The Soul of Truth Page 6

  Everyone moves into the house. I can see Deepu, sitting up in his room, swollen eyes fixed on the final resting place of his beloved brother. Radhika, Oppol and Sumathy are lying on the beds, drained of all energy and emotions; Vishnu, is cuddled up against his mother, sleeping.

  The rumble of approaching rain is heard. Light is seeping into the grey dawn. The man, Uthaman, will never again feel the rain or see the light. The death that had claimed the body of Uthaman six days back in the far-off land of Bahrain is now sealed forever in darkness, under his beloved tree, in his own yard. And I am here among the branches of the tree, formless, helpless, with more nights to endure and contemplate and more days to be spent in the grave with my body. The light is getting stronger, signalling it is time for me to disappear into the depths of my grave.

  The Seventh Night

  The smell of damp earth rises from my grave. Flowers left on the mound have already wilted. Scattered remains of the rituals from the day give scant indication of a life laid to rest forever under that heap of mud.

  My grave has been dug under my favourite anjili tree. Oppol and Radhika must have insisted to make my final resting place under that sprawling tree which I loved like a grandfather.

  Moisture seeping through the soil accelerates the decay of my body. Innocuous germs that had happily coexisted on my living body are now eating me up with a vicious delight. The little helpers from the soil have joined in, and my body is under attack from an army of bugs. Slowly at first, and then faster and faster I am disintegrating, becoming one with the soil.

  From the soil, back to the soil. The ultimate fate of all living things. From the tiniest worm to the mightiest man. Regardless of whether you were a king or a pauper, an astronaut who walked in outer space and gleaned the secrets of the universe or a complete ignoramus, you are ultimately at the mercy of these smallest living things.

  My body, my most prized possession, that I had always cleaned and bathed and clothed and displayed so proudly is now a frightening mass of decaying flesh. I feel dizzy. Are my memories fading with my body?

  Deepu’s window faces my grave. I can see him still sitting up, leaning on pillows and staring at the mound that now holds his elder brother. Tears keep falling from his eyes and heartwrenching sighs seep into the wet air.

  The rain does not show any signs of abating. Radhika had detailed in her letters about the unrelenting rains of the past two months, and how it was causing untold suffering. Crops destroyed. Homes lost. Prices shooting up. People going hungry. The government, a charade, continuing with its pretense of helping people. The poor suffered while the rich carried on with their cozy lives.

  Deepu has fallen asleep. Poor child! He must be so tired. The nightmares will wake him soon enough into a reality that is worse than his worst nightmare. It is the same with everyone in the family, except, maybe Vishnu.

  It is only one month since Onam. The festival of Kerala. The festival of happiness. The festival of prosperity.

  Onam was Deepu’s favourite time of the year. Being the youngest, he took upon himself the responsibility of making our celebrations the best in the neighbourhood. The yard would be full of flowers—beautiful wildflowers that added to the blooms from our own plants to create a riot of colours, uplifting everyone’s spirits.

  Right on the first day of the Onam holidays, he would start pestering me. “Appuetta, when will you put up the swing?” Just to make him beg more, I would pretend to be too busy. But by the end of the day, the swing would be dancing from the branches of the tree in front of the house, and Deepu would be shrieking with joy, swinging high into the sky.

  My little brother. I loved him to bits. He was the joy of our home. Everyone’s pet. So clever too. Always at the top of his class.

  And now? Just the sight of his helpless body confined to bed has killed me a thousand times over. What must he feel, when Onam comes every year? How he must miss the old days...

  From the first day of the Onam season—Atham—Deepu would be busy picking flowers to make the athapookalam, the traditional floral decoration that is the hallmark of Onam celebration. His should be the best. It should be perfect. It was a matter of pride for him. He waged continuous battles with the wind that blew away the petals. He would arrange and rearrange them tirelessly throughout the day. In between, he would wander around to pick new flowers and try out the swing. He would also slyly check out the competition—athapookalams of the neighbouring homes—to make sure that they were not better than his. He was very particular about that.

  Sometimes other kids sneaked into our yard to steal the flowers, but Deepu was too quick for them. He used to yell and chase them away like a warrior prince.

  Amma was always worried about his wanderings and his knack for seeking out trouble. She kept calling out his name, making sure he was still around and not up to any mischief. And when she couldn’t find him, she would turn to me. “Appu, where is Deepu? Ask him to get back here. Where is that boy? Must be climbing into all kinds of thickets and trees. What if he breaks a leg?”

  By then Deepu would be back with his characteristic grin. When Amma came out still muttering angrily, she would find him peacefully taking a nap on the verandah or in her room. His ability to bring a smile to anyone’s face was ingenuous.

  Early in the morning, Amma would open wide all the windows of the house.

  “Let some fresh air and sunlight come into the rooms. Otherwise, it smells musty and is unhealthy for the family.” Amma was a great believer in the healing powers of nature. Amma’s bright and airy room was Deepu’s favourite place to have afternoon naps.

  Achen took such good care of the yard that we usually got all the vegetables and fruits we needed from our own garden. During Onam, we would have plenty of beans, okra, eggplants, pumpkins and all other varieties of vegetables needed for the sumptuous sadya.

  In one corner of the yard, we had a tall, slender, drumstick tree. Once it had so many long drumsticks that the poor tree broke under its own weight! Now, there is just a dried-up stump in its place.

  The plantains would ripen just in time to make scrumptious chips for Onam. Amma fried the chips in a big vessel in the courtyard. The freshly fried chips would then be spread on old newspapers to absorb the excess oil. If Deepu was anywhere near, Achen would ask Sumathy to keep a close eye on the chips to make sure the boy wouldn’t devour them all.

  On one such occasion, Achen suddenly turned to me and said, “Appu, watch carefully how this is done. If I am not around for the next Onam, you will have to do all this by yourself.” Though he said this with a smile, it froze my insides. Why utter such an inauspicious thing? I couldn’t think of a life without Achen.

  It was such a shock when his words proved true. Within a few months, Achen passed away suddenly, plunging our house into darkness. Rudderless, directionless, we stumbled along as if we had lost all control over our lives. How difficult it was for the family to get back to a semblance of normality. I still remember Deepu voicing his hope that Achen would return with Maveli in the coming Onam.

  It took another year before we started celebrating Onam again.

  Deepu once again took his athapookalam responsibilities with gusto and swung high into the air on his swing. Amma, Oppol and Sumathy got busy in the kitchen. I matured into Achen’s shoes, never a good fit, just a passable stand-in. The impossible paradoxes of life and death… The constant reminders that each one of us is unique and yet not indispensable.

  Our yard had been neglected since Achen’s passing. Nobody in the family was interested in the arduous job of growing and taking care of vegetables. Hired labour was too expensive, and we couldn’t afford it. Weeds took over Achen’s beautiful garden.

  There were not many flowers in our yard even during Onam. So Deepu and I went about exploring the countryside for them. Deepu carried a big basket to collect the flowers, and he would return only when it was full. In that quest, he would climb any hill, drag himself into any thicket, walk any number of miles. It
was hard to keep up with his enthusiasm. He was such a keen-eyed explorer that no flowers escaped his scrutiny.

  “Appuetta, look, Yellow Trumpets!” Within seconds, the Yellow Trumpets would be tucked in his basket.

  Yes, Onam is very special. For all Malayalis, and especially the younger ones. A reliving of the innocence—the unbridled happiness and unspent energy of childhood. Our Deepu was a true mascot for all that was special about Onam. I always longed for a return to my younger self when I was with Deepu those days. In a way, I did return to my own childhood every Onam season.

  Till that fateful year, when an ill-timed dive into the temple pond stilled my Deepu’s life forever. Turned him into a living corpse.

  He is watching my grave with tired eyes.

  The wind is wailing.

  The backyard of the neighbouring house is well lit. The water in the puddles ripple like liquid gold in that light.

  The paper boats that Vishnu had floated in the rainwater yesterday, lie soaked and formless in their watery grave.

  Suddenly, I feel their presence—nebulous figures watching from the rooftop. My ancestors. Waiting patiently to help and accompany me to their world. I am strangely comforted by their presence. In death as in life, companionship is such a solace.

  My thoughts race back again to my childhood.

  The time before mobile phones.

  The time before supermarkets.

  The time of broken slates and dog-eared books.

  The time of playgrounds and sweaty clothes and shady trees.

  The time of paper boats sailing in the rainwater.

  The time of innocence.

  Those childhood moments are some of the favourite memories from my short life. The shining golden nuggets in my murky thoughts.

  All those are lost now.

  Man has lost touch with his roots. He is busy searching for a better life. A comfortable life. White-collar jobs. There is no interest left in traditional jobs and skills. Even the umbilical connection to one’s mother tongue is now severed.

  Has man forgotten the basic rule of life?

  That we are slaves of our own karma?

  That we can escape the chains of life and death only by attaining nirvana?

  God is synonymous with logic. His creation, the world, is based on logic and good sense.

  India has contributed so much to the world at large, spiritually and materially. The coming generations of the country should continue with that generosity.

  We talk about tolerance. It is time we talked about love.

  Universal love. Universal equality.

  The equality of man and woman.

  How else can we consider ourselves civilised? How else can love be nurtured?

  As Gandhi had said, our earth has enough for everyone’s need but not for everyone’s greed.

  Share. Find the joy in sharing.

  The darkness starts to fade. My night is ending. It is time to forget.

  The rain has cooled the earth, but I am beyond all comforts and discomforts. The stains of my past have been shed with my body, but I can attain purity only with the help of the prayers of my ancestors. They will help and guide me. Of that, I feel confident.

  The wind mocks me and chases after the disappearing night.

  I send up a prayer to my ancestors. In your hands, I rest myself.

  The Eighth Night

  The fading dusk glows like a blushing bride before being embraced by the grey-black night—a drama that unfolds every night and reverses every morn. Seen by all, understood by none.

  The darkness rises up in the sky like a monster, carrying me in its deep womb.

  Falling blooms keep decorating and redecorating my grave. Dry leaves rattle in the wind.

  Silence. Absolute silence.

  There is a silence inside the grave too. That won’t be the case in the coming days when maggots will start feasting on my body. The weight of the soil pushes my body deeper into the ground. One with the elements.

  The tumultuous multitude of emotions that lived through me—love, hate, grief, joy, jealousy, empathy. What happens to all of these? Are they decaying with my body or were they released before it was interred? Are they living on in new recipients? Or do our feelings simply add to the positive and negative energies of this universe?

  This, after all, is the final battleground where the victorious man surrenders without condition to the smallest organisms in the world. The paradox causes the flowers to smile in triumph. The plants will be receiving a part of that body too. But soon, very soon, these flowers also would join me, in the soil, and together we will fertilise this earth better.

  The wind swirls in. I can feel an unnatural chill. Suddenly I see a green light. I hear a disembodied voice saying, “On the forty-first day, your wheels will roll again. Till then you belong to this place.”

  Before I can understand what is happening, I see eerie shapes. They look demented, grumbling and gnashing their teeth. I feel heavy and suffocated. I look around for my ancestors, but they cannot be found. The green light flares and then dims and floats away, the evil spirits along with it.

  I am disturbed. What is the meaning of this? Why am I being surrounded by evil spirits? Was there a fault with the rituals?

  The moments drag on in silence. Thirty-three more nights. After that, what?

  Sounds of laughter come from inside the house. Vishnu! He fills the home with his energetic presence. Always on the move. The house resonates with his sounds, laughing, crying, a constant uninterrupted chatter.

  Vishnu is rambunctious. Even while eating, he runs off to play in between mouthfuls. Only sleep seems to be able to still him. Radhika has a full-time job, just taking care of him. But he means the world to her and being with him gives her the most happiness.

  Poor baby. He deserves nothing but love. Love from all, especially his father and mother. And now he has been denied his father’s love forever. For him, I am more myth than reality. I had hoped to change that once I returned from the Gulf for good and settled with the family. Alas, now, I will always remain a myth to him. He seems to remember me from the few days I spent with him the last time I was home. But he was only a baby then. His memories of the toys I brought him are probably more vivid than the image of me. He loved those toys, constantly playing with them. But such is his boisterousness that most of them are now in pieces. Even so, it is very satisfying to see him running around with my last gifts clutched in his tiny hands.

  Oppol’s two daughters are always with him. They are older and know the gravity of the situation. Their voices are muted, with worried glances at the elders. They seem relieved that Vishnu is there to give them an excuse to laugh, when laughter seems like a crime in this house of bereavement.

  Malu and Shalu love Vishnu like a baby brother and take such good care of him. It is a huge help to Radhika that they engage his attentions for a good chunk of the time. Sometimes he is naughty with them as well, quarreling and pinching them. Or he will grab their toys. I almost laughed to see how well my nieces had taken care of the gifts I had given them in contrast to how Vishnu had run roughshod with his.

  A few weeks back, he had pushed a small glass marble up his nostril, and Radhika had to rush him to the hospital to have it removed. She sounded so scared even when she was recounting the details over the phone. My heart had missed a beat when I heard about it. From so far away, I could only repeat stale platitudes and my usual words of caution to Radhika, “Never let him out of your sight, Radhika.” And that always started Radhika off on her own list of woes. “How much do you think I can manage on my own, Appuetta? How can I always supervise him when Oppol and I have to do all the housework and also take care of Deepu and Malu and Shalu? How I wish you were here with us. It would have been so much easier to manage everything together. Come back, Appuetta. Please.” The love that masqueraded as complaints would break my heart. But both of us knew that the money was too good to be walked away from. We would always end the conversation with,
“Soon, very soon we will be together.” Never to be…

  When my body was moved out of the casket and laid on the plantain leaves on the floor, Vishnu had stopped mid-play and looked curiously at my dead face. He had then gone up to Radhika, asking, “Amma, why is Achen lying on the floor?” Radhika had burst out crying and held him in a tight hug, and when he opened his mouth to ask more questions, she had cupped her hand over his mouth, gently admonishing him.

  Later, when he was brought to the grave to take part in the rituals, he had again glimpsed my body laid out on the leaves inside the hole. And when the helpers started putting soil on my body, he involuntarily cried out, “Ayyo, Achen…” This time it was Sumathy who clapped her hand over his mouth and shook her head at him to make him stop. But I could see his little lips trembling with unasked questions.

  After the rituals, while floating paper boats in the rainwater with Shalu and Malu, he suddenly asked them, “Where is my Achen?” They looked uneasy. Malu, the younger one, answered in a whisper, “Mon, your Achen died.”

  Shalu threw an angry glance at Malu and pinched her viciously. “Why did you say that? Didn’t Amma tell us not to say anything to Vishnu?” Malu looked mortified and started to cry.

  But Vishnu persisted. “What do you mean ‘died’?”

  Shalu tried her best to save the situation. “Mon, it means your Achen is now in heaven with God, up in the sky.”

  Vishnu looked at them doubtfully. He suddenly pulled Shalu by her hand and took her to the tree under which I was buried. “But I saw Achen in here.”

  “Yes, he was there. Then he went up to heaven.” Shalu explained, convincingly enough.

  “When will he come back?”

  “He will come back as a star in the sky.”

  “Achen is now a star?” His eyes widened with surprise and happiness. He liked that.

  “Yes.”

  “Will you point him out to me, Shalu chechi?” he begged.

  “I will.” Shalu was happy at having salvaged a difficult situation.