, unless he called her by her name, he yielded”
“Does he call her ‘Parvadavardhini or Parvadam?”
“Shortened further. He calls her, ‘Par'”
“Just ‘Par’?”
“Yes, most of the time. But, when he is angry he screams,’Par, Par!’. And my father in law is always angry, you know.”
Anyway, that is not a point for our discussion.
I would like to come back to my topic and suggest that you should appreciate any little service from anyone, especially from your wife . And preparing food amidst many other distractions such as one child yelling for cleaning his back and another child for cleaning his front and the man of the house, yelling to clean his eye glasses, is not an easy job.
“And for me this ,’Par,Par’ noise too” . Adds the DIL, who is still here.

Two old women, one fair, fat and fondly, the other dark, sharp and skinny came to my mind, while going to bed last night. Very rarely do women, especially old, appear in the mirror of my mind, while going to bed, to be more truthful, any time of the day, any time of the night.
Mittaikkari patty and Rukmani .
Mittai ( sweet- that was how people used to address her), as per the legends, was from a remote village in Rajasthan. How and why she came all the way from there to Okavakkode, a suburb of the Palakkad city, was a mystery, though all sorts of stories were in the air. Some said she belonged to a royal family, lived a luxurious life and when all was lost, unable to stand the condemnation of her kin, escaped from her village and came to Malabar.
One thing was certain. She made muttais, Rajasthan sweets and sold them from her house. When I saw her first, as a kid of 3/4/5, she was a chubby, fair, fat, sweet lady, full of grace in her face and full of fair wavy skin folds in her hands, sweet, tooth- less smile in her face and a colorful parakeet in a cage hanging near her, repeating, ‘Rukmini, saapiitiya?’ Or ‘Rukmini saappidu’
Like a queen she used to sit on the thinnai, raised platform of her house, smiling at her own charm, at her own bangles- dangling fair wrists , laughing at us children playing on the floor below and talking to the pet bird, addressing her affectionately as ‘Raasaathi kannu’ .
Before dying, she sold her house to a shopkeeper from whom my father bought it, renovated and extended by construction a big hall adjoining it and started his business. We children grew in that house.
Now comes Rukmini. she was the elder woman’s house and cattle keeper. Along with Mittaikkari’s house, we inherited her other possessions too including Rukmini and the cattle wealth. The legend says that she too landed in the Olavakkode Railway station, not from Rajasthan, but from Pondicheri along with her husband who was a Brahmin. The popular story was he was washed away by the unfamiliar waters of the Kalpathy River, when he accompanied the cattle stock, which Rukmani took for giving a body wash. I have heard my Appa saying that both the women were very kind in nature.
Rukmini, after completing all her chorus, used to pull out buckets and buckets of cold water from our pond – like well, pour over her head and used to sit beneath a neem tree in our backyard and smoke, spreading her black locks wide. I remember her posture, clad in a blood red sari, smoke emanating from her mouth through a pipe filled with raw tobacco wrapped in a particular leaf, which added to her, ‘dhum’ ‘ in her language. Don’t know what it was.
I remember a few lines of her song, too, which confirms the story regarding her husband’s death and her love for him.
Aathulae vanda thanni aditchikkittu potchae, Saami.
Ayyarae vittuppittu hai, haainnu poyittiyae.
Athaalai pola onnai kaappaathi enna payan?
Anchukkum Melae viral thanji enna, thevarAsaa!
( she had one extra finger in each hand)
ஆத்திலே வந்த தண்ணி அடிச்சுகிட்டு போச்சே, சாமீ,
ஐயரே, விட்டுப்பிட்டு ஹாய், ஹாய்ன்னு போயுட்டியே.
ஆத்தாளை போப்ல ஒன்னை காப்பாத்தி என்ன பயன்?
அஞ்சுக்கு மலே விரல் தஞ்சி என்ன தேவராசா ?

Raman Sir, was enjoying his first ‘murukkan’ pan leaf chew, seated on the thinnai, front veranda of his house, while I was passing through, with a torthumundu, towel on my shoulder, towards the pond.
“Vada!”, he invited me for a ‘murukkan’ . ‘Oru santhosha varthamanam – one happy news. It is a boy and he looks like me!” . Ramu Sir, who never used to get excited even when I scored good marks once or twice in his class, was on cloud nine. . I wanted to share his happiness of becoming a father for the first time, on the verge of retirement, but, out of respect, which was genuine, to an old teacher, I didn’t want to sit by him.
So, collected the betel leaf casket from his hand, enjoyed the chew and took leaf off him, with a complement to his wife:
‘No more ‘avuluuku onnum theriyAdu – she knows nothing!’
Ten times a day, he used to recite that mantram that his wife knew nothing.
“Go and ask your friends to withdraw the comments they used to make at my back that ‘Ramu Sir knew little”. His voice was loud and clear, though I was moving away.
Masculine pride of my master.

“Anna, I want a Gingera,” requested my brother, while we were searching for some
Krishna idols to be carried to America, in the Guruvayoour shops. Gingera, as you know is Tambourine , a circular percussion musical instrument, with a leather top and jingles at the central rim which produce tinkling sound when moved or shaken.
“Why Gingera?” I asked, “you love Kathakali songs, not Masthan sahib’s songs. Right?”
“No, Anna, I’m singing now Masthan Sahib’s songs too. One of our tenants doesn’t pay rent in time. I want to disturb his sleep, so that he vacates the portion soon and runs away”
“But, you will be losing your sleep and he might or might not get disturbed”
I tried to reason out.
“Don’t worry about my losing sleep,” he assured, ” I will compensate by sleeping during day time. But, I’m sure, with my Ganjira beats, that fellow will run as chased by a mad dog”
For everyone in our family, unlike me, my younger brother is an innocent, simple -hearted man and I couldn’t imagine that he was smart enough to devise a trick to push out a troublesome tenant!
Vicha, younger to me by just two years, undoubtedly is a simple hearted soul, too good not even to allow me to enter the kitchen, but always cooked food for me and fed me as my mother or wife would have, despite his health deficiency due to type 1 diabetes. Often he articulates,
Jyeshta bratha pithru samaha” .
We live together, in Hyderabad. He cooks for me and I eat and appreciate his expertise and he gets excited at my satisfaction. When he gets bored with cooking and me with eating, he sings Kathakali songs and me Carnatic music. It is fun for we both. Need not be so, for our neighbors.
A few years ago, we went to our native village to participate in the car festival.
When the crowd dissipated at dusk, he sat in a corner of our temple and sang Kathakali songs. Within a few minutes, he was able to collect a big crowd of rasikas or fans, mostly women and most of them old.
I was jealous of him and went back home disheartened. But God has never let me down, especially when it comes to the display of my talents, including in music.
The next day, the lady from the opposite house,( she was not old), entered my house and demanded, ‘uncle, give me a hundred Rupees and join our team to learn Annamacharya krithis. In one month, our music madam will teach us six or seven selected songs and uncle, believe me you are going to be a musician”
“Wah, What do you think of me now, Vicha?” I asked my brother with the proud of a
conqueror like Tipu on capturing Sriranagapatnam. He smiled. He thought perhaps, Manni( my wife) a gold medalist from the TVM music academy could not teach me even the basic Chittaswarams, in thirty years and would I gain the expertise to sing six or seven keerthanams, in thirty days!
Believe me, I learned and sang Annamayya krthies along with a crowd of over one lac singers and that the event found a place in the Guinness book.
‘To sing along with a crowd of a lac people! Chu. Even a water buffalo could do that!’
No, you are wrong. I continued to sing to such an extend that every time I entered her house, Meenasister, my neighbor, had to warn, ”welcome, you; but without singing’. The warnings and threats continues even in America but I continue singing.
Sorry, I left my Gingera story, half way. Whenever I see a good, fragrant flower, I think of the gods in my home shrine and whenever I see good display materials, I think about my daughter and daughters in law, including my sisters’ Dils . When I see toys, I don’t think, but buy for my grand children including my sister’s grandchildren.
When I see good eatables, I think only about me.
“Buy a dozen Ginjeras,” I told Vicha. “You take one, the rest, I will carry to America”
‘Why not a dozen chandais?,’ he chided me. ‘Your bags are already full with aavakai packets”
Chendai would have been an ideal gift for the kids. But how to carry a dozen of them?
God never lets me down, I repeat. His favorite musical instrument, bamboo flute was hanging in a bunch in the next shop.
“Pack the whole bunch” I ordered.
“For selling in the running trains, Sir?” He enquired.
“Yes” I replied. I didn’t want to waste my time arguing.
I distributed the gifts to children, in Baltimore, New Jersey, Florida.
Then on, it was a continuous flow of ‘pee, pee’ sound in all the houses, day and nights.
The moment they get up, ‘pee, pee’; the moment they return from school, ‘pee,pee’
Through the weekends, ‘pee, pee’
I was excited the kids enjoying the sound but their mothers were not. They stared at me initially. How long can they stay staring? They screamed.
In turn, I screamed at my brother at Hyderabad, on phone.
“Your pApam, sin, of spoiling your tenant’s sleep is following me in America. Stop your night beats. Has that guy left?”
“No, Anna,” replied the simple hearted brother, “I asked him not to quit”
“Why, he settled the dues ?”
“No, Anna. He too bought a Ginjera and together, we are enjoying the beats”
“Masthan Sahib songs?”
“No, he teaches me Mariamman songs and I teach him Masthan”
“No complaints from other tenants and neighbors or they too have bought Ginjeras and you all enjoy your nights together?”, I enquired biting my teeth in anger and was about to put down the phone, when I could hear a voice from the other side,
“jyeshta bratha pitru samaha “

‘Konjam Ovaltine tharavaa?’ Kindly enquired Shanthamma( that is how Ishaan calls his grandma)
Ovaltine! Where have I heard that name? I rubbed my eyes and it took a minute to go back several years to my childhood days, when my mom, used to give that drink. I never had it later. My mom perhaps, wanted me to grow tall like a mountain and strong like an elephant and chose that luxury drink for her son. My wife and me too wanted our children grow tall like a mountain and strong like an elephant but don’t know why we didn’t think about Ovaltine.
Another life guard during childhood was Lifebuoy soap, which again was never used later.
Incidentally, I have come back to my old Cheevakai powder for washing hair, completing stopping all shampoos . The meera brand is a fine herbal hair -wash powder and when applied on the hair, it gives a cool effect of chemparathi thaali, that green powder.Have you seen Cheevakai tree?
I have. There was at the gate of my goldsmith friend, in a lane near the Vadakkantara temple.
A simple person he was, as I too was then!
Bought an old Ambassador just to keep near the front gate so that those who passed through would envy his asset.
He never drove the vehicle nor it would have moved an inch, had he wanted .
vehicles need wheels, engine and power to move, which his Ambassador lacked!

Some Accounts -men see only accounts in everything. Life is a ledger of credits and debit columns for them. My friend Muthukrishnan was an auditor with good credit balance of expertise. Mostly, he used to be on tour and during the few days having food at home, his wife, affectionately used to stand by his side, after serving appropriate food at the appropriate slot on the leaf at appropriate time, watching what he enjoyed and what to serve next. He never realized the significance of her waiting and used to ask always, stupid questions such as, ‘how may tomatoes did you use for the sambar?’ etc.
I happened to join him for dinner one evening when Lakshmi had made Pavakkai potla and invited me for food as she was aware of my liking for that item.
“You have served us the first round; why don’t you too join us, Lakshmi? We will help ourselves for the next rounds,” I invited her.
“That is Ok, Shivudu. Let him finish his food,” she said and continued to wait by her husband, looking at is face and leaf before him.
“Your puliodarai and Pavakkai pitla are made for each other, like you and Muthu,” I commented and looked at her face. Her eyes were swollen. Was there a droplet of tears on her right eye, awaiting to escape from the tight hold?
After food, I called Lakshmi aside and enquired, ‘anything wrong?’
She confided: ‘every time I serve him food, I long to hear one word of appreciation of any one item I served, from him and wait eagerly, patiently, by his side. Not once, did your friend say a good word so far. When you commented appreciating my puliodarai and Pavakkai pitla, I became emotional”
I was moved. No words came to my rescue to console her.
Motivation is very important for any job. A pat on the back of an employee or a letter of appreciation from the boss rekindles his spirits. The ‘besh’ praise from the vocalist, in the presence of the audience, stimulates the percussionists. A house wife whose field  of activity is restricted to the four walls of her house and she diverts her entire time and energy to take care of her husband and children . Natural for her to expect a word of appreciation, encouragement from her husband. The present womenfolk with other activities may not be that sensitive to the admiration of their culinary art, though everyone likes praises, especially a wife from her husband .
My wife had her own way of tackling the issue. She used to ask, ‘did I add more salt?’ Or, ‘is it too spicy?’ Or, ‘ I should have switched off the cooker one whistle -before , perhaps ‘ etc.

‘No, Ratnam. Very tasty is your food today,’ I used to reply.
I had made her day!

He was like that, right from his childhood! Collecting things, show -casing those and enjoying from a distance. Pencils, erasers, books, toys whatever came to his hand, he used to neatly arrange in a row and look from a distance, smile satisfactorily, but never used those. When appa took us to Thripunithura, where my mother delivered her first girl baby, my first sister, the Raja of Kochi was distributing cash gift for his birthday, by his own hand. A great occasion, said the uncle who took me and my friend to the palace to receive the gift.
We stood in a queue and remember well that the Raja placed a coin in our palms, which we were told was a great honour.
I spent that money for buying some balloons on the way home, despite protests from the uncle who took me to the king. Ah, within no time the balloons burst in the air. I cried for a while not only for the balloons which went ‘fut’ within a matter of minutes but as my friend Kuppu’s coin was safe in his hand . His laughter was more heart- bursting than the sound the balloons made in the air while losing their breath and falling down, shrunk, shivering, lifeless.
”Enketa potchu-where have those gone?” Asked the uncle who
tried to prevent earlier, my buying the balloons. I blinked and looked down on the battered balloon pieces. The pathetic sight broke my heart.
“Were these stupidly shrunk colour pieces my proud procession which proudly moved in the air keeping head high, just a few minutes before? I asked and wept again.
The victorious laughter and the visible coin in Kuppu’s hand were forgotten soon, though the memory of those balloons which went ‘fut’ in a matter of few seconds and fell down pathetically loosing shape, pride and very life, lay hidden in an unknown corner of my mind and popped up whenever the castles which I had built up in my life’s path assiduously, fell pathetically, irrecoverably.
Kuppuswamy, that was his name, lived the first half of his life exclusively for his sisters; he neglected the second half. The net result was that he got nothing out of life. We were together up to the SSLC and he could not continue his studies beyond that. His father was a vaadyar, purohit whose meager income was not sufficient to provide even a square meals for his family. Kuppu was a brilliant student and my appa, who was doing well in business, offered to bear the expense for the higher education of my close friend and class mate. ‘Poverty should not come in the way of such a brilliant boy’s future,’ Appa said and asked vaadyar to leave his son with us.
” You will feed him, educate him,” was not prepared to accept appa’s offer and questioned him, “who will feed the remaining 5 mouths ?
I have no money to pay the barber for the past 4 months; are you not seeing the wild growth on my head and face ?”
Kuppu joined the type writing and short hand class.
Many time, while going to college, I had picked up some food from home and delivered at Kuppu’s house which was on the way in the agraharam. Their self prestige resisted accepting them but their dire want overtook and made the prestige to surrender. Hunger is a merciless tornado which gulps everything on its way.
“Oru pathu roopai thada-give me ten Rupees,” he demanded once and that was the only time when Kuppu had asked for a help from me. I didn’t ask him ‘what for’ . Gave him the amount.’ Then he revealed,” Appa is unwell, want to take him to the hospital ”
I went along with him to admit his father in the hospital and stayed over night. Abject poverty had already decimated his body and sucked almost every blood cell . Death had practically no work except to stop the flow of air, which it did with no efforts. Vaadhyar did not return home. The villagers came forward to cremate his body. Appa also contributed for the expenses.on last rites. I looked at kuppu’s eyes when his father’s mortal remains were turning into ash. They were not moist. Only a stark silence, prevailed in them. I hugged him and wept for several minutes. I wanted him to cry and propel the pangs of separation and worry about the future, but he didn’t move an inch. That was deadly. While returning home, he mentioned that the vastrham on the dead body was gifted by my father on the previous night. It seems my father took a pair of new veshtIes to be gifted to the Kathakali artist but on a second thought, don’t know why, he thought went to Kuppu’s house and gifted the clothes. When I told appa that the cloth on the dead body was his gift, he shut his eyes for a few minutes . Silence, sometime speak .
After a week , Kuppu came home and asked for some money. That was the first time he was asking appa for help.
”Enna, kuppu, ammaikku ennachu -what happened to your mom ? ” Appa inquired. I don’t know how he guessed that something was wrong with Kuppu’s mom. it was perhaps his premonition out of his experience with the leg-movements of the twins, death and disaster.
”Mama, Ammai poyatchu-mom passed away” . Without telling a word of consolation or expressing grief, Appa went inside, picked up some cash from the box and asked the cart -man to be ready . Amma came out, saw Kuappu standing in the veranda and appa getting ready to go out . Without asking what was the matter, she went in and came out with a new pudavai, nine- yard sari .The new pudavi was for covering the dead body of the old woman during her last journey. The way they acted silently and swiftly amazed me. Aware of the financial condition of Kuppu’s family, were my parents expecting the dance of death over there any time ?
Appa could manage to get my friend a ‘karyasthan’s job- something like a manager cum clerk, in a tobacco shop in the Palghat Angadi, bazaar. The ‘moothan’ the shop owner was a kind man. Having known from appa the financial condition of my friend, he gave a month’s salary in advance for kuppu . Appa helped the family with grain and vegetables.
In six, seven months Kuppu learned typewriting and shorthand, went to Bombay and worked for an export company, living in a small room , eating a single meal a day and starving on the days of religious fasting days, which were too many. Most of the amount he earned was sent home for education of his three sisters and later their wedding .
When I met him in Bombay after a gap of twenty years, he had his own flat, thanks to the additional income he had, which his part time ‘pourohityam’ the job of purohit fetched for him.
” At least now you think about your life, ” I pleaded, ” You need a woman to share your life and a progeny to extend your lineage ”
”Too late,” he replied. ”It is never late to live” I asserted, ” it might be too late for some to die but for none it is too late to live “.
He extended his brass betel box offering a chew for me. “Nice box, looks like your appa’s. I like the cover in the shape of a betel leaf” . While picking up the leaves and other ingredients from it I noticed a small coin inside it . I jumped from my seat, ‘ Kuppu, this coin was the gift from the Kochi Raja, right ? ” I asked. He nodded in agreement, with a smile on his face. No balloons came in between us this time.Then he held my hand, opened a wooden cupboard in which over a dozen Mayilkan veshties, doube-dothies with ornamented borders, were neatly stacked.
“Pakshi ”- that was how he used to address me as I was a lover of birds and used to wander in forests during my school days in search of them, ” When I call you from my death bed, you know what you should do, spread all these fragrant, mill-fresh dothies on my body before you light the fire .My parents did not have their own clothes on their body during their final trip. Let me have that luxury” I looked at his eyes. He meant what he said, I was sure. It was not a casual request but a well thought-out plan.
”You are a stupid,” I screamed, ” throw away this soiled cloth you are wearing now and don the new one from the cupboard, one everyday. What is the guarantee that you and me will have a tomorrow ?’
“You have not faced poverty, ” he remarked looking at the ceiling ” I will never pardon the Fate for depriving my parents the privilege of having their own clothes for their last journey”
“Now the same Fate has provided you plenty of them .Why don’t you use them ?”
” It is not time yet”
“Poda madaya – get lost, you fool ” I shouted and rushed from there. That was the last time I saw him . Afterwards, we lost contacts.
Two months ago, when I raised my head after a dip in the waters of the Kalpathy river, I noticed on the adjacent rock a brass chellapetti, betel casket and from the betel-shaped lid I could guess that it belonged to my friend. “From where did you get this ?” I asked the man who was beating his clothes on the rock.”It looks like my friend’s ”
”Your friend had a sacred thread like what the brahmins of this village wear?,” He asked me and I confirmed.
“Sorry, sir. Your friend is no more”
He stopped beating the cloth and came close to me. ” A few days ago, a man slipped from the moving train near Palghat Junction and despite wide publicity given through the local dailies and mike announcement through the streets of Kalpathy and Palakkad, there were no claimants for the body.The Poonal gave an indication of his caste and it was decided by the authorities to cremate . Along with two other Railway staff, I was given the responsibility. I had a new red colour turban which I used to support the head load. I covered the body with that new cloth and sprinkled some water from the nearby stream. This brass vethilappetty, was lying a few yards away from the body which I collected while returning .You can kept it, if it belongs to your friend”
I opened the box .The coin gifted by the Kochi Mahraja was in tact inside .
I took out my wallet which I had hidden in a rock-hole and searched for some cash. There was a five hundred Rupee note, which I handed over to the porter. ”Buy a new turban cloth for you and a sari for your wife. It is our custom to give a small gift to that relative who performed the cremation”. He accepted it with a smile.
I sat on the rock, looking at the flowing waters. How unpredictable life is ? Kuppu did not buy balloons as I did, but his life just went ‘fut’ like the balloons. When my balloons lost their life, at least I was their to morn the loss. Now my friend is no more but I am unable to cry. Or why should we cry at all ?. The air from the balloons just escaped and got mixed with the vast expanse outside and is it not the case with my friend too when his life escaped from his body and amalgamated with the supreme reality ?
I don’t know how long I sat there like that. The sky got filled with stars and cool wind was blowing from the western hills, when I got up .
I returned home and opened my wardrobe to change the dress.
A dozen Mayilkan veshties, doube-dothies with ornamented borders, was neatly stacked inside it .
I cried inconsolably..
 
sperinkulam
Baltimore
October 6, 2011

‘Appa waits for an opportunity to worry and keep on worrying about it,’ complain my children.
‘There are people who worry on insignificant things like a mole on the neighbor’s face,’ I tell them.
Worrying about a mole on another face? Are you joking?
No, I’m not. Just one example. You know my father’s customer Pazhanichami Pillai, timber merchant? He was in the habit of worrying about the mole on the neighbor’s face. And this was how it started.
Pillai’s wife Aatchi was chatting one evening with his friend Mudhaliar, unusually for a long time. She was the best friend of Mudhaliar’s wife PAtchi, but recently they broke their friendship for some valid reasons. Atchi wanted to know from Mudhaliar in minute details whether his wife was feeling sorry for the rupture in their friendship. But,  her loving husband, misunderstood the purpose of the long conversation. Unable to stand the sight of his wife spending too long a time chatting with Mudhali
( ‘no respect for him. I will call him just Mudhali,’ he decided ) he cried, ‘enough of it!’
His wife didn’t hear the warning and continued with the chat.
After his friend left, the shrewd businessman, asked his wife, ‘what topic of international importance did keep you engaged with that ‘Chaembu moran Mudhali, for over an hour?’
Chaembu is an ugly root vegetable or tuber called Taro. ‘Moran’ is one with a face which looks like that root. Not a complement at all.
The self- prestige of Mrs. Palli could not take that assault. ‘There is a corn on his chin. Do you have it on your face? No. He has it. That is why he is admired by my friends’
‘How could a mole add beauty to a wrinkled, disarrayed face like Chaembu?’, Pillai tried to figure out and lost his sleep that night. He didn’t have the courage to ask that question to his wife.
Anyway, from the next day onwards, Pillai started looking for a mole in any face that came across, especially if that face used to come anywhere near his wife.
That worry was unnecessary, as you will agree. The worst part was his worry became my worry, when he came close to me and planted his eyes on my face to search for a mole there!
Another mole story:
I was selling clothes of a reputed brand after retirement and had to supervise the sales of some thirty retail outlets. The owner of one shop, Meera Ben was known to my sister Ambujam Ben in Ahmedabad. She was in her mid seventies, though in her Franchisee application, the date mentioned was 43. ‘Instead of 73, by mistake, you wrote 43, Meera Ben?’ I asked her at the personal interview.  ‘You want your products appear on the windows as they are or look smarter and younger, as I’m?’
My reply for that question was the Agency Agreement Form., duly signed on the spot!
‘We want business,’ my boss used to remind me often, ‘whether the guys enter our office wearing  Pancha or pattu is not our concern”
Meera Ben had a small problem, not really related to the cloth – sales . She had a mole on her right cheek which was the highlight of her facial beauty during her peak hours. ( Seek your apology for using that business language. By ‘peak hours’ , I meant ‘during her young days ). When she reluctantly moved to old age, her beauty emblem got eclipsed in the folds, wrinkles and wraps of the facial skin.
A salesman should know how to sell his goods and I knew my job. I used all my tricks to sell my goods, means clothes of my company and one of those was my Ayurvedam expertise, acquired during my peak hour, as the Kottakal pharmacy was close to my house. I just explained to you what ‘peak hour’ is.
‘Are you sure you can help me?,’ asked Meera Ben when I told her that there was a solution for every problem in Ayurvedam.
‘What do you expect from me, for your service?,’ asked the Gujarati lady, without mensing her words. That is how a business man or woman should start a deal- no beating around the bush!
‘Nothing much Ben,’ I explained, ‘I’m old, you are old’.
‘You are old, not me’. She stood up from her seat. That was to tell me, she didn’t require my services.
I pulled out from my pocket my company’s Order Form and told her, ‘200 bed sheets, 300 bath towels, 500 shirts, 500 saris, I’m ordering for your shop . Please sign here madam. The rest is my responsibility’
‘What about my mole treatment?,’ She enquired,  pushing the Order Form aside, even without looking at it.
‘You want to keep the mole in its present form or use my expertise to showcase it smarter and younger like you?,’  I asked in the language she employed at the time of her recruitment.
Then I made her to sit and moved my head close to her face. ‘Let me first, have a good look at your mole and then decide which leaf or root to use to rejuvenate it’.
It took a minute or two to adjust my eye- glasses.
Exactly at that moment, entered my boss, a restless young man, who dreams only sales, market and money . In fact , for his age,  it was ideal for him to dream something better.
‘SP garu, eami chesthunArandi- what are you doing? ‘  Nirmal Setty fumed.
‘She has a mole on her face, Nirmal,’ I explained. ‘I’m trying to locate that to promote our sales’
‘She has a mole on her face and you are looking at it to promote our sales?’ His annoyment was understandable. He continued, ‘that  was not taught in our Ananthapur MBA. Your business management course taught you that?’
‘Yes, Nirmal. I studied business before you were born,’ I explained, ‘the old syllabus was entirely different, you see’
‘What is your problem, anyway, Nirmal?’ asked Meera Ben. ‘After all, he is old, I’m old)
I jumped from my seat and yelled,  ‘Meera Ben, you are not old!. Recall what you told me a few minutes before’
Meera Ben pulled out the Indent form from the drawer, signed it even without looking at it once and handed it over to me.
‘SP garu, mee tricks bAga natchindhi , naakku. superb sales-skill, I like that very much,’ said my boss, ‘these tricks were not taught in our MBA’
‘Our syllabus was entirely different you see,’ I told him.
Ocala, Florida
March 20,  2015
 

 
“SP, wait a minute please”
Someone called me from the back when I was entering the diamond -studded first gate of the Heaven’s kingdom.
“Dushtudu, evaru noovu, calling me back, rascal, while entering the mahadwaram, the royal entrance of Swargam? ”
I turned back and yelled at the empty space as no human form could be visible.
Then, I realized it could be only our Chettiar to whom I owe some money. No one was there to follow me beyond the mundane world.
“I left my wallet back at home Chettiar as it was too heavy to carry. I promise that your money with interest will be returned by Ammalu”
“Aren’t you ashamed to think about your worldly wife, even after reaching the Rajagopuam of the Swargam? And you bhArya dasu, slave of your wife, uttered incessantly Ammalu, Ammalu, while leaving the mundane world?”
“If not my wife’s name , whose name you expect me to carry on my lips, your wife’s?”
“Narayana, Narayana, Krishna, Govinda, Samkara, etc etc. There are set names for the final journey. You did not choose any of those divine names!. You know AjAmila, whom God’s men saved from the clutches of Death, as he uttered the name of his son Narayana”
“AjAmila fell for a woman and had ten children from her. Even in my dreams, I haven’t thought about a woman other than my wife”
“I doubt your statement. No married man can make that claim unless something is basically wrong with him. Anyway, I can verify the veracity of your claim from your mother in law, as your wife will speak high about you always. But I didn’t expect you to exit the world uttering incessantly the name of your wife”
“Chetty! ( no more respect for you ) .
Do you know that woman cooked tasty food for me, every time carefully selecting vegetables I liked most, served me in required quantities, stood nearby watching my facial reaction to know whether I liked every item she served, waited with a jugful of water for my hand- wash, handed over a towel to clean my hands, waited near the gate to see me off, waited again in the evening or night till I returned home, with empty stomach, again served food with the same care and love, handed over a roll of betel leaf, made my bed, hummed a tune, as my mother used to do and retired to bed only after making sure that I was asleep and wrapped well. Not for one or two years. For fifty long years. You think I am so ungrateful, not to say a word of thanks while leaving her for ever?”
“You are overacting. I have seen you, walking behind her, like a calf behind the cow, holding her sari”
“Why not ? She gave me my beloved children. She raised them to good men and women. She protected my savings. She was my stick of support when I was about to fall. What was wrong if I held her sari -end and walked around?”
“You were a slave to your wife”
“I’m proud to be called a slave to someone who sacrificed her interests to serve mine.
I have answered your question. Collect my dues from my wife. I’m entering the portals of Swargam”
I could feel someone switching on the light.
“Unusual SP Sir, unbelievable. You, waking up mentioning Swargam!”
It was clearly Ammalu’s voice. I can never go wrong on that. So, it was only a dream!
“Did you hear what all I spoke to Parukutty in my dream?”
“No, I didn’t . Who else were there?”
“All. Alamelu, Ammini, Pattu”
“Chettiar?”
“OMG! You did hear at least a portion of my blab. Forget whatever you heard. I didn’t say a good word about you”
“If I have to hear from your mouth, what you think about me, the years I spent with you were waste. Speech has little demand when a mind speaks to another mind silently.
Speech becomes speech- less in some relationships.