1.3.08- Saturday
Tiruvilwamala.


The Divine banks of Bharathapuzha!

She lies on the bare floor. Her sparse hair flutters in the gentle breeze. Her eyes are closed and her lips are drawn tight. Her facial expression is one of profound absorption. “Please do not disturb me,” she seems to suggest. A full-length plantain leaf falls over her, and she patiently lies underneath accepting the final rites. “First a lock of hair please,” handing over a pen-knife knife to her son, the priest instructs….With a shivering hand the son obliges…..

Soon she finds herself shifted on to the funeral pyre. Within no time, it starts crackling, and the hungry flames leap up. Soon they subside and die away. Burning embers and hot ashes are what she is now!

“Where are you Chittassi now?” I ask nobody.

Her mocking laughter now rings in my ears. I know the reason.

When we were at Ammath, that day she had asked me,

“Chandran, I understand that you read a lot. Tell me, have you ever set your eyes on the epic Bhagavtha? All your queries stand answered in that book. You should make it a practice to read it daily.”

I regret, I haven’t read it! Precisely hence, my question remains unanswered.

I retreat with a guilty conscience.

As I dip myself in the noble waters of Bharathapuzha, it strikes me that when the rain sets, all the ashes would find their way into swirling river. Soon they will travel down into the infinite depths of the Arabian ocean and then into the vast expanse of the seven seas.

A lump rises up my throat! Let me stop.



*

“Of late, a shudder escapes Chandran whenever he meets Leeloppol. One or two shudders are justifiable, because she happens to be the Leader Trainee for Guides. “Authority should always be respected,” he elaborates though he is not sure how a solitary shudder or a series of such shudders could reveal one’s awe to anybody.

“Chandran, fetch me a litre of kerosene from the ration shop,” waving a ration card and an empty mineral water bottle, she orders.

After a while she flings the enticement, “You can buy a banana too.” She knows this is something which he can hardly decline.

She knows he has a weakness for bananas. She has often heard his assertion that “A banana a day keeps one’s indigestion away,” which rather rhymes with the old saying, “An apple a day keeps a doctor away.” Chandran is neither a parodist nor a plagiarist. The resemblance, if any, is purely coincidental.

He lavishly shakes his head. Then he collects the tiny book and looks at it. It has a leather-bound exterior with the words, “Ration card,” embossed in gold. If the ration card is leather bound, Chandran is spellbound,

“Wonderful! This is how ration cards are to be preserved. I suggest you release a feature on the subject for the benefit of our uninformed relatives,” tells Chandran. One after another, the pictures of his ignorant brothers and sisters surface up in his mind, and he grieves.

Leeloppol offers a vacant smile possibly with the implication that, “there is hardly any sense in sparing my efforts to educate guys like you.”

As he ventures out, Leeloppol reminds him,

“Let the cost not exceed fifty paise.”

Once more, he is spellbound.

“What are you talking? Even if the coin is a glittering brand new piece, it would fetch only a few drops of kerosene. I don’t need a container for that. I can carry them in my cupped palms,” confirms Chandran. For the sake of emphasis, he actually cups his palms and exhibits it for inspection.

“I am talking about the plantain, not kerosene,” clarifies Leeloppol.

He is distraught, but he reaches the ration shop. He surveys the wares strewn all over there. To his disappointment he finds that plantains are a scarce commodity there.

The owner of the shop is a familiar chap. Pleasantries having been exchanged, Chandran hands over the ration card to him.
“Please get me a litre of kerosene,” appeals Chandran.

“Oh, yes. But rules are rules. Verification comes first,” he insists.

Chandran stands a little away carrying the partly squeezed mineral water bottle. He is impatient. For the sake of his own entertainment, he squeezes the bottle once or twice. At the next instant, shattering sound emanates and the shop owner jolts once or twice. He clicks his tongue in objection and the obedient Chandran falls silent.

He scans the ration card, and Chandran scans the shop owner. His eyes constrict, so do Chandran’s. Finally, the shop owner pouts his lips in profound thoughts.

It now strikes Chandran that the job of a shop owner is not an easy task. This verification process is almost akin to an intellectual pursuit. On a second thought, he wonders whether there is anything wrong with the ration card. Hence, he folds his hands in the form of a ‘Namaste,’ and he asks,

“Anything wrong, Sir?”

He wakes up from his contemplative mood, and his glance again falls upon the ration card.

“There is nothing wrong. In fact, it is perfect.” He confirms. With a solemn silence, he scratches his head. Soon one or two drops of tears appear in his eyes. Since Chandran is a very sensitive person, it is natural that an empathetic film of tear takes shape in his eyes too. But he controls himself.

“I wish I had a wedding photograph of this kind. I got married some thirty years back. But I have no photographs. How sad!” The shop keeper regrets. He is on the verge of a whimper.

Chandran snatches the ‘ration card’ and looks at. A just-married couple returns a captivating smile! The ‘ration card’ has nothing else in it!

“What happens to my one litre kerosene now?” With grave concern, he asks.

The shop keeper recovers from his sorrows. He spreads his hands in utter helplessness and then states,

“True, the book that you have brought identifies itself as a ‘ration card.’ Unfortunately, this won’t suffice. What I want is the original ration card with all its pages intact.”

Chandran steps back and retreats! Let him go to Leeloppol to find out where the original is!

*********

31st December,2007

Reproduced are the copies of letters exchanged between the writer’s father and Embranthiri, who used to dispense medicines. The writer was quite young then.




“Dear Embranthiri,

As you know, we have had a very cordial relationship. I have always held you in high esteem, because you are a man of profound wisdom. You also exhibit humanitarian inclinations. Were it not for these qualities, you would not have chosen the profession of selling ayurvedic medicines at margin free rates.

However, the recent incident has shattered all my convictions. You would remember, yesterday I had sent you a note requesting you to send me medicine for my ailing son, Chandran. I appreciate your instant compliance. But it is a matter of great regret that after I administered the medicine to him, the poor chap immediately retreated into the bathroom. Alas! He bolted himself in, and until evening he never came out. Believe me! He flushed the toilet twenty times! When he finally came out, he had become so lean and weak that I carried him in my palms! Oh, God! My heart breaks!

You will realise, this is a matter of great concern to me. I can hardly believe that a lapse of this nature could happen to a man of your calibre. Embranthiri, where did you go wrong? Did you send a wrong medicine? Please enlighten me on the subject.

While concluding a letter, one should adhere to the niceties of language. But, I intentionally refrain. You know the reason.

K K Nambudiri



Dear Thirumeni,

I am through your letter.

You took me to the skies, and thence dropped me. This sums up my feeling. But I am glad that you have given me a chance to present my views on the subject under discussion.

Your hand-written note is still with me. It states, “Medicine for loose motion.” Nowhere has it implied that what is required is an antidote against loose motion, though it now becomes clear that your son is suffering from loose motion. I maintain I have acted upon its explicit meaning. Let me make it clear, what I had sent was a strong laxative meant for purging out everything except, of course, one’s bowels.

Since the patient has not yet recovered, I send herewith another medicine that would forthwith stop his ailment.

I hope this explanation would restore your faith in me.

Embranthiri.


EPILOGUE:

THE VICTIM REFUSED TO TAKE THE SECOND INSTALMENT OF MEDICINE APPARENTLY DUE TO HIS DREAD THAT IT MIGHT LEAD TO CONSTIPATION.

HE IS FIFTYFSEVEN AND HE STILL SURVIVES AND WORKS. BUT, TALK TO HIM ABOUT AN ANTIDOTE AGAINST LOOSE MOTION. HE SHRINKS IN FEAR!”

HAPPY NEW YEAR TO ALL!

2nd December,2007

Good day to all my dear ones!

The prolonged rains have subsided and the climate is quite pleasant, neither hot nor cold. But my courtyard bears a wild look, thanks to the luxuriant grass. Gangadharan, that stout little chap, who could have tidied it up, is not to be seen. My wife complains that I am not putting in sufficient efforts to summon him. She does not realise, winning a game of roulette is much easier than tracing him out.

Today being Sunday, I decide to take up the task myself. I squat on the ground and commence the job of picking grass. By the time I clear up a small area, I feel exhausted. My drowsy glance falls on the cleared up patch. With childish curiosity, I scoop up a handful of earth. Underneath it is moist. To my rapture, an exhilarating whiff of wet soil wafts up. I dig out one more handful and then another. “If I go down further, will water break out?” I wonder. But nothing happens. In fact, the pit is quite dry!

This reminds me of our well that had been dug out near our ancestral house at Tiruvilwamala. I was merely five or six then. Velichapadu, the gigantic figure, who periodically ran his fingers through his hanging hair, had been assigned the job of digging. By virtue of his long association with us, he had in fact become an affectionate member of our family. He was very fond of me, and he always addressed me as “Thampuran,” though I was too young to be honoured thus. Twenty feet down, he had struck rock, when he resorted to rock blasting. I remember Velichapadu hurling a rag-torch into the well. At the next instant, a thousand dynamites exploded. Horrified, I closed my ears with my palms. Splinters shot up and fell back with a bang. Soot and dust rose up and an eerie silence ensued. What followed was a spectacular sight! Strong jets of water spurted out sky high!

“We struck water, we struck water,” chorused we all. It was at this precise moment the childish fancy took me over. Overawed by the “supernatural” power of Velichapadu, I instantly appealed to him,

“I want to be a rock-blaster. Won’t you teach me the job?”

Tousling up my hair, he immediately concurred,

“Why not, Thampuran? Tomorrow onwards we are off together. Within a few days, I assure you, you will become a master.”

Then, as though I had already become one, he requested me with wide grin,

“Master blaster, bring a glass of water.”

Presently, as I stare into the empty pit, I espy the smiling face of Velichapadu. His baritone voice too rings in my ears.

“Master blaster, bring a glass of water.”

As a sense of loss steals through me, my son appears in front of me, and I drift back to reality.

“Don’t you know today is Sunday? Where is your article for posting?” He asks.

Tapping my head, I reply,

“Here. Here.”

And finally here lies the article!

With loving regards and sincere prayers, Chandran calls it a day!

@

Acknowledgements:

Thanks to all who have responded.

Anu, Sushama and Sudev: Before I could act upon your suggestion, the blog has already appeared. My special thanks to Jayashankar, who has done it.

CHANDRAN CHATS!

26th November, 2007

Good day to all my dear ones!

Hoist a page of my own in the internet! This idea has been germinating in my mind ever since my considerate niece presented a laptop to me. My computer savvy son too suggests such a venture. Okay, fine. What could be the purpose? Wait, I am coming to it.

Imagine that we are all under one roof where the atmosphere is always charged with reciprocal love and affection. Our house reverberates with peals of laughter. The day passes off peacefully, and at night, the house falls into a peaceful slumber! The affection that we have shared condenses into honey drops and each drop settles in our hearts!

I know my wish is utopian. We are not destined to be together. In fact, we are fragments thrown out into the various nooks and corners of the world, where we confront a sense of isolation. No doubt, telephonic talk is a good palliative. Unfortunately, it hardly pours forth subtle emotions, though at times, the tone partially exposes the undercurrents in one’s heart. However, letters are of utmost relief. In fact, you could read between the lines and actually listen to the moans of an aching heart. Unfortunately, these days nobody writes. My father nurtured an insatiable passion for writing letters. He constantly updated his information on the well being of his dear ones. Dad, you wrote poems too! Didn’t you?

As I look at his photograph today, I have a feeling that my disposition to write a bit is something that I have inherited from him. I remember, as a child I used to listen to the furious scratches of his pen. Thanks Dad, you still motivate me.

“Okay, fine. Now tell us something about this page,” you would suggest. With this page, would I be able to interact with you all? What else would I be able to do? I don’t know. My vision is so incipient that I hardly have a correct picture of it. Let us wait and see.

Incidentally, I have a dubious distinction that I am an inveterate chatterer. Since I stand stigmatised, I will continue to chatter as long as you do not object, and as long as you keep your eyes glued on to your monitor.

Expect me on all Sundays. Do write to me too. As for replies, be assured, disappoint you I will not.

With loving regards and sincere prayers, Chandran calls it a day!