The Soul of Truth Read online

  Vishnu was brought to the grave by Sumathy, all cold and shivering from his bath, dressed only in a small wet towel around his waist. The priest gave instructions for him to make offerings of rice balls with sesame, flowers and sandal paste. This had to be done just right, to please the ancestors, my guides into the next world.

  Radhika stood to the side, watching with tired eyes. Gaunt and grief-stricken—the past few days had not been kind to her. The Radhika I knew was so alive, so full of life. Now, even her eyes look dead, with large dark circles around them. My dearest, I know how terribly you suffer. To become a widow at such a young age. Who can bear it? And to have the added responsibilities of my family too. May God Almighty give you the strength and courage to face all odds, may He bless you with a long and good life. What else can this helpless soul do other than pray for you?

  She too was praying for me. Through our son, she was lighting a lamp to brighten my path in the unknown journey. “My dearest husband, I send you all the good wishes I can summon to help you in your onward journey. Even if not together in body, please know that my love and spirit will always be with you. Let nothing evil ever befall your spirit.”

  The ancestors were waiting as crows among the branches. I wish I too could become a crow and partake of the offering made by my son. But no, it was not to be so. I would have to wait another year for that. That could only happen on the next annual remembrance day of the dead.

  The ancestors accept the offering only if the person who observes the rites is pure in thoughts and deeds and performs the rituals without any mistakes. Small errors by Vishnu will be forgiven since he is a child. Even so, Sumathy and Sreedharan priest were very careful to make him understand the gravity of what he was doing; my little son tried to perform everything according to tradition.

  It is my good fortune that I have a son to perform the rites for me. When the ancestors accept the offering, it clears my path to salvation. Every year, on specific amavasis, new moon days, these rites for the dead are done by the heirs, usually on riverbanks. The banks of Periyar receives huge crowds on such days. The observer takes a dip in the river first and then completes the rites under the guidance of priests, to please and protect the ancestors.

  Right now, I am destined just to watch from these branches.

  I can see the river in the distance. The rains have swelled the waters. Flooding was common in the old days. Now, the dams help to control it to a large extent.

  I have heard of one particularly bad flood during my mother’s childhood when the waters had rushed into the house and caused untold destruction.

  The weather in our part of the world is never mild. The summers are sweltering hot. Achen used to put a temporary awning in front of the house to keep the interiors cool. He loved to rest under that shade on his recliner. Everyday, after lunch, he retired to his chair with his favourite books. He loved reading and passed on that love to me too. He used to read out loud his favourite Malayalam poems, and it was a treat listening to him. Amma and Oppol too loved books and stories. Small wonder that I grew up loving books and wanting to explore the world of Malayalam literature.

  The frogs croaked. The music of rainy nights.

  Shalu and Malu are out on the verandah, revising their lessons. Oppol is watching them. My Oppol. She used to be such a beauty—tall, fair and gracious. Now she looks so gaunt and frail. Her hair is almost completely gray. When did she get so old? It is not just age; it is a reflection of all the hardships she had to endure.

  I have heard that she had once fallen in love when she was young but had to forego it when my parents forbade her. Poor Oppol. Had she been stubborn then and stayed true to her love would she have been a widow now? Well, what right do I have to judge her? I, who callously threw away my own love?

  Oppol was more like a second mother to me. In my childhood, she used to get me ready for school. Every morning she would give me a bath. During the rainy season, I used to have a bath in hot water. Oppol would fill a big aluminum pot with water from the well and heat it up in the courtyard. Amma would keep an eye on it and when the water was the right temperature, would call out, “Usha, wake up Appu and give him the bath. It is almost time for school. Kanakam will be here soon.” Kanakam was the daughter of our neighbour who went to my school and graciously offered to accompany me everyday.

  “Coming, Amma.” Oppol would hurry from the kitchen where she would have been busy preparing breakfast and come rushing into my room, calling out to me to wake me up. I would wait for her to put the herbal oil into my hair and then took the bath. She even dried me with a rough towel. When I got older, I was a bit embarrassed to let her see me naked and always stood with my back to her.

  In summers, I had my bath in the pool behind the house. We had to walk the whole length of the yard to reach the pool. I would walk in front, wrapped in my towel. Oppol would be behind me, carrying the bar of soap and a scrubber. I hated that scrubber; it left my skin raw. Amma insisted on it, but Oppol was kind enough to be gentle with it when I protested. She was always so kind.

  After lathering the soap all over, I would dip into the water. Ooh, that first dip. It was always so cold. I would gasp in shock but soon the water would refresh me like nothing else can. And I would keep dipping and watching the ripples spreading away from me. Then Oppol would hurry me. “Appu, come out now. Kanakam will be here soon. Don’t you want breakfast? It is nice, crispy dosa and chutney.”

  I love dosa and idli. Sometimes we had puttu and kadala curry. I liked that too. But I hated upma.

  By the time I finished breakfast, Kanakam Chechi would be there, and I would walk to school, holding her hand. “My handsome boy,” Amma would say everyday, with a smile, when I stood ready in my uniform of green shorts and black checkered yellow shirt, with my hair all slicked back and face polished with Cuticura powder.

  The school was close enough for us to hear the bell from our home. We could also hear the morning prayers and the national anthem. Every morning we had an assembly. The students had to stand in rows. Some kids occasionally fainted from the heat and humidity. Then the teachers would carry them inside and let them rest on benches.

  The headmistress, Ms Philomina, was from Thrissur and had a sing-song accent, which we all loved to hear and imitate. The school was attached to a nunnery, and most of the teachers were nuns. I can still remember most of my teachers. My first exploration into the world of letters and numbers happened in that school. Exciting and, sometimes, a bit daunting. It was an elementary school, and I continued there till the seventh standard.

  I remember it as a happy time in my life. My world was bursting with sounds and colours. Summer vacation was the time I explored the world to my heart’s content.

  At that time, I had an arch enemy—chameleons. I generally loved all animals but had an unreasonable hatred towards chameleons. It started with a story told by my friend, Ramankutty. He, too, is sadly no more. Ramankutty had convinced me that chameleons sucked blood from your navel. As evidence, he showed me the red pouch beneath the chameleon’s throat, which pulsed transparently red. Since that day, I made it my sacred duty to try and kill all the chameleons that crossed my path. My favourite pastime was pelting stones at them. After a while, Achen found out about my obsession and dismissed that superstition with a careful explanation of facts. But I still carried that hatred for chameleons with me for a long time.

  Every summer vacation, and during Onam, Achen used to tie a swing on the mango tree, and that was where we friends gathered often. We would compete with each other in trying to swing the highest. Later, it was my duty to tie the swing for Deepu and Sumathy and their friends.

  Achen didn’t want me to laze around the whole day during the long vacation. He arranged for two tuition teachers to come and teach us during the summer vacation: Leela teacher in the morning and Saraswathi teacher in the evening. Oh, the tricks we came up with to get out of those torture sessions! But we were hardly ever successful. Sometimes, the efforts earned us som
e extra beatings too.

  The empty, harvested fields were our playgrounds. We used to fly kites there or play ball. We hardly ever sat still, unlike the children of today. I feel sorry for kids these days. Do they even know what they’re missing out on? The camaraderie and fun with friends, the simple outdoor games, the fresh air. These days, they seem happy to sit alone with a phone or a computer, texting, playing games by themselves, missing out on the joys of an innocent childhood. But I guess you don’t miss what you don’t know. In all probability, they are perfectly happy in their new world. Isn’t that the magic of time? The past is done. The future is yet to be. We live in the present, seemingly disassociated from the past and the future, yet seamlessly blending with them. But it is possible to exist entirely in the present, with no regrets about the past and no worries about the future. Childhood is such a time. Children are happy as long as their needs of the moment are met.

  Where am I headed? How much longer will I be in this formless state, unable to tolerate heat or light? How much longer reminiscing about lost love and life?

  Love expands our horizons, selfishness narrows it.

  Love lives forever. The selfish die a lonely death.

  Live and love. Love and die.

  The beautiful bud need not worry about its perfume. The fallen flower need not grieve about its lost splendor. Each in its own time and space.

  The rooster crows in the distance. Another dawn. The sleep of the sleepless approaches.

  The Eleventh Night

  The earth trembles under the onslaught of wind and rain. Rain falls with the ferocity of pebbles on the rooftops. The sky is lit up in celebration. The wet grass glistens in the bright flashes. Trees sway, dancing in unison with the fierce nature.

  I have always loved the rains, though never the thunderstorms. How quickly do the soft fingers of rain turn into sharp spears digging into the wet ground. But even the fiercest drops disappear instantly in the soil, never to be seen again. Not unlike my past. Replete with memories but nothing to hold on to. Just an all-encompassing vague ache that disturbs my peace.

  I thought I had a fulfilling life. I was thoughtful and considerate to others. And I was rewarded with abundant love in return—from family, friends and acquaintances. But now, even while I am here, my physical existence is fading. How long will my presence linger on in the minds and hearts of the people who knew me? Even in the heart of Radhika? Time, the greatest healer. Soon I will be a wisp of a memory, a sigh, a shadow. This is the inevitability of all things mortal.

  The drama of life. The curtain keeps rising and falling.

  Some live in the future. Always planning, dreaming, scheming for a better tomorrow.

  Some live in the present. The new avatars of Omar Khayyam. Enjoying the gift of the present, living fully in the moment, aware that tomorrow might never be theirs.

  Some live in the past. Losers, the world calls them. But they seem content to live in their own dream world—nostalgic, longing for the lost yesterdays.

  But who can deny that we long for our lost childhood? Those golden, carefree days. The dear friends.

  Benny.

  A teardrop in my memory.

  He was my best friend at school.

  The day we walked to his home in a silent procession…to pay our last respects to him. He was in the coffin. Wearing a white shirt and trousers. A pair of black shoes. There was so much powder on his face…

  He was smiling even then. And my heart broke. My uncontrolled wail broke through the silence. I remember his mother and younger sisters, echoing my cry of despair. In a blur, I recall a few hands supporting me and taking me out to the yard. When I saw him being carried to the cemetery, I felt as if I had died too. How many days did it take for me to get back to normal…

  I can never forget him. My best buddy, Benny.

  His home was right next to the school. Every afternoon, after lunch, I used to go there and play with him. He had a big yard with numerous plantains and other fruit trees. There was a big water tank for collecting rainwater, and tracks were dug for each plant to irrigate them. Our favourite pastime was sailing paper boats in the water. How his mother and sisters made fun of us for behaving like little kids.

  He was quiet, a thinker, and loved nature. He even raised his own hens and sold their eggs. My mother bought fresh eggs from him.

  One day, while walking home, Benny suddenly asked, “Do you want books to read?” I was surprised but eager. “Yes,” I said. He took me into the house, to his father’s room, and showed me a cupboard full of books. I was delighted. He knew I loved reading and said that I can borrow those books to read. I was shocked at his generosity.

  “But won’t your father scold you?”

  “No, Appan likes kids who read. As long as you take good care of the books, he will be fine. After all, what are books for? Not to simply sit in a cupboard,” he said with a laugh. I knew then what a good friend I had in him. I owe him a lot.

  We did a play together for our school anniversary, Shylock. He was the principal character. How well he depicted the cruel moneylender Shylock. He would always gently point out my mistakes and helped me do better. I realised he was more like an elder brother than a mere friend. He really was. I modelled myself on him. And whatever goodness I have, he has contributed quite a bit to it.

  That fateful day. The one day I didn’t go to school due to fever. He was bitten by a stray dog. It was not too deep, and he didn’t tell anyone about it. If I were with him, how different it might have been? I might have told his parents. Or it might have been I who got bitten. But fate. Cruel fate! He was bitten, and nobody knew about it. Maybe he hid the fact because he was worried about the ten painful injections he would have been forced to take to prevent rabies.

  It was about three weeks after that day, at a marriage function he was attending with his father, that he started showing signs of distress when offered a drink of lemonade. His father got worried and took him to a doctor. But by then it was too late. He started frothing from the mouth and became violent. His family had no option but to lock him in a dark room. There, in the grip of painful seizures, all alone, unable even to quench his dying thirst, my dearest friend passed away.

  That day, all my notions about fairness were shattered. How could Benny die like that? The gentlest person, the vilest death. Oh, cruel, cruel world! What about God? Is he this cruel? But then, who made all the beautiful things in this world? All the love? Who made Benny? And who killed him? So many unanswered questions. That was always the sum total of my life. Questions. Each answer leading to more questions. Worrying. About everything and nothing. My own personal happiness always playing second fiddle to questions about the unfairness of the world at large. What for? Was I able to change anything? Maybe I was, maybe I wasn’t. Does it even matter? The fluttering of butterfly wings. Some create waves of love, some tsunamis of destruction.

  Rain is still falling. The flowers that looked so proud in the morning now look battered and worn out.

  Oppol and the kids are sitting on the verandah, watching the rain. A sudden bolt of thunder startles them, and they quickly lock the door.

  Closed doors. My life is now a closed door. Yet why do I feel so disturbed? My spirit is still pulled by my dreams, my desires. I had never committed any grave sins knowingly. I had only wished to give a good life to my family. I was the only hope for my bereaved Oppol, my little sister, my paralysed little brother, my young wife, my innocent nieces and my darling Vishnu. I was trying to provide for them to the best of my ability until fate decided otherwise. Now, I face the closed doors. Unable to open them. Unable to reach across.

  My soul is burning.

  Am I hearing suppressed sobs? Are the eyes of my loved ones still searching for me?

  I hear a voice, admonishing me. “It is your unfulfilled desires that suffocate you. You hear their laments. Be careful. They are no more your concerns. They will only drag you to destruction. Your work on this earth is done. Now focus on your onwar
d journey. Meditate constantly. Repent. Let go. If not, you will invite evil spirits into your being. You will be doomed to wander this earth forever with them. You will burn for eternity in the fires of your unfulfilled desires.”

  No! I can’t risk that. That will serve no one any purpose. The remaining days should help me with my salvation, not my damnation. Help me!

  The bats are returning. The night is sinking into the depths of the earth. And I retreat into my dark shadowless world.

  The Twelfth Night

  “My dearest boy! Have you too, abandoned this old woman? Why am I left behind? Why didn’t God take me? Why this cruelty? Why did he take you?” The loud wailing freezes the air for a moment. The place goes absolutely still. I see the slight figure wailing in front of my grave—Ittuli Muthassi!

  An ancient, living skeleton. The skin hanging down in folds. The dried-up, sagging breasts on the protruding rib cage.

  Though I always called her muthassi—grandma—she was not related to us. But she was a fixture in our lives.

  If not bedridden with an illness, she would definitely visit our home at least once a month. She must be nearly ninety years old now. Still lives on her own, though, and manages all her affairs by herself. She wanders where she pleases, with a cane for support. Stooped with age, her cane seems to bow with her.

  She is a favourite target of the naughty kids of the village. “Hunchback Ittuli,” they yell at her. If they are close enough, she will try to get at them with her stick. But it was more a game to both her and the kids.

  Amma was a favourite with her. She loved hearing the village gossip from Muthassi. But if Achen was at home, they both would be subdued because he didn’t approve of the “petty talk”.

  If Amma was busy with work, Ittuli Muthassi would wait patiently on the verandah and spend time reading the day’s newspaper. She had an amazing eyesight; never needing eyeglasses all her life. But her hearing has gotten worse progressively. Nowadays, Oppol has to shout herself hoarse to make Ittuli Muthassi hear and respond. But at ninety she still had a full head of greyish-black hair!