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!