Diary of a Malayali Madman, page 3
I woke up hearing Babychayan’s footsteps. He pulled up a chair and sat next to the bed.
‘Georgootty, you failed your exams, didn’t you?’ he asked. ‘Ah, well, it’s not that big a deal. The Punnakkunnel dynasty is not going to end because of it.’ His voice was slack and imbued with the dry smell of moonshine.
‘Don’t you worry, Georgootty,’ he continued. ‘I am a candidate, and if I win, I will be a minister. You know, giving me this seat is a calculated move. Last time, Joseph won by just two thousand votes. He’s an outsider and, what’s more, he has not returned to this constituency even once after he won. Kunnan Jose pointed this out to him and he withdrew. And if I don’t step up, the others will take this seat. You know Philip – he is cunning and he is local.’
He looked me straight in the eye and said in a low voice, ‘We can guarantee my win, but I need your help.’
‘My help?’ I asked.
Babychayan laughed. ‘You know the Cholakkal folk. They are a big family, and between their daughters and in-laws and relatives and old people, they have over two thousand votes in this constituency – and we won’t lose a single one of them if you take an interest.’
‘You know Cholakkal Ouseppachan,’ he went on. ‘He has three daughters. Two of them are married. Those two have college degrees. But the third one, Lucy … She hasn’t been to college, but so what? She’s as smart as they come.’
Without giving me a chance to respond, he continued, ‘You must do me a favour, Georgootty. I gave my word to Ouseppachan. Go and see that girl. We can take care of the rest later. All we want now is to make them believe that we’re serious about this relationship. Let Pappachan know when you’re free. And take a couple of friends with you. You know I can’t make the time with this election looming. I have a million responsibilities. I am off to Kottayam first thing in the morning with Kunnan Jose.’
Now he was in a hurry. ‘Okay, so I can trust you to get this done, can’t I? Just go and see her, we can take care of the formalities later. I’ve talked to Ouseppachan already. Go there, see the girl, have a cup of coffee, a few minutes chitchat and come back. All right?’
18.
Babychayan lost the election.
After the results were announced, he didn’t leave the house for a couple of weeks. In the daytime, many people came to see him and pass the time analysing the results and blaming others. He would get rid of them somehow and sit brooding, until Kunnan Jose and his gang arrived in the evening, after which he would buck up. Then they would sit drinking and playing cards late into the night.
One day, early in the morning, Cholakkal Ouseppachan arrived. He had a gang of people with him. I was sitting in the front of the house, reading the newspaper. Babychayan was in the orchard, talking to the workers.
‘Is Baby home?’ Ouseppachan was in a serious mood. I nodded and was about to go and get him when he appeared.
‘I saw you come in. What’s up so early in the morning?’ Babychayan played it cool. Ouseppachan did not respond, but made a grunting noise.
‘You’re such a big shot, aren’t you?’ One of the men in Ouseppachan’s gang said. ‘We reckoned we might not get to see you if we didn’t come so early.’
Before he could finish, Ouseppachan intervened, ‘I guess I have to explain to you why we are here.’
‘You think you can trick us?’ asked a short young man. ‘You can pull out of the marriage proposal by spreading rumours about Ouseppachan’s daughter being pregnant. But don’t think you can swindle us out of the money you borrowed.’
Babychayan stood there with his head bowed, silent.
‘Where’s our money?’ The short man shouted and grabbed Babychayan by the collar. A scuffle ensued and, hearing the commotion, the workers in the orchard came running.
Ouseppachan gave him an ultimatum, ‘I’ll give you until tomorrow morning. Bring the money to my bungalow.’ He then turned to me and said, ‘Come down here if you have the guts. Your brother took two lakhs rupees from me, saying that you’ll marry my daughter.’
They left chattering among themselves. I didn’t pay attention. As if from a long way off, I heard the insipid sound of Anniechechi’s insincere tears.
19.
Finally I escaped. Or so I thought.
I reached a vast, tree-lined clearing. I lay down there, still and straight in the moonlight, with the lush greenery all around me. I was not afraid, not anxious, and my heart beat steadily in my chest. The tremor I had been feeling for the past several days vanished.
I’d left home in the stillness between the fading evening light and the moonrise, making sure Babychayan and Anniechechi did not see me leave. The screen of mist below the darkening sky provided me strength and protection along the country lanes.
For the next six or seven days, as Babychayan and his people searched for me, I lived in the forest. As they wandered in the forest looking for me, I sat on a precipice marvelling at the bottomless chasm below, provided company to a rock plantain standing lonely in the indifferent silence at the top of the forest, lost myself among the wild arrowroot and in the quiet pleasure of springs flowing down the rocks.
In the cold nights, magnificent old trees kept me company, as I sat among their branches pressing my body against their rough barks; they kept me warm even as I was soaked in the night dew. I listened to the sacred song of the sap coursing eternal through their veins. Slowly, the echo of the forest and the thousand strange noises eased away. Night became a lake. A peaceful lake asleep amidst the shade of bamboo clumps.
And in the morning, when the first light of a new day touched me, I swayed like a blade of grass, laughed out loud at a porcupine running noisily away, startled out of his hideout. I spent the day following the monkeys jumping from branch to branch, tracking the footprints of wild fowl through the undergrowth.
I gorged on ripe jackfruit and chewed tamarind leaves to get rid of their intense sweetness. Wild cherries, thechi fruit, koovalam – there was plenty to eat in between, as I walked for miles up steep rises, slopes and unexpected bends of forest lanes. There was no anxiety, no thoughts about the future, as my days passed within the seemingly eternal protection of the forest.
One afternoon, I swam like a minnow in the river warmed gently by creeping shards of sunlight. After my swim, I lay sunning myself, stark naked, on the rocks rising out of the water. I could smell the fragrance of some unknown flower in the breeze. The whisper of the leaves and the endless chirruping of the cicadas filled my ears. The weary murmur of a nearby stand of bamboo was almost dreamlike, as I slipped slowly into a slumber, sedated by the warm smell of the rocks as they baked in the sun.
I did not hear a noise or have an inkling of danger, yet I woke up abruptly and, with a sense of alarm, I opened my eyes. I saw Appayi clutching on the rocks, with his arm extended towards me. Babychayan and Pailychettan stood on the bank of the river and, next to them, Pappachan stared at me with a piece of dry wood in his hand.
I did not scream or try to run in a pointless attempt at escaping. When Appayi took my hand, I got up obediently and followed him across the now muddied water to where Babychayan stood waiting. I felt Pailychettan’s rough hand on my waist, as he tied the towel he had on his shoulder around me. And then, as if following an already laid plan, we fell into step behind Babychayan, who led us away and out of the forest.
20.
I am Georgekutty, son of Punnakkunnel Varki. I am twenty-two years old, although you might think I am older. I am taller than average, but that too might be an illusion as I am very thin. I look exhausted and dispirited, like a person with some disease of the liver. My protruding cheekbones give me the look of a poor person, but, if you pay attention to my walk and bearing, you will see that I am from a well-to-do family.
Like most people, I too am happenstance. My wishes or permission were immaterial to my being born, the basic structure and shape of my mind and body predestined. The changes I could make to them were miniscule. Then there are the circumstances in which I lived and grew up. These were also pre-selected and prepared, their strength and cruelty unspeakable.
Tomorrow morning, they will wake me up and take me to the city. I am not sure what will happen after that. I cannot even guess when I will be back. Perhaps, tonight, Georgekutty will cease to exist. Instead, there will be another person with the same name. I can imagine how he would look and the state of his mind: shaven head, puffy cheeks, overweight body, eyes shrouded by a constant mist of cheerlessness. He will sit peacefully in a corner, unable to see or hear anything real. Everyone will find his gloomy smile tiresome, and his uneasy presence will cloak the house like a sickness.
21.
It is through touch that I know myself. I stroke my own cheeks in an uncontrollable sense of longing. The softness of my hands presses against my throat, wanders across my hairless chest, sunken stomach, travels further down to my tired genitals. My fingers tremble as they discard them and reach for my emaciated thighs, my twig-like legs, and my feet with their visibly swollen veins.
I am Georgekutty. A long road to nowhere. A pointless pasture, green only on the inside. An endless repetition, like a bundle of used clothes.
When I ran away from home and lived in the forest for six or seven days, I wasn’t seeking new experiences or looking for some rare raw materials to build a new life. I was not even seeking an adventure. I went, like a migratory bird, following my basic instincts, looking only for food and water, warmth and coldness which made life possible. Perhaps it is incorrect to compare myself to a migratory bird, an attempt, through imagining wings, to elevate myself from my otherwise impoverished life. I must have known – desired even – that, before long, I would be caught and brought back to be treated differently, to be protected and, thus, freed from even the mundane expectations of ordinary life.
Georgekutty knew that he had no part in the injustices of this world, and yet he tried to interpret them, rationalized them even when they crushed him in their strong embrace. He found himself to be at fault, wallowed in the loneliness of this guilt, suffering, with a strange sense of responsibility, the meaningless thoughts that rose like bubbles.
His world was one devoid of velocity. He stood rooted in one place for years, not desiring to experience anything. All that happened in his life passed him by, touching him but not giving him the experience of being touched, like a breeze that passed through leaves without moving them or making them whisper.
Every day, he took stock, adding and subtracting, accurately calculating each of his faults. He believed, with great arrogance, that he knew how to correct them. He was careful and meticulous in his analysis of himself. The thoroughness of his self-criticism was a source of great pleasure for him, something that his soul celebrated.
Stillness coalesced above him like an ancient rock formation, and he, an insect, frolicked underneath its dark and dank pathways. It was not for freedom that his body and mind yearned, nor for the pleasures of those meanderings. He could, in fact, have shrugged off its hold if he wanted. Instead, he stayed, tasted the same fruits and leaves over and over again, relived the same fears that had once gnawed at his heart, endlessly pacing its passages.
22.
I am Georgekutty, Punnakkunnel Varki’s son George. I am superfluous, unwanted, an ugliness marring the surface of the earth.
I can’t get enough of myself. I can’t get enough of touching, feeling, knowing myself. I cannot bring myself to share my being.
I am an ancient turtle, eating and excreting the solitude under a gentle blanket of weeds in a dew-fed pond in the forest. I do not like sunlight or the warmth of the day. The footsteps that echo along the edge of the pond scare me.
I am hunger and nourishment. I cannot desire for anything more.
Inside the armour of silence, my words rise and fall repeatedly, strike a rhythm audible only to my ears. Like a lullaby, it enfolds me, and I doze only to wake up yearning to hear it again.
And now, finally, I am satiated. These repetitions, distasteful to you like the dance of threadworms, are coming to an end. I will do you a favour.
23.
He is crying. He is crying again.
No one sees him, no one hears him. No one, perhaps, even knows about him. Blinded by his yearning, he keeps on crying. His voice, unable to find purchase elsewhere, falls trembling into my ears, spreads like daylight over my eyes.
There is not much left of this night, and before it is gone, I will show him mercy. I will satisfy his desires. I will give him true love.
24.
The gun is still here. It is unlicensed and it belonged to Appachan. In its memory are the burning eyes of tigers, the ripped-up hood of a cobra, the countless cries that have shocked the forest.
I have known of it since my childhood, watched it fearfully from a safe distance. Today, for the first time in my life, I take it in my hand.
When he set out into the forest to search for me, Babychayan had brought this secret weapon with him. He had it with him when I walked into this room holding on to Appayi’s hand. He forgot to take it with him when he left after locking me up in this little room in the middle of the four bedrooms on the top floor. Perhaps he was exhausted after several days of wandering through the forest.
The gun usually sits in the space between the safe and the wall in Babychayan’s room. It is good that it has been misplaced for the first time. If not, how would I answer his cries? Protect his faith in me? What other secret weapon could I use to lead him towards eternal salvation?
Just before dawn, Pappachan woke up. He scrambled out of his bed, hearing the death cry of a wild goat. He looked around the yard and shone his torch among the trees. He was sure that the sound was quite close by. Even if the wounded animal had run away, there would be the sound of the hunters running after it, their whispers, but there was nothing. Everything remained quiet.
When he returned, disappointed, Baby and his wife were in the veranda. They too had been woken up by the death cry and had come outside to see what was going on.
As if to explain something, all three of them opened their mouths at the same time but stopped and stood looking at each other with their mouths still open. Then, persuaded by something uncanny, they walked inside and towards the staircase, as if in a trance. As they climbed the stairs, their feet treading softly on the steps, they heard the last grunts of a dying wild goat. Their nostrils filled with the hot smell of its ebbing life blood.
Kaattadu, 1987
tender coconut
1.
For the last twenty years, I have been a consulting psychologist at Dr Murukan’s clinic. In the beginning, it was just the two of us. I would never know how, almost two decades ago, he’d had the courage to open a psychiatric clinic in this hillside village. In those days, people did not look for psychiatric treatment in cases of madness. There would be times when a mad person was aggressive, and then he or she would be forcibly taken to the well-known psychiatric hospital in the city. Usually, however, mad people remained in the community, causing mild discomfort to themselves and others. The elders tolerated them – ‘poor thing is not right in the head,’ they’d say – while the youngsters looked for ways to have a bit of fun with them.
Dr Murukan opened his clinic in a two-storey building – two rooms on each floor, and a largish lean-to and a bathroom downstairs. He had bought the building from Chanthan Mooppan, who had an amputated arm and who is now dead. Mooppan had it built when he was flush with money from lease-farming black pepper and ginger and selling coconuts in Coorg. People used to call it ‘Stumpy’s mansion’. When I was young, I’d heard two different stories about how Chanthan Mooppan lost his left forearm. In one story, he’d lost it in a bus accident somewhere between Virajpetta and Moornadu, while in the other an altercation with a Kodava was the cause. I can still picture him, hurrying down the road to inspect his newly constructed building, the amputated end of his arm wrapped up in a cotton towel. Every day, at 9 a.m. sharp, just as I’d be waiting for my school bus. That was the only time he came to the market area, as far as I could tell.
In those days, there was barely anything to be called a market there – just a mud road for bullock carts, a shop that sold buttermilk to passers-by, and a kanji shop. People must have wondered whether Mooppan was right in his head to build a mansion in this back of beyond corner of the hills. By the time Mooppan passed on and Dr Murukan bought the building from his son Unnikkannan, times had changed and, along with it, our corner of the world. The mud road was tarmacked. A two-storey building replaced the buttermilk shop, with a coolbar below and Sujith Jyotsar’s astrology shop above. The thatched hut that was the kanji shop made way for Hotel Ruchi, and next to it there was a brand new bus shelter with the sign, ‘Kelanchira Stop’.
Where there once was barely any footfall, there was now substantial activity until late into the night – people waiting for the bus, a cacophony of vehicles, young people whiling away their time. Even then, when Dr Murukan hung the sign for the new clinic in front of Chanthan Mooppan’s building, people said, ‘A mad doctor to treat the mad! Would anyone in their right mind start such an enterprise here?’
I hadn’t shared that opinion, even at the beginning. There was a reason for it. I’d done an MA in psychology, a PG diploma in guidance and counselling and an MPhil in consulting psychology, and was beginning to think about starting my own practice at home. One morning, a couple of weeks after Dr Murukan opened his clinic, I went to see him. Exuding a self-confidence that I didn’t quite feel, I introduced myself to him and asked, ‘Could you accommodate me here, Doctor? Just think of it as a temporary arrangement until I gain some experience.’ The good doctor didn’t raise any objection; instead, he nurtured my fledgling self-confidence: ‘Yes. I was looking for someone like you. The patients who come here don’t really need any treatment. What they usually need is counselling.’
Dr Murukan’s fee in those days was twenty rupees. Admittedly a bit steep for that area, and even though there were some rumblings about it, no one raised any actual objections. The locals regarded Dr Murukan and me as not being of any particular use to them. Dr Murukan told me on the first day, ‘Vivek, you must also charge the same fees as me. Don’t make any concessions. The patients should not feel that the job you do is in any way inferior to what I do. So, charge twenty rupees for each session.’
