The Soul of Truth Page 9

  Oppol enjoyed feeding her. Breakfast or lunch, Muthassi would be happy with whatever Oppol served her. Once her hunger was satiated, she blessed Oppol with a full heart, “May you always remain happy and blessed, mol!” Oppol would insist on feeding her even more. My generous Oppol. She lived the saying that there is no better service than feeding the hungry.

  When I was a child, Ittuli Muthassi was a regular help to Amma. She took care of all the outside chores and tended the cows. She was invaluable during the harvest time.

  Her husband, Velayudhan, had died sometime ago. He was a good man but was addicted to alcohol. They had only one son who fell in love with a girl from a different caste and married her without the consent of his family. Velayudhan was livid when he came to know of it. When his son and the new daughter-inlaw arrived home that evening, he shouted at them and drove them out of his house. The stress took a heavy toll on him. He collapsed that very evening and died. Ittuli Muthassi became an orphaned widow that day—all alone in the world.

  Many years later, the son came back one day. By himself. To get his share of the property. Ittuli Muthassi lost all her restraint and raged at him. “How dare you come now, asking for the property? What property? You didn’t even come to perform the last rites of your father! But you want his property? Not while I am alive. And I don’t need your help. All these years, I have lived on my own, and I will continue to do so. Don’t come back even when I die. I would rather the people of the village bury me than an ungrateful son like you. Go away!”

  The son was drunk and in no mood to listen to her outburst. He turned violent and hit her. Had the neighbours not come to her rescue, she might have been very badly hurt that day.

  The son never returned. Last year, news reached Ittuli Muthassi that he had died of jaundice. She was very upset and cried a lot. When she came home, she shared her grief with Oppol; the two of them couldn’t stop crying. My dearest Oppol and Amma. They are the kindest people I have ever known. For them, all the grief in the world is their own.

  She had come to see me every time I had come home from the Gulf. I always remembered to bring some small presents for her. Her rheumy eyes would light up with happiness, but she would always protest, “No, son, there is no need. I only wanted to see you.”

  I can still see her grinding the paddy in our courtyard. All those times. The times of plenty! We had so much surplus of everything. Rice, vegetables, milk, eggs, curd…

  Achen owned the paddy fields behind the house. And since he was away at work in Thiruvananthapuram most of the time, he got the help of a handyman, Mustafa. Mustafa took care of everything, from sowing to irrigation to fertilising to harvesting. And he got half the produce as his wages. He had come to father as a poor labourer looking for work, and Achen had gradually trusted him like a partner. He was a huge, bald man, jolly and hard-working, always dressed in a dhoti and a towel knotted around his head. I have never seen him wearing a shirt.

  It was such fun watching him measure out the paddy after harvesting. It was done in two large heaps, one for us and one for him. He would count in a rhythmic, sing-song voice, one-one-one, two-two-two… I loved to count with him. He got very angry if anyone disturbed him during the counting. Then he would ask me to give the right count. And always, at the end, he would put an extra measure into our heap, “For the little master,” he would say.

  After many years of joint farming, Achen had once brought up the topic of Mustafa’s right to the farm. “Mustafa, I am getting old. You have been a loyal partner to me and have taken such good care of the fields. I think you should also have some legal rights to this land. Tell me frankly, what would you like?”

  Mustafa looked shocked and shook his head vehemently. “No, master. You gave me a good job and have always been fair and kind. I don’t want any share of your land. I am perfectly happy with this present arrangement.”

  Even though Achen insisted, saying it is best to reach legal agreements rather than leaving behind uncertainty for the future, Mustafa remained adamant that he wanted no share of the farmland.

  But things turned upside down after the death of Achen.

  One day, soon after Achen passed away, Mustafa came home. I was sitting on the verandah reading the paper. He said he wanted to speak to Amma.

  Amma was happy to see Mustafa.

  “I want to tell you something.” Mustafa started without much preamble.

  “What is it, Mustafa?”

  “Well, the master is no more. And I am also getting old. It is difficult for me to take care of the farming by myself.”

  “Appu will help, Mustafa. You just need to teach him everything.”

  “It is not that. Everything is too expensive nowadays.”

  “Oh, do you want money?” Amma couldn’t understand what he was hinting at.

  “No. I don’t want to do any more farming on your land. The kids don’t want me to exert too much in this old age. They said it is best that I get my share of the land and retire to a quiet life.”

  Amma and I were stunned.

  “Achen had talked to you about this when he was alive, right? And you were adamant that you don’t want any share of his land. And now, just after his passing, you sing a different tune!” Amma couldn’t suppress her disgust and anger.

  He looked a bit uncomfortable but continued defiantly, “My children insisted on this. And they say I am legally entitled to half the land.”

  We knew there was no point arguing with him. Amma asked him to come back in a few days. She kept staring at his retreating back in utter disbelief.

  “How can people change so quickly? Is this our own Mustafa? I don’t want to believe it, but I think he might create problems if we don’t solve this issue quickly. Appu, explain things to Madhavettan and, if possible, see a good lawyer today; let’s figure out where we stand legally. We don’t want any more trouble at this time.”

  Everything was settled quickly and amicably, at least outwardly. Mustafa was given half the farmland. But we could never again think of him without a sense of betrayal. And he never again visited our home. Sumathy said that he did come to pay respects to Amma when she passed away, but that was it. The fragility of human relations.

  After I went to the Gulf, we sold the rest of the fields and a part of the property too, leaving just enough land around the house that could be managed by Oppol and Radhika. Now, we depend on the neighbourhood shops for all our needs. How we change; clearly not all change is for the better.

  In the sweltering heat of the Gulf, I used to think about all that has been and slowly learned to forget the painful memories.

  And now, after thirty-nine years, I return to the soil of my home. Leaving behind everything, my failures and my victories, a return journey with empty hands. Proving the saying, “Once a loser, always a loser!”

  Two nightingales circle my grave gracefully and fly off into the darkness. The pale clouds of dawn float in like swarms of flying termites. The crows welcome another morning. And I have lost another night.

  The Thirteenth Night

  Weeds are in a hurry to take over my grave. The loose, moist soil is egging them on. In their midst lie two fruits from my tree. An offering? From my beloved grandfather anjili tree to his departed son? I can almost hear him whispering, “Dear son, you shared your best days and your worst days with me. You filled me with happiness with your innocent childhood and your vigorous youth. Now, when you become one with me in death, my heart is breaking with sorrow and love. What else can I offer you, other than these sweet fruits, the labour of my love?”

  I weep bitterly, without tears. I feel smothered with love. How can I leave all this love behind and embark on my journey as a free soul? Will it ever be possible? Thirty-nine years’ worth of love and longing. To be discarded in these few days. I feel weak with despair.

  My body is no more my body. It has already been reduced to a mass of decaying matter. The tears of my loved ones have stopped flowing. An occasional sigh, a heart-wrenching sob
, a sleep that eludes … The vacuum created by my departure is slowly being filled by the mundane, by everyday life.

  But my past. My past is not letting me be. My past—like a kaleidoscopic swirl of colours and shapes, so close, yet so far.

  I can see Achen’s recliner on the verandah. It was his favourite chair. After retirement, he spent most of his time on that recliner—relaxing, reading, writing. He had a decent pension from his job and dedicated his free time to the pursuit of literature. He loved reading, and especially enjoyed poetry. He used to say that poems were like precious gems; rare, hidden, compressed, distilled and churned out of turbulent emotions, deep thoughts, boundless imaginations and painful experiences of great minds.

  Manu master visited him regularly. He loved poetry too. And the two of them would engage in endless discussions about poetry and literature and life. Two brilliant minds. Very soon, that friendship became inseparable. For the first time in our lives, our home reverberated to Achen’s loud guffaws. We were so surprised by that sound. Achen, laughing? For years, we had seen only the serious face of Achen, the disciplinarian. But Manu master brought out the lovely man behind that gruff exterior. The echoes of that laugh rang out in the interiors too. Our home was a very happy place at that time. We loved this new Achen.

  In the drawing room, there were two bookcases full of books that Achen had collected over the years.

  “Have you read any of these books, Appu?” he asked me once.

  “No.”

  “Why not? Books are not for show. They are meant to be read. To fill your mind and thoughts.”

  I stayed quiet. I did read but just not from Achen’s collection. I was too scared that I might damage one of them and enrage him. But that day on, I was emboldened and started devouring those books.

  I had a smaller collection of my own books. My favourite among them was the gift from Benny, Robinson Crusoe.

  Achen used to write too. He had written two biographies— Sree Chattambi Swami and The Philosophy of Sree Narayana Guru— both of which were published and well received. He was in the process of writing a novel, Chithrakoodam, when he passed away.

  A favourite pastime of his was listening to Manu master reciting from the poetry collections. He could recite beautifully, and Achen would sink into ecstasy, listening to his voice, eyes closed with a most blissful expression on his face. After the recitation, they would engage in heated discussions about the merits and demerits of the poem. Indeed, Manu master brought out the best in Achen.

  Manu master.

  He was always an enigma to me. A testimony to human endurance. His life was riddled with problems. But I have never seen him without a smile on his face. I got to know him more after Achen passed away. He was my best friend and mentor during all those difficult years before I left for the Gulf. He was the sounding board for all my problems, and he had solid advice every time, soothing, helping me regain trust in myself and the world. But how small were my problems in comparison to his. How insignificant. Yet he kept smiling and spreading love and warmth wherever he went.

  He was highly educated but despite that had to be content with the lowly job of a primary school teacher.

  There was the time when he had to look after his pregnant sister, who was diagnosed with cancer. And we all felt the heartbreak when despite all the care, she died soon after childbirth, leaving the premature baby in his care.

  Then there was the death of his hard-working father, succumbing to lung cancer.

  His mentally and physically challenged elder brother.

  His old mother.

  His younger sister.

  His struggles were manifold, never too far away. But he went through life without any complaints, making sure of the comforts of others. And amidst all this, he forgot to live for himself. He was like a deep river, the placid surface never giving away any indication of the turbulent under-currents.

  He married late. Without much pomp or celebration. A simple girl, ideal for Manu master.

  One year after marriage, a little angel came into their lives.

  A beautiful baby girl.

  Master called her Minu.

  Manu master and his wife adored little Minu. Their days were filled with her gurgles. But fate has a tendency to target some people relentlessly. When Minu was just five months old, one night Manu master and his wife woke up to her strangled cries, and to their horror saw their baby stiff with seizures. Epilepsy! From that moment onwards, their life was taken up with hospitals, doctors and medicines. They tried everything. Allopathy, ayurveda, homeopathy. Even unconventional methods with godmen and women. Nothing worked.

  As a last-ditch effort, they even went to a famous maulvi. He inspired confidence, and Manu master felt that finally things were looking up. The maulvi said that Minu will be better once everything was done exactly as he prescribed. Manu master followed the instructions of the maulvi to the letter. A holy thread was tied on the arm and waist of Minu. The bitter elixir and powder were fed to her at regular intervals, without fail. The blessed oil was rubbed into her scalp. And the maulvi gave careful instructions for a specific ritual which Manu master and his wife promised to carry out without a single mistake.

  They had to place a magical copper disc inside an earthen pot, with measured amounts of turmeric and quicklime, fill the pot three-quarters with water, cover the mouth of the pot with a smoked plantain leaf and heat the pot on fire made entirely of husk, till all the water evaporated from the pot. Once the pot was dry, Manu master had to walk with an iron chopper in front, followed by his wife carrying the pot with the disc inside. They had to get to a water body, wade in knee-deep, immerse the pot completely underwater and then break it with the chopper. That was it. And yes, all this was to be done in complete silence.

  Manu master and his wife were willing to try anything to help their daughter get better. They followed all the steps. By the time the pot of water evaporated completely on the weak husk fire, it was past midnight.

  Master walked out with the iron chopper, his wife following with the pot.

  When they reached the river, they were both shivering with fear and cold. A man and woman cuddling by the steps down to the river fled at their sight, their clothes in disarray. They must have thought that the midnight prowlers were murderers, coming to dispose of a dead body in the dead of night. Undaunted, Manu master and his wife waded into the knee-deep water, immersed the pot and broke it with one blow from the chopper. When they happily turned around, relieved at having completed the ritual satisfactorily, a few people had gathered on the top of the steps.

  “Hey, isn’t this our Manu master? What are you doing here at this time?”

  Poor Manu master. He was bound by silence till he got back home, and so he just smiled and nodded at the crowd and made his way through them. Thankfully, they knew him well enough to let him pass without any hassle.

  But even that didn’t work. Minu only got worse. Very soon, she was completely bedridden, totally dependent on her parents.

  They were twenty-two long years. That flickering lamp in Manu master’s life went out one day in the cold bed of a private hospital.

  There are two sides to everything. If there is grief, there will also be joy. Though I have seldom met anyone like Manu master, bombarded with wave after wave of hardships and misfortunes and loss. But he seemed to stand on rock, not sand. He slipped but never sank, and he never let anyone else sink if he could help it.

  Achen was a pillar of support to Manu master; he was like an elder brother. Once I heard Achen talk to him, “Manu, life is like that. Never fair. Unfortunately, you seem to have got more than your fair share of unfairness. But please don’t think you are alone in sufferings. The only way to defeat fate is by facing it squarely. Please share your problems with me. Your health is suffering because you are trying to bear all these burdens by yourself. I am always here for you as a friend. To laugh and cry with you. Also, think of your wife and little son. They are your blessings. Hold onto them, w
henever you feel overwhelmed.”

  My Achen. How sudden was his death.

  It was the biggest blow of my life.

  He was perfectly fine and had gone to bed after dinner. He didn’t wake up the next morning. Even Amma, sleeping right next to him, didn’t realise that he was gone till the next morning.

  The best way to die. But an utter shock to all the loved ones left behind.

  Amma never recovered from the shock. She lost interest in food. Lost weight. Lost the sparkle in her eyes. Her main worry was that Oppol was not yet married. Achen was busy looking for a suitable groom for her. And he’d had everything ready for the marriage. His retirement fund was saved in the bank just for that purpose. He had even purchased the gold ornaments. But Oppol was born under an inauspicious star, and it was difficult to find boys with matching horoscopes.

  “Appu?”

  “Yes, Amma.”

  “Don’t forget about Usha. We have to find a good boy for her soon.”

  Amma’s refrain was always tinged with the same worries.

  Finally, a suitable match worked out. The groom was a major in the army. Handsome. Well off. Good family and situation. It was a dream match.

  Manu master and Madhavettan stood in for Achen and made sure everything went off smoothly. Our home again woke up to laughter and happiness.

  His name was Balakrishnan. Oppol called him Balettan. So did the rest of us.

  Balettan had one month’s leave to spend with us. Everyday was a celebration. He took care of Deepu and Sumathy like his own younger siblings. Wherever Oppol and Balettan went, they would take the little ones too. Amma was worried about it.

  “Appu, Balan’s vacation is only for a few days. Let them spend some time in peace. Don’t let Deepu and Sumathy always tag after them.”