The Soul of Truth Read online

  SHAJI MADATHIL

  Translated by Dr Jessy Skaria

  BLOOMSBURY INDIA

  Bloomsbury Publishing India Pvt. Ltd

  Second Floor, LSC Building No. 4, DDA Complex, Pocket C – 6 & 7,

  Vasant Kunj, New Delhi 110070

  BLOOMSBURY, BLOOMSBURY PRIME and the Diana logo are trademarks of Bloomsbury Publishing Plc

  First published in 2019

  This edition published 2019

  Copyright © Shaji Madathil, 2019

  Shaji Madathil has asserted his rights under the Indian Copyright Act to be identified as the Author of this work

  All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or any information storage or retrieval system, without prior permission in writing from the publishers

  Bloomsbury Publishing Plc does not have any control over, or responsibility for, any third-party websites referred to or in this book. All internet addresses given in this book were correct at the time of going to press. The author and publisher regret any inconvenience caused if addresses have changed or sites have ceased to exist, but can accept no responsibility for any such changes

  ISBN: 978-93-88271-45-5

  Created by Manipal Digital Systems

  Cover Design: Ajayan ‘Layam’, Chandrapini, Thrissur, Kerala

  Illustrations: Shaji Madathil

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  Dedicated to my eldest brother,

  M. Manju Bash, everyone’s beloved Bashattan,

  and the inspiration behind this English translation.

  May his soul rejoice in the fulfillment of his dreams.

  “End? No, the journey doesn’t end here.

  Death is just another path, one that we all must take.

  The grey rain-curtain of this world rolls back,

  and all turns to silver glass, and then you see it.”

  —J.R.R. Tolkien

  CONTENTS

  The First Night

  The Second Night

  The Third Night

  The Fourth Night

  The Fifth Night

  The Sixth Night

  The Seventh Night

  The Eighth Night

  The Ninth Night

  The Tenth Night

  The Eleventh Night

  The Twelfth Night

  The Thirteenth Night

  The Fourteenth Night

  The Fifteenth Night

  The Sixteenth Night

  The Seventeenth Night

  The Eighteenth Night

  The Nineteenth Night

  The Twentieth Night

  The Twenty-First Night

  The Twenty-Second Night

  The Twenty-Third Night

  The Twenty-Fourth Night

  The Twenty-Fifth Night

  The Twenty-Sixth Night

  The Twenty-Seventh Night

  The Twenty-Eighth Night

  The Twenty-Ninth Night

  The Thirtieth Night

  The Thirty-First Night

  The Thirty-Second Night

  The Thirty-Third night

  The Thirty-Fourth Night

  The Thirty-Fifth Night

  The Thirty-Sixth Night

  The Thirty-Seventh Night

  The Thirty-Eighth Night

  The Thirty-Ninth Night

  The Fortieth Night

  The Forty-First Night

  In Memoriam

  Glossary

  Acknowledgements

  Uthaman (39) passed away in Bahrain following a cardiac arrest.

  The funeral will be held at home in Choornikkara, Kerala.

  Deeply mourned by loving family and friends.

  The First Night

  It’s 11:30 pm in Bahrain.

  The obituary that you just read will appear in tomorrow’s papers. It is mine. I, Uthaman, am dead. A few hours ago, my heart abruptly gave up—exhausted perhaps with the incessant lub-dub as it paced in its cage for the thirty-nine years of my eventful life.

  A life full of dreams and hopes, in search of perfection. Yes, that is what the world called me—Uthaman, The Perfect One.

  Dead, but not gone. You could say I am now on parole— allowed forty-one more nights on this earth. Forty-one nights to be with the body from which I have just been released. Kindly stay with me as I embark on these final hours.

  How beautifully does the Bhagavad Gita speak of the immortality of the soul:

  “Never the spirit was born; the spirit shall cease to be never;

  Never was the time, it was not; End and Beginning are dreams!

  Birthless and deathless and changeless remaineth the spirit forever;

  Death hath not touched it at all, dead though the house of it seems.”

  Here I am, a wraith, watching over my cold, still body in the mortuary of King Hamad Hospital in Bahrain. I am at peace. The frantic activity of a few hours back, when everyone tried hard to restrain me in my body, seems a distant memory now. Everything is still in this morgue. A cold, frozen stillness that seems eternal...

  But I feel the tugs. I relive my memories—in my barren emptiness, the fallen leaves of my remembrances may nourish a future generation.

  I hear the laments from far off...my family...my wife Radhika... soulful wails of pain and separation from my beloved village. As life slips away, rushing through the Vaitarani, that whirlpool of despair, the soul screams in silent anguish.

  Echoing cries.

  Thirty-nine years back, I had come forth from painful cries of separation. Let me take you there, to Choornikkara, my village, my first love…

  It is impossible not to fall in love with my village. Nestled on the banks of the undulating Periyar river and bordered by majestic blue mountains, its lush green fields warmly embrace wide open skies. The white sand banks of the river glisten like gold in the bright sunlight. There is a railway bridge over the river, the speeding trains a fixture in our lives. This was my heaven for many, many years. The long and short days of my childhood and youth were spent in this place of love. Scratch the surface of the sand, and you might still find some of my long-forgotten footprints.

  My home was at the edge of the fields. You walk along the mud path through the field to get to the white two-storey house, standing proud amongst swaying coconut palms. You could see it from far off, always a welcome sight. The open windows invited the sweet-smelling breeze blowing from the fields. We never needed fans; even at the height of summer, the soft breeze kept the rooms cool and soothing.

  My mother had her room downstairs, towards the back of the house. That is where I was born, I’m told—on a night when moonlight flooded the earth, and the stars twinkled in wide-eyed expectation. The air was quiet and still, except for the occasional tweet from a nightingale. Nature seemed to be holding its breath, awaiting my arrival. Lanterns dimmed in the faraway houses.

  It was nearly midnight.

  My father was pacing the courtyard for hours, anxiously repeating prayers and shlokas. He was a firm believer in God and karma, and knew he was about to be tested: a healthy heir would be the answer to his prayers and a testament to his good life. “Dear God, in your hands.”

  The midnight train passed over the bridge with a long whistle, and my first cry pierced the stillness that followed. Disturbed, the nightingale fled. My father’s face broke into
a smile, anxious to see his offspring, as Paaruamma emerged with a wriggling cloth-covered bundle. A boy—born under the star of Bharani in the Kumbha month. They say my father was suddenly petrified by my smallness and sheepishly declined as Paaruamma held me out for him to hold. An ardent student of astrology, perhaps his thoughts had already turned to the celestial calculations of my future. Nevertheless, my head of curly black hair and the little black mole at the side of my mouth, just like mother’s, endeared me to him very much. He felt an indescribable joy rising in him.

  Later, I was laid snug against my mother. A sliver of moonlight came in through a gap in the curtains and kissed me on the cheek.

  That silent night. My first day on this earth. With the smell of dreams and the stench of nightmares—always together, never apart. The harvested fields were bathed in moonlight, with the intoxicating perfume of mango blooms wafting in the air. Those far off, forgotten memories exhilarate me. Spirits must have glided about even on that night, clutching their castoff shells. Dead, yet drawn in by a new life.

  I remember those deep conversations about life and death I used to have with Manu master—my friend and spiritual guru— at our favourite haunt, the golden sandbanks of the Periyar.

  Manu master, a man haunted by disasters, and yet, never without a smile for others. He was my pillar of strength during those days of darkness when I was jobless and penniless. I was the younger one, and yet, here I am today: a cold, still body in an alien morgue, a helpless soul with unfulfilled desires.

  My body. I had taken such good care of it. Washed it twice a day, kept it honed and shiny. My heart—the centre of my being—is now just a piece of dead flesh. Tossed about with disparate emotions, it had pulsed with the heights of happiness and the depths of despair. My loyal companion, from the time I was just a bundle of cells in my mother’s womb, that never rested even when I did, it finally took a permanent leave of absence when I least expected it. It was my fault though as with all my most precious possessions, I had taken my heart too much for granted.

  But my face looks the same. I look as though I am sleeping. Or do I? How did I look when I slept? I realise I have no idea. I had never looked at a mirror while asleep. And nobody ever took a picture of me in a slumber. I feel a small smile coming on—do souls smile? Well, I suppose, my face looks as I imagine how it did when I slept. Except for the two tear tracks down the cheeks—the last remnants of the pain I had endured in my tortured struggle to keep body and soul together.

  What about my mind? All my thoughts of thirty-nine years? A thousand dreams, a million memories? How can they suddenly turn into nothing? No, they are here. With me. In Uthaman’s soul. My thoughts still ebb and flow. A river ran through Uthaman’s life; still waters with hidden currents. His dreams were tinged with the glow of dawn and the gloom of dusk.

  Will I leave anything of myself in this world? Halfway into the journey, my dreams lie in ruins. At life’s final count, all I have around me are a few muted sighs and a bare epitaph... What seemed so alive, so important, in no time turns into a void. The silent loss of many a wasted summer. Do we put off cherishing all that is precious till the last moment, only to realise we are never to enjoy them? Is everything a mirage? Haunting questions that define my death.

  My death. . . .

  Tucked away in one of the inside pages of the newspaper, most readers will pass over the obituary. People who know me might take the time to read the details, sigh over the death of a young man and turn the page. For the living, life is a continuum. But for me, it has reached a dead end. No turning back now.

  Does death come calling out of the blue? Manu master had once said, “Uthaman, life is a journey. We might take different paths, but all of us travel towards that same, ultimate destination—death.” A journey. That interval between one breath and the next. With each step, wasn’t I dying, a little at a time, from the moment I was born? From the crib to the morgue, isn’t death our one constant companion? The silent shadow? Always with us—in joy and in despair, in sleep and in wakefulness, in health and in illness, a soft presence, an inaudible whisper: “I am here with you.”

  “Who is the new one?”

  “How did he die?”

  “Where is he going?”

  The mortuary staff always talk in hushed tones. Poor souls! Condemned to a life with the dead. Do they feel the cold? Do they dream in colour, or is there always this frozen smog overshadowing their hopes? I hope they leave the dead behind when they walk out into the bright sunlight after work. A few good men. With so little appreciation for the services they render.

  This mortuary has fifty cubicles. Most of them are occupied— the cubbyholes of death. The groans of the souls hanging around their bodies permeate the air around me, though none of the living seems to sense anything. The smell of incense is overpowering, striving to hold off the stench of the dead. The deep, constant hum of the freezer sounds like a death rattle. The mortuary workers are always busy. It is their job to arrange for the dispatch of the bodies to their places of final rest. Unclaimed bodies are sent to the nearby public cemetery to be buried according to local customs.

  The souls wait to accompany their bodies, a last journey together, yet not together. Like a bird set out of its cage, but unlike the freed bird, yearning to be caged once more. I hope my papers will be ready soon—they will ensure my speedy return to the land of my ancestors.

  My last moments . . . I remember the crushing chest pain that came over so suddenly at work this afternoon, a searing blow that had me crumpled and doubled up on the floor. The running footsteps, the anguished calls of my colleagues, the many hands trying to support me.

  I had been feeling stressed lately. But then, I had always worried about the smallest of things.

  I could feel something draining out of me—was it life or was it sweat? Did I see my father and mother? Didn’t their soft hands try to pull me up, their sad smiles urging me to try harder? And then blackness—intense pain and blackness. Lightning flashed in my brain. So many shadows. Were my ancestors standing watch?

  I was floating through an empty landscape, weightless in the dark, and yet, moving with some purpose. I saw the yawning mouth of a cavern. Did I crawl into it? The floor was slimy with writhing, twisting unknowns. Were they many-headed serpents? I was frightened, but I kept going. The darkness was overpowering. How much longer? Suddenly, there it was. A glow—swirling green flames. Then, just as quickly, it was dark again. The silence was suffocating; the cave was closing in. Terrified, I turned and rapidly crawled back.

  Now there was light at the mouth of the cavern—a soothing, cool radiance.

  In that light, I saw Uthaman, my body, inert on a gurney. And I, the life that had sustained him, hovered over him.

  I was surrounded by people—doctors, nurses, my best friend Haneef. There was much activity around my still body: a doctor pounding on my chest, a nurse blowing into my nose. Prolonged, sustained efforts and, then, helpless glances at each other. Uthaman, the man, lay still. Because, I—Uthaman, the soul—had left that body. I saw the doctor give an imperceptible shake of his head and press sympathetically on the bewildered Haneef’s shoulder.

  The moment I was officially dead.

  Suddenly, I rise up in the air—a shimmering streak of silver, twisting and turning. I speed upwards. I can see shadowy figures in front of me. I am in the company of other souls departing their bodies.

  This is our world, the magical realm of swirling colours and utter silence. Vivid colours—green, red, blue, silver—bursting into brilliant flames. How am I seeing these? Do I have eyes? Disembodied, how are my senses so acute? Before I can deliberate, the other souls are sucked into the flames. The fire engulfs them.

  I am left alone in front of a tunnel. I can catch glimpses of the world on the other side, with Vaitarani, the river of death, crossing it. A great boat comes riding the waves, with a gigantic, dark, shrouded boatman, and I see my companion spirits in the boat, on their final journey.

&nb
sp; I want to join them, but I cannot. It’s not my time yet. I feel a force pushing me back to earth, to be with my body for another forty-one days, to partake in the final rituals, to make sure my abode of thirty-nine years is laid to rest with all due rites and ceremonies, that nothing is left to chance. This much was divined from the beginning; this is beyond the comprehension of mere mortals.

  The body is frozen solid. Deathly pale. An empty nest.

  That final piercing chest pain!

  That was certainly not the first time I had similar pains.

  “Your body and heart are weak. You need complete rest,” Dr Rasheed had advised me firmly the last two occasions I visited him at the King Hamad Hospital. He even hinted it might be best if I went back home to my family.

  But I didn’t take him seriously. Or rather, I chose to ignore him. How could I return? When a whole family depended on me. My Radhika, dreaming of a beautiful future—keenly awaiting my phone calls, and the day she and Vishnu, our son, could join me in Bahrain.

  Oppol, my widowed elder sister, and her two young daughters.

  “Appu Uncle, next time, could you bring me a box full of chocolates? The ones with the bright wrappers.” That was Shalu, my older niece, during my last trip home. “I would very much like a nice smelling perfume in a beautiful bottle.” Malu, the more lady-like younger one had chirped in.

  Instead, by now, they must know there will be no more chocolates or perfumes from me. That bitter, tear-stained truth must be all around them—pervasive as incense.

  My younger sister, Sumathy, daydreaming of marriage and starting her own family.

  Deepu, my dearest little brother.

  Who will take care of them now? Who will give them the courage and strength to go through life? Here I am, the man of the house, their strength, lying cold and numb, awaiting my final six feet of earth.

  The death of dreams and the sighs of the broken-hearted envelop my home today.

  I could feel the presence of my ancestors in the past few days, even in my sleep. They were talking to me, urging me— about what I couldn’t be sure. But I had woken up many a time, baffled by weird nightmares and drenched in sweat. I had wondered if I had committed sins grave enough to bring on the wrath of my ancestors.