Diary of a Malayali Madman, page 13
Then Krishna had a fearful thought: What if she died suddenly one night, and Vimalechi or someone else found her notes and read them? She put her pen down and sat quietly, as though engulfed in a mist. She didn’t write anything that night. The night after that, when she sat down to write, she was gripped by the same fearful thought. So she abandoned her habit of writing in her journal. For the next four or five nights, she sat in her room, suffocating without an outlet for her thoughts and, when she could stand it no more, she resumed her habit of talking to herself.
10.
‘Gopan sir, you should not have done this to me. I was very uncomfortable when you sent Varghese to fetch me from my classroom, saying that you wanted to introduce me to this man who was supposed to be an old friend of my brother. I know some of your old friends from your extremist politics days come to visit you every now and then. “The armed revolutionaries financed by Gopan sir” – Jitesh jokes about them. I thought, at first, that this man might be one of those. But when you introduced us and left the room leaving us alone, I was really uncomfortable.
‘He said he was an art critic and lived in Madras. The way he spoke Malayalam with that accent – it irritated me. What was he, a foreigner? And how much he talked in a matter of minutes – sexual freedom, vulgar morality, mutual understanding, ideology … At the end of it all, in his slithery language, a proposal for marriage.
‘Ravimaman hasn’t entrusted you with the job of finding me a husband, has he? I haven’t asked for your help either. So what right do you have to interfere? You may be under some illusions, but I know exactly what these men are like.
‘He must have been at least fifteen years older than me. Let’s overlook the age difference for a minute, but what about those tobacco-stained teeth in that flabby mouth, and that mouldy old shirt? Oh … Let’s disregard that too, but that self-proclaimed attitude of being a great scholar – that really is something.
‘I may not have the right or eligibility to judge other people, but let me tell you something: that man was a complete moron.’
11.
‘I read the first instalment of “A Village Burning in Agony”. I like the title you’ve given to the series. In fact, I can’t imagine a better title for a story about this village.
‘Like Nooranad and Kayaralam, Theeyoor is also turning into a “suicide village”. You’ve made some good general observations about this place. The statistics about suicides in the state, the demographic breakdown of deaths by suicide and methods of suicides – all of these have made the article a piece of serious scholarship. Jayamohan, I think this series will get you noticed as a journalist to be reckoned with. So here’s some information about one more suicide for the last part of your series: Divakaran, the man who used to deliver our milk, killed himself this morning by drinking brandy mixed with pesticide.
‘Divakaran killed himself because he was drowning in debt. He was one of those people sent to this earth only to live a life of penury and misery. He had a large family to look after – a wife and two children, a father who was ill, a mentally disabled sister, several other relatives dependent on him. Divakaran had no proper work. He got on by delivering milk from the cooperative society to a few houses, and running errands for people – paying their electricity bills, getting their groceries from the ration shop, and so on. His health allowed him to do only such odd-jobs, and he’d managed so far. Whenever things got dire, he’d borrow some money from someone. He’d borrowed money even from me – a couple of hundred rupees. He’d never been able to pay them back.
‘Last month, his child was hospitalized because of dysentery. And then it was his wife’s sister’s wedding. He must have suffocated, caught between all these demands.
‘His death was no surprise to anyone. What else could he do – people seem to be asking. Even I felt the same. If this is all we can think or feel when a human life is lost, it should scare us all. Is there any meaning in being alive if this is the best we can do?’
12.
‘These days, I have nobody to share my personal life with. Shantha is dead. Dileepan is far away, both physically and mentally. As for Jayamohan, what significance would the personal life of someone like me have in his world? He is only interested in newsworthy stories. And Joseph, well, he is another woman’s husband, and I have no right to share my private life with him. These are the facts. No amount of wishful thinking on my part will change them. And, really, there is no point in me talking to any of them, even if it is only in my imagination. But what can I do? I have to talk to someone until I fall asleep. Otherwise, I would feel like running out of the house, even if it is the middle of the night. I cannot knowingly fling myself into a situation where everyone would think that I’ve lost all mental control and gone mad.
‘That’s why, Reshma, I’ve decided to talk with you today, tell you all about what happened in my life on this one day. You know we don’t have a relationship that allows for such intimate conversations. We exchange a couple of words because we are colleagues, and I know that you don’t expect a friendship that goes beyond that from me. You have a prickly character that suits your thin, dry body. The only time it changes is when you are in the classroom – you are very good at entertaining the students, and being a teacher is the job best suited for you. But your instinct to put others down so that you can feel superior is something you should try and curb. Could you not stop your habit of causing trouble for others and then pretending that you had nothing to do with it?
‘If you think about it, there are very few reasons for us to be unfriendly to each other. In fact, there are more reasons that should have encouraged a friendship between us. We are both unmarried. Given your looks and family circumstances, you are as unlikely to get married as me. So we share a disappointment. And there’s bound to be other disappointments that we share that we don’t even know about yet.
‘Today has been a day of many sad things for me. You know Shyamedathi, don’t you? I’d not seen her after her son Dineshan was killed. I wanted to go, but didn’t have the courage to see her face-to-face when she is so steeped in her sorrow. But I thought it would be wrong to delay it any further, and that’s why I went to see her this evening.
‘I found her alone on the veranda of her house. She seemed asleep, sitting there below a framed photo of Dineshan with a red garland around it. When she saw me, she tried to give me one of her usual smiles, but her face crumpled and she started crying.
‘Unable to speak, we just looked at each other silently. I understood how oppressive silence can be between two people who know all about each other. As we stood there frozen in our misery, Dineshan’s father arrived. He was sweating, as if he’d walked a long distance. When he saw me, he smiled happily at me and said, “Ah, Chandutti Mooppan’s daughter, aren’t you? How’s everyone at home? Have you had tea?” And Shyamedathi covered her face and started wailing. The poor man has still not regained the balance of his mind – he still has not registered that his son is gone.
‘I took my leave, and came back home to find Vimalechi in a heated argument with Achchan. Sarang and Shanoj stood quietly in a corner, with scared expressions on their faces.
‘Dasettan has been discharged from the hospital, and instead of coming here, he has gone to his house with his family. Achchan asked Vimalechi to go there and visit him, which is what started the argument. “I don’t have such a husband, and my children don’t have a father.” I heard Vimalechi shouting through her tears.
‘Dasettan seems to have abandoned Vimalechi and, in a way, that’s what Vimalechi wanted. So what is behind these tears and commotion? Is marriage a pestilence that one can never get rid of?
‘I am not too worried about the situation between Dasettan and Vimalechi. If you ask me, it is best that they separate and live their own lives. What I am worried about is the situation between Valliechi and Hariyettan. Are they still arguing through each night, unable to convince one another? Is Valliechi still punishing Hariyettan by ignoring him and going around dressed in her finery? She hasn’t written home even once after they left.’
13.
‘I understand what’s going on, Comrade,’ Krishna told Aravindan, a party activist and neighbour with whom she had never spoken before. ‘The District Committee has expelled Ravimaman, accusing him of financial irregularities. That is a low blow. Whatever else he might do, Ravimaman would never embezzle money, nor does he have any need to do so. The real reason is that he had an altercation with a young man at Devu’s house. Some people say that he was a regular customer there, and that Maman got into an argument with him. Others say that one of Maman’s opponents in the party sent the young man specifically aiming to create trouble. Who knows what the truth is? Anyway, you guys got rid of him very quickly – that was a clever move.
‘I wonder what Maman will do now. He lost his job because of his affiliation to the Party, and he spent years working for it, never had a black mark against his name. He’s suffered physical assaults, was imprisoned for several months, worked day and night for the Party. And after years of dedicated service, at the age of sixty, he felt an attraction towards a woman. In the beginning, I was a little embarrassed to hear about his new relationship but, thinking about it, I couldn’t see anything wrong in it. He is still young at heart and in good health.
‘I’ve only seen this woman Devu once. Shantha pointed her out to me when we went to the festival at Thiyoor temple. Amala and Vineesh had gone to see the animals in the zoo, and I was waiting for them with Valliechi and Hariyettan. Shantha came rushing from somewhere, dragged me aside, and pointed to a woman in a yellow sari standing in front of the magic-show tent.
‘“There, that’s Devu,” she said. “Your Maman’s woman.”
‘She didn’t look like a harlot. In fact, she had a quiet beauty. Perhaps she loves Maman more than anyone else, and it would be a good thing. What’s the point in spending one’s life dreaming about leadership roles and fighting with one’s comrades within the party? Wouldn’t it be much better to find someone to share the rest of one’s life somewhere quiet?
‘Aravindan, you might say that I think like this because I have no interest in politics or allegiance to any party. Everything in this country is political, yes, but I think there is something seriously wrong with that.
‘You might say that party leaders have a responsibility to be role models, even in their private lives. I am not sure I agree with such a firm stance. And even if you are right, morality is not just about relationships between men and women. It is also about how one goes about accumulating wealth, having a good life, and nursing ambitions about higher and loftier positions. Aren’t all party activists affected by these?
‘And I am not talking only about the leaders – I am talking also about the ordinary workers and activists. Everyone knows about them and how they have changed. It is not just the leaders who are hoodwinking the people, it is the workers too. Last year, when Valliechi and Hariyettan came home, the auto-rickshaw driver who brought them from town asked for fifty rupees instead of twenty-five. And when Hariyettan challenged him, he got all aggressive and scornful. Do you know who this driver was? None other than Govinnettan’s son, Raghu. He is one of your party’s regular members. You can’t deny that, can you? Oh, you might say, “So what? Those who are ruling us are stealing crores of rupees from us.” Well, a crore or five rupees – forcing money out of people is unfair regardless.
‘I know, of course, that times have changed, and that people need much more money than before to meet all their needs. But the difference between a good politician and a bad one should be apparent in all walks of lives. Otherwise there is no point in politics at all.
‘There is something else I find quite perplexing. When people talk about literature, they say “the author is dead”, “the reader is dead”, etc. The other day, I went to the town hall for a seminar on history, and there was this young speaker who, at the end of his speech, concluded that history was dead.
‘So, if these people are right in thinking that, one by one, everything is dead, what will be left alive in this world? Just some random human beings, animals and plants existing without history or politics or art or literature? Does that mean there will be no difference between human beings and the rest of the world any more? I find myself unable to accept such a proposition. Even if everything else became untrue, won’t we, as human beings, retain the ability to feel the pain and pointlessness of our own lives? Or are we to believe that we’ve lost even that ability? Sometimes, when I think about other people – or even myself, for that matter – I feel that we may have lost this ability after all.’
14.
‘I noticed it just this morning,’ Krishna said secretly to herself as she stood at the bus stop, waiting for the CMT bus. ‘As I was leaving the house this morning, Vimalechi was collecting the laundry, and I noticed a long rip which had been clumsily stitched up at the back of her faded black blouse. It made me want to cry.
‘Achchan took care of the household expenses with whatever money he made from selling coconuts, pepper and cashew from our land. And I contribute a share of my salary. Dasettan never took on any responsibility other than buying clothes and things for Vimalechi and the children. Still, we managed. Until I saw my sister’s torn and patched-up blouse, I’d not thought that we weren’t well off or that we were, indeed, poor.
‘Dasettan has left Vimalechi and the children, and so they are now Achchan’s responsibility. I don’t have to depend on anyone, and neither should my sister and her children. I won’t be able to fulfil all their needs, but we could live together, trying to understand each other and sharing what we have. Perhaps then my sister and I will finally be able to love one another. It’s only when the unnecessary knots of life have withered away that love can truly blossom.’
15.
It was Gopan sir who introduced Gloria teacher to Krishna. She’d come to Chethana with her husband.
‘Have you met Gloria teacher?’
‘No…’ Krishna had never seen the woman before.
‘Teacher is now part of our community,’ Gopan sir told her with a laugh that shook his entire body. He introduced her, ‘This is Krishna.’
‘Where do you live?’
Krishna told her, noting the sweet rhythm of Gloria’s voice.
‘Oh, so we are neighbours! Do you know Nanu Vaidyar’s old house on the south end of the Poothakkavu? I’ve rented that place.’
Gopan sir told her that Gloria teacher ran a plant nursery. ‘She could find you any plant you could ever want,’ he said.
Krishna studied the woman who’d come to Theeyoor to sell plants. She had short bob-cut hair, a pretty round face, full lips red with lipstick, and thin eyebrows. She wore a single string of black beads around her neck, and a pair of oversized hoops in her ears. The purple sari and sleeveless blouse suited her fair skin. She became conscious that Gloria was examining her with an equally interested look. This made her uncomfortable.
‘Come home when you have some time. I’ve only been here a week and I’m bored already! I haven’t found anyone suitable to spend time with yet.’
As they talked, Jitesh walked in, gave them a look and went away. Later, it was he who told her all about Gloria teacher. She was the daughter of a school teacher named Peter in Chenkara. As a young girl, she had been a gifted singer and, when she was sixteen, she’d run away with a musician to Mangalapuram. He had some sort of work there. By the time he left her and moved on, she had found herself a job as a music teacher in a school. When that was over, she’d worked in a beauty parlour. At that time, she’d taken up with a mechanic. That relationship hadn’t lasted long either, and now she was with a third man. She had no children. Having returned to Chenkara around four or five years ago, she ran a beauty parlour from her house, before setting up the nursery business.
Gloria teacher was an unusual woman, Jitesh told Krishna. She was not scared of anyone, especially men. From the way he talked about her, it was clear that Jitesh considered Gloria to be a bad woman. Asha and Reshma were trying not to laugh out loud as he spoke.
The next day – a Sunday – Krishna woke up feeling a curious sense of dejection. Her mind was preoccupied with thoughts of Shantha, Dineshan and Divakaran; she dwelled on the fact that they had all left this world, and it made her sad. Faraway faces of others who had been her classmates in school and college came to her, and she wondered where they might be and what their lives would be like. She marvelled at the fact that, although she would have met thousands of people in her life, she knew about the lives of only a handful of them. Where were the rest of them? When did they disappear down the many lanes of life? She acknowledged the painful thought that, as far as she was concerned, the world was a very small place, and that she had only a handful of memories to call her own.
She sat frozen within these thoughts until afternoon. She had a late lunch. After her shower, as she did her laundry, she thought about Gloria teacher and decided to visit her. As she set out in her street clothes, unusual for a Sunday, Achchan asked her, ‘Where are you off to?’
‘Oh, not far. To visit a teacher.’
Beyond the dirt road, as she walked down the slope towards Poothakkavu, she saw two young men emerge out of the woods. ‘Drunkards,’ she said to herself, slightly afraid. She had heard talk that the Poothakkavu had become a hangout for such people lately.
