Satheesh Sir's Village

Shyama: Sudha, I really dont know how Sir's family will react. Three students enchanted by Sir's grand stories are picnicking to his village. We need to look more sympathising than that.

Sudha: You are missing the point, however. Sir used to tell us his stories, but does his parents know that he tells the students about his village and family. Even if they know, why would they even think that we will ever like it so much.

Sindu: Girls relax. We all liked Sir very much and we are just going there to meet his parents and sympathize with them. period. 

Shyama: Sindu, I know all that, this shouldn't look like a picnic, but a pilgrimage maybe.

The three girls hop on to the bus that arrived as they were talking.

Shyama asks the lady sitting next to her: Do you know when's the last bus from Kandrakaade back to the town?

Lady: Are all of you going to Kandrakaade?

Shyama: Yes.

Lady: Who are you visiting there?

Shyama: We're going to our college lecturer Satheesh Sir's house, the Satheesh Sir who passed away recently. 

Lady: You are going to Satheesh's place. I used to know Satheesh. We are related.

Shyama: Are you Maya Chechi?

Lady: Yes. How do you know? 

Shyama: Satheesh Sir used to talk about a Maya Chechi and It just occurred to me that it could be you. This is such a surprise for me, the fact that I recognized you and the fact that I got to meet you. Sir would tell us all about his life there in KandraKaade. We all used to love the place with its beautiful back waters, streams, vegetation. We always wanted to come and visit the place. (brief pause) I'm sorry about Satheesh Sir's sudden demise. We all were, in fact, the whole class was shocked by it. Many students, including us could not get over the fact that Sir is not with us know. We couldn't even think about coming to his house on the day of the funeral. It was just not real for us.

 Maya: What did Satheesh say about us?

Shyama: Satheesh Sir used to talk a lot about his village life and how wonderful it was. Every other story would feature Maya Chechi. Maya Chechi was like the role model for all of us. When Satheesh Sir talks about you, we all feel like that's the real woman. We used to feel like little girls in comaprison. Dont get me wrong, this is in no way feminist. Its an honour to meet you. But you look more beautiful than how we used to visualize you, atleast I visualized you. Its weird how people stereotype people that they read about or hear about using other people they know.

Maya: Tell me more about what he used to tell the students that made you want to come here. Im sure it contained a lot of poetry and literature. 

Shyama: Yes of course. Sir's dad had a very strong influence on him. Again he's the best dad in the world for all of us. He would tell how interested his dad is in poetry and literature and how well-read he is. Very gentle person, how he could communicate with plants and trees and nature. It was almost like Sir's dad was completely in unison with nature, a person who appreciated the the finer things in life. A retired school head master. Sir's house was another character in his stories. The big old ancestoral house made of wood and earth and lime. Then the lakes and fields and farmers. He would invite us to come and visit him, but it never used to work out.

Camera zooms into Shyama's dreamy face and there emerges an grey old ambassador car. The car parks slowly into the porch of a big old house. And there emerges a man in his late twenties with a duffel bag and a shoulder bag from the car. The driver jumps out and insists on carrying the bag for him, Satheesh says no.

Satheesh walks to the verandah that is about three steps high, wooden pillars supporting the roof structure, floor is shiny cement. An old man, sits on an easy chair with a table beside him, that has a lot of books arranged on it. He glances across and tells him, "It may rain soon. Are you going to bathe in the river now?". Thunder strikes..

The bus is now running along a small village road in a heavy rain. The rain, another of Satheesh Sir's characters.

The bus reaches the last stop. Everybody gets down, most of them know each other, they open their umbrellas, and chat as they walk home. The three girls descend the bus, followed by Maya Chechi.

Maya: Follow me to Satheesh's house.

They walk along a narrow unpaved road surrounded by trees and shrubs all around. Every plant and leaf is wet and glistening accentuating their fear towards natures stronger forces, the lightning. Through the greenery, one could catch an occassional glimpse of the lake beyond.

They reach the house. It was exactly as Shyama dreamt it. The three girls walked in silence. They wanted Maya Chechi to introduce them to Satheesh Sirs dad. Maya asked them to be seated in the porch and she went inside. A few moments later arrived Sir's Dad. Exactly as in Shyama's dream. He was a gentle being. All the three stood up.

Dad: Ah there are three people! Are you all Satheesh's students?

Sudha, Sindu (together): Yes, from KE college.

Dad: Sit down, sit down, what do you kids want to drink, tea or coffee?

Sindu: We dont want anything.

Dad: How do you know the others dont want anything? You may have answered for yourself. (laughs. turns to Maya). Maya, get them tea.

Maya goes inside. Camera zooms out and shows the big house in a light drizzle.

Sir's dad shows them around the house, takes them to the flooded fields, back waters.

On the way back they meet an elderly woman in a shabby white cotton Sari. She smiled at them and Sir's dad introduces them to her as Satheesh's students from the town. She smiles and leaves.

Hours later, the girls say goodbye. And they leave.

Dad: Satheesh told a lot about all of us to them. I took the kids to the field. Kanaaran took them around the river in the canoe.

Maya: I feel bad for Satheesh, he belongs to this house more than his. After all whats there in his house anyway. I dont know what Kuttiyamma might think when she knows about this. Poor thing, she was the one who made tea for them. I dont want to let her know anything. (in a softer voice) Imagine Satheesh never mentioned about his own mom, and that because she is a house-maid here. I dont want the kids also to know. Sometimes I feel bad that Satheesh lied about his family and home. He could have told the truth and what difference could that make.

Dad: Well why do you buy better looking sandals? Why do we want to look better than our means? Deception is everywhere. (Relaxing in the chair and looking somwhere far) Satheesh was a romantic, he never wanted the kids to know hardships early in their life. He weaved a beautiful world for them, and selfishly put himself in the center and found happiness in living the life he always wanted to live through the his student's imagination. They wanted to be him, the same way he wanted to be like you as a child. These are things that get set in someones mind as a child.  I'm happy for him. With all the hardships and poverty that he had seen growing up and had gone through, the least he could do for himself was that. And I get to feature his dad in the story, which to me, is an honour, given the love and respect he earned as a lecturer.

Maya: I know about all that, I should be the last person you should be telling this. Try telling this to Suresh, it ticks him off when the students mention 'Sir would always talk about Maya Chechi'. Its just doens't sound right from his perspective.

Dad: The person is no more and if all he cares about is that, then I dont know what to say. To me Satheesh seems right, he was a good human being and thats all I care about.

The Critic's Problem

(This is an O.V.Vijayan short story called "Niroopakante Prashnam" that I translated to English.)

A fish bone got stuck in Emperor Akbar's throat. There was no remedy for this in Unani medicine. So a stork was beckoned instead.
The stork entered.
"Remove the fish bone, you'll be rewarded", said the Emperor.
"Your command", said the stork.
The stork removed the bone, then waited for it's reward.
"Go!", said the Emperor.
"Reward", said the stork.
"Has a stork that has put it's head in a Mughal Emperor's throat ever gotten it's head out alive?", asked the Emperor: "What's a greater reward than your head?"
Realising that this story was not Emperor's own creation, but borrows from a foreign story, the stork worried that literature had lost it's vigour and returned, leaving the problem to critics.

The Resort
(O.V.Vijayan Short translated from Malayalam.)
A fox entered a fruit shop and asked the price for grapes.
"Fifteen rupees per kilo", said the shop keeper.
"Can you give it for five rupees?", asked the fox.
"No", answered the shop keeper.
"Six rupees?"
"No."
"Six and a half?"
"No."
"Six and three fourths?"
"No.", said the shop keeper.
"Chee, these grapes are sour.", said the fox.
There were people wo heard that remark. The shopkeeper said he would file a case against the fox for loss in sales with them as witnesses.
When it was not possible to keep up anymore, the fox found resort in a Panchatantra tale*.

* 'The Fox and the Grapes' is an Aesop's fable to be precise.

Enlightenment
A period drama of a man and his struggle against the good and the bad

At around 7:30, they discovered bad cholesterol in him. They asked him to watch out for the bad cholesterol. In short, that meant, eat less coconut, as coconut contained bad cholesterol.

After a few years, the other side discovered that coconut was part of human diet in that part of the world from centuries and we, the world population, as people of Kerala, were immune to anything that stems from coconut consumption. They asked him to continue eating as much coconut as he would normally eat.

A few years later, as the man was walking home, one evening, Zen attacked. Zen was a local watch repairer and a leading local Zen practitioner, first name Mrinal - Mrinal Zen. Zen talked zen to Thommi, the hero of our tale and one of the practicing coconut tree climbers in the area, a dwindling population, I must add. Zen spoke eloquently in Hindi, our national language as FBI records indicated, to Thommi. Our soft spoken hero, who had never heard Hindi, spoke his Malayalam back. It will be an understatement to state that Zen forgot his zen listening to the melodious Malayalam, the Malayanma(Malayalamness), the Malayan(mountian dweller) speak.

What resulted was instant enlightenment as chances are that anything that could be put in words is the least enlightening. An enlightening talk would be one of no communication as happened in the case of Thommi alias Thomaas. Regardless, a relentless Zen said that there were no ultimates , hence undermining the very basis for the derivation of good and bad. Thommi completely avoided coconut for the rest of his life, lest did he let coconut pass by without a route through his intestinal tract.

Thommi held close within him, his dear Thenga(Coconut). And man, didn't Thommi break through the fabric of good and bad, the very fabric of our existence!

Vada Yakshi

The Vada Yakshi woke up that evening pretty darn tired at her home perched on top of a palm tree somewhere in Kerala-Tamizhnaade border. It was sunset, and as usual, Yakshi-s, being the nocturnal beings they are, wake up by sunset, and like us in the mornings, they feel pretty hungry and dehydrated. Now dear folks, as humans we can open a pack of Kelloggs Choco Chips and mix it with a glass of 2% reduced fat milk and satisfy our morning craving. Not for the Vada Yakshi, for the typical Vada Yakshi meal is human blood. Ahh yes, you guessed it right, they are the vampires of Kerala. Not big Mac, but, warm human blood - calente sangre humana. So like other surviving Vada Yakshi-s, our anti-heroine, Le Vada Yakshi, frantically changes her look by wiping off blood stains from her face and clothes and changing into her evening wear, a faded dark blue cotton blouse and a white old cotton wrap. The quintessential southern beauty she is, her buxom figure constantly tries to escape her benign blouse and wrap that barely stays in position by virtue of two clips she somehow managed to clip together sitting on top of her palm tree residence. A palm tree residence, might immediately bring to your mind, a Los Angelesque, laid back, residential area with palm trees lining the road, with possibly another mansion that Antonio Banderas (Plural for Antonio Bandera) owns. No, no, no, dear readers might have forgotten that Vada Yakshi-s live on the top of palm trees. But if you think about it, theres no further definition given to this palm tree residence by amateur theatres or novels by Kottayam Pushpanath. One's mind can only but dwell on the impossibilites of such an idea. Regardless, our anti-heroine, Le Vada Yakshi, gets ready for her night out!

Vada Yakshi grabs an English Muffin with sausage egg and cheese on her way down from the top to the less treaded Ottayadi(single slap) pavement by the forest. It's then that her well-trained nose grabs a scent! Not the Scent of a Woman, but of a man. She bites her sumptuous lips red, red from the nutritious blood of Krishnan Kutty Pothuval, whose blood stains she wiped off a few minutes back. She aligns her wrap and blouse in position and stands there like a prostitute who would fuck at the glimmer of a twenty. Now, dear readers, must understand that Vada Yakshi-s are known for their hypnotic powers, even though she looks like a prostitute and is dressed like a prostitute, she would appear to the man walking alone on that distant path, at the end of a hard days work, consumed by the weight of the evening and the presence of the dark forest, like a destitute hapless young woman who needs his attention and care. The most well known Vada Yakshi-s could make a man feel like she is a cultured woman from a well known family. It's not uncommon that men, entranced by a Vada Yakshi's persona, propose marriage to a Vada Yakshi. Few Vada Yakshis have been married to well-known Brahmin families from Kerala, but sooner or later, the Yakshi wipes their families clean off the face of earth. Brahmin boys, born to Yakshis, typically display Rajo-gunas or dark-characteristics, and often contemplate climbing a palm tree when theres one in the vicinity.

Unfortunately, this poor man, who goes by the name Supremani Iyer (Subramanya Iyer), who mostly stuck to Tamil, even though he lived in Kerala, does not possess any Superman qualities. Supremani sees our Yakshi from about a half Nazhi distance. He immediately understands that she is a Yakshi, but unfortunately, the hypnotic powers of a Vada Yakshi are already in action. Vada Yakshi stories appeal to the typical male, the same way we feel a tingling at the mention of "Femme Fatale". They were the Bond girls of the then Kerala. So even when a victim recognizes the Yakshi, he still hopes. He hopes for that magical escape after an intimate encounter, only to savour that experience for the rest of his life. It's not every day that a Vada Yakshi approaches you. The average repressed Kerala Brahmin male sees a James Bondesque adventure for a second.

And that marks the end of him. A Vada Yakshi can put any man in a trance at the slightest hint of a such a weakness. He will then believe what he thought he would never believe and accompany her to her pleasure house atop the palm. Sure, he gets a wild lay, but sure, does his guts be torn open with bare hands and his blood stain the evening palm.

The Non-Alignment Policy

(O.V. Vijayan short translated from Malayalam.)

And that's when I realized there's a CIA camp next to my house. I decided to take up the challenge. I pledged that I would not give out any secrets pertaining me to American imperialism. I dismissed my dog, closed all the doors and windows and remained indoors most of the time. You might ask whether it would have been a better idea to keep the dog during a spy infestation. Only those who haven't known CIA enough would ask such a question. It is very true that American spies have mastered the trick of seducing a dog by giving jaggery. Aren't we dealing with imperialism? Whatever be the price, if needed, these spies buy bags of jaggery from even wholesalers. How can common people like us face such a threat? There was a time when we could have done that. Chattambiswamikal^ used to assemble dogs from developing countries and bring them together in one arena and throw them a feast. It is because we lost those capabilities that we have now succombed to spies.

All the doors were fitted with new bolts and locks. At night, the spies tried to irritate me by scratching on doors with their finger nails. It found some relief when I started chanting the devotional poem "Not enough, not enough, as days pass by"^^. Around the same period, I closed my savings bank account and withdrew the five hundred and fourteen rupees and change. That money should never reach imperialism. I made it invisible by converting it to black money. This irritated the spies and I soon had proof of that. I saw a youngster, sitting on the side of the road near my house, reading a textbook on monetary economics and frantically scratching his head. I laughed inside. I spoke to myself - Imperialism, you can try your best, my investment is black money today and my government protects it's invisibility. After a few days, the above mentioned youngster, gifted me a book on the road. These are usual measures that imperialism adopts and I knew I should expect them. I accepted the book and opened it, fifteen rupee notes were inserted in between the pages. For self-protection, I chanted the devotional poem "Not enough, not enough". The spy misunderstood it and took out one more five rupee note and offered it to me by placing it in a novel by Solzhenitsyn. I did not fall for that. The spy withdrew.

Another day, another youngster asked me this on the road: ''What is your opinion on abstract art?"
"Go away, go", I said.
"Sir, this is an interview." the kid said. "A write-up will be based on your opinions."
"Write-up?" I said: "Tell me the truth." "Isn't it for the Washington Post?""
"They won't take this." the kid said.
"I am writing this for a hand-written monthly called 'The Flame and the Beat'. From Thrissur. By intellectuals."
"Tell me that!" I said, "Intellectuals, right? Here comes the truth."
"Oops, sir," the kid said, "One more question. What, in your opinion, is a tree, that's not eaten by termites?"
"Go away!" I said, "You are a spy."
He ran away with a scream.

I became more careful. If someone asked me the time, I'd reply, "My timepiece has stopped" or I'd give the wrong time. If someone asked me for directions, I gave them wrong directions. I was impressed with my strategies.
Below is the smartest act of courage that I performed:
My neighbour was a house-wife. When her kids were off to school and her husband off to office, wearing only her under garments, she would often display her buxom body. I understood what that meant very easily. I could predict this middle-aged woman's next moves. My calculations did not go wrong. Once, she came to the fence and started talking to me as described below.
"Vegetables have become very expensive. Four anas for a big Eggplant. Coconut is two and three fourths rupees. Potato for three rupees per kilo--"
Imperialism was behind the increase in prices, she still dared to gossip on that subject! I just grunted without making my response clear.
"Sir, isn't there's a drumstick tree in your backyard, " she said, "Isn't that full of drumsticks? Can I send my kids in the evening to pluck some?"
My politically aware mind understood that this was the usual double-meaning spy-speak and that this middle-aged woman was shooting a sexual invitation towards me to trap me. And that's how, with my tactfulness, I surprised her, as described below.
"I cannot get an erection."
"Oops, sir!"
"I'm impotent."
"Sir, why are you talking non-sense? Wasn't I talking about drumsticks?"
She turned back and started walking.
I went on. I continued: "I am a tuberculosis patient too."
"Go and see a doctor, sir."
She closed her door. I laughed inside. All the details that I gave were wrong. All the while, I was expertly playing the part of a typical innocent Valluvanadan (a person from Valluvanad). And because of that, eventhough she's from mid-Thiruvithankoor, she might have bought it completely. (Readers should remember that, as a step in Balkanizing Kerala, there have been attempts made to create unrest between Malabar and mid-Thiruvithamkoor folks.). Wouldn't it suffice to say that this is how I shattered the spy agency's international information network? Number one 'Counter intellgence tactic'. I was very satisfied.

Imperialism is not one that would withdraw easily. After all these events, the main CIA spy in the area came to see me at my house. For a start, he started talking to me about the topic 'artist and personal freedom'. Then he recited Njanapana*.
I said, "Friend, I am someone who, for fifteen years, spend time reading only light political write-ups. Don't try to fool me anymore. Admit it openly. Aren't you a CIA spy?"
"Yes", he admitted.
"What do you want?" I asked.
"Don't feel bad," he said: "here, I came to give you this."
With that he kept a huge paper cover in front of me.
"Please read it."
I opened the cover. It was a report from a pathologist from New York. My blood, phlegm, faeces and urine had been tested! On top of that, a note on my blood pressure level, an x-ray picture and E.C.G from the other side of the earth without touching me, without even me knowing; deadly scientific equipments were used in executing all this. Notwithstanding the test results, a prescription on the medicines that I need to take was also included.
"Defeated?" the spy asked.
"Don't know." I said.
"No one can keep a secret from the CIA." the spy said: "I'm leaving. Meet again."
It's enough to say that I was distraught.

What happened the next day was even more distressing. The main KGB spy in the locale, leaving his disguise, donning his official wear of a red Jubba and a white double-Munde(Kurta and Dhoti), singing the first few lines of the international song Ponnarival(Golden-Sickle), visited me. He too keeps a paper cover in front of me! A report, x-ray, ECG and prescription from a pathologist in Moscow.
"We know everything that CIA knows. Ponnarivalambiliyile Kanneriyunnole-- (song)", the spy goes like this.
"Aa marathin poonthanalile vaadinilkkunnolee--(song)", I completed in an extreme fatigue.
"Okay", said the spy: "I'm leaving for now. Meet again. Please take your medicines. It might be better to avoid hot and sour food a bit."

Hopelessly, I sat there with the two prescriptions in front of me. It's then that I noticed. In diagnosis and treatment, both the reports were not similar! It occurred to me that both were incomplete. I regained my courage and nationalism the next moment. I decided to challenge all the international spy agencies. I tore away all the papers they gave me.

I consulted an Ashtavaidyan** and started taking tonics and concoctions. It did not take much longer for the CIA and the KGB to relocate their camps from my village.

^A Hindu sage and one of Kerala’s famed religious and social reformer. It is said that he has thrown feasts for dogs in his temples as a sign of equality of all living beings.
^^A communist revolutionary song from Kerala.
*A devotional work of poetry by the famous devotional poet Poonthanam.
**A doctor in traditional medicine

Dhavala Pathram (White Paper)

It was that eventual morning for Vikraman, the thavala(frog), thaval, makri, mara makr. Vikraman was to present his white paper on why frogs were important to farmers alongside earthworms. Vikraman's paper was almost ready when he smelled Chelan, the chera(rat snake). Vikraman begged for forgiveness to the snake. But Chelan, being the hungry snake he always was, did not budge.

What about the Dhavala Pathram? -asked Vikraman.
What use is a Dhavala Pathram to a Thavala -asked Chelan.
Global warming -explained Vikraman.
My hunger? - asked Chelan.
With Global warming, there is no escape anyway -explained Vikraman.

Vikraman drew pictures in mud with his toe. Chelan's wary mind thought about the bigger problems of his world, Krishnan Nair's paddy field. They read the white paper together, ate earthworms and sang old folk songs.

Vikraman never published the paper, nor did he want to be Krishnan Nair's friend. It will suffice to say that, on an extremely hot day, Chelan's animal instincts over-powered his feelings of friendship.

Moral of the Story: Real friendships are not based on environmental causes.