by Rao, Raja
Man is protected. You could not be without a mother. You are always a child. The wife is she who makes you the child. That is why our children resemble us men.
And no sooner is the mind made up, than the hand does. For one morning—or was it evening?—it must have been evening, for I could see him with his body bare down to the waist, fresh with a cool bath, a cigarette in his hand (he would not smoke before his morning meal), Govindan Nair came to see me. Fat in his big presence, he stood at the door not wanting to disturb me with his smoke. I adjusted my glasses and looked up. (I must have been at my Malayalarajyam. I was away in the Hitler wars and Churchill communiques.)
He said: ‘Sir, it’s done.’
I said: ‘What?’
‘I say, sir, it is done. The thing is done. You have it when you want.’ I think I understood. But I was not sure. I was afraid to know lest the knowing be false. So I said: ‘Which?’
He said: ‘That.’
I was dumbfounded. ‘And that is?’
‘That is this,’ he said as if he had said everything. He loved, because of his big heart, to say obvious things in parables, and make you think it was all such a small affair. He was like Bhima.7 You want the flower of paradise? Why, here I go and come. And Hanuman himself will help, Hanuman his half-brother, unknown unto Bhima. Everybody is half-brother to you, man and thing. So why worry? That seemed the principle on which Govindan Nair worked: I am, so you are my brother.
‘It’s done.’ And he placed the book in front of me. It was covered with yellowed newspaper. It looked like a school exercise book. He had copied Astavakra Samhita,8 and he often carried it with him. He liked to recite ‘Aho Aham Namo Mahyam Yasyame Nastikinchana.’9 He opened the book and started reading it out to me in beautiful Sanskrit. Though a Brahmin I knew less Sanskrit than he. And I understood even less. He recited verse after verse. (Shridhar brought us our coffee.) He read several chapters right through as if they said what he wanted to say. Then abruptly he closed the book with his left hand and started looking at the newspaper. He liked politics. He admired courage. He always loved people who went in search of the paradise flower. It meant you became half-brother to mankind. Govindan Nair loved slipping in two rupees and five rupees through windows where a child cried. He thought his intentions would help. Fortunately his wife had lands, and the rice came in plentifully. Otherwise, how to live on forty-five rupees a month, a second clerk in Ration Office No. 66? Or buy houses, you understand.
Life is a riddle that can be solved with a riddle. You can remove a thorn with another thorn, you solve one problem through another problem. Thus the world is connected. The ration shop is meant to fight famine, and famine is there because there is war, and war because of the British, and the British because of whom? Danes, Normans, etc., say the textbooks. But actually who cares? If you fight the British in the ration shop, you solve the British problem. If you have the British bubo, you take the horse-dung medicine of Narayan Pandita Vaidyan. You get a disease from Benghazi and Narayan Pandita Vaidyan cures this unknown. The unknown alone resolves the unknown. So, brother, work and be merry, distribute cards in Ration Office No. 66. ‘Shridhar, go and tell your mother my friend is languishing because he has no strength in his limbs. His flower of paradise is coffee bean. When it is burned black and its powder is made into a collation, its effect on limbs and mind is excellent, for intellect and heart. Sir, let us go on to our Astavakra.’
Govindan Nair sat on the veranda of my house. He forgot his food. My stomach was bubbling with demand. Fortunately the coffee had come in once again. Till nine o’clock, he read the Astavakra Samhita from any where to the very end, and then he said: ‘I have done a good job. I have explained to the Brahmin what Brahman is. “Brahmin is he who knows Brahman,” etc., etc. Ruling princes taught sadhus the Truth in the Upanishadic times. Now Nairs alone can teach the Truth in the world.’ I knew at once he was right. He was right. He is right. He will ever be right.
‘Isn’t it time to be coming home?’ whispered Tangamma from the wall. ‘The children have gone to sleep.’
‘Good night, sir,’ he said as if he had said what he wanted to say to me, and jumped across the wall—there was such flowing moonlight on the bilva tree. I walked thoughtfully along the road to the Home Friends. Would they still have chapattis. A hungry stomach is a bad friend. It smells bad. There were chapattis, Ananthkrishnan said, and I felt good.
Ration Office No. 66 is just above Ration Shop No. 181. As I told you, it is on Statue Road, between the Secretariat and the General Hospital, beside the mansion of Justice Varadaraj Iyengar (the man known in Trivandrum for having hanged more people in his lifetime than any other living magistrate. For him evil was concrete, and he had it removed from the mass of mankind. So he gave the best punishment. ‘It makes our daughters hope for better marriages,’ he said. And it did). Varadaraj Iyengar, of course, as everybody knows, finally died, and he died far away and well, in some Himalayan hermitage he had constructed overlooking the young Ganges. Nobody did him any harm. People knew he was just. He lived like a hermit, with but one family servant, and he died peacefully reciting some mantra. His ashes were flown to Benares. Thus he died a happy man.
Just next to this mansion, almost touching his casuarina tree at the door, is Ration Shop No. 181. It is an old garage of Mr Shiva Shankra Pillai, the retired Tahsildar, who himself married from Mavelikara, that is from just where Her Highness the Maharani comes. Shiva Shankra Pillai had two sons and both of them turned bad. One enlisted and went to the wars a subaltern. The other opened a cloth shop at Chalai, and is doing good business. The daughter married well; she is the daughter-in-law of Kunni Krishna Menon and she lives happily. All that is old is stable. Otherwise how could you say it is stable? It is stable because it is traditional. So Kunni Krishna Menon, with huge estates run well, continued the tradition of his ancestors. He and his wife amassed a fortune—thus Shiva Shankra Pillai’s daughter was happy. Her children often came to see their grandfather and usually went through the ration shop up to the ration office. The garage had drivers’ quarters at the top. This and the garage were extended so that the ration shop and office ran all over the pentagonal shapes, with four rooms at the top and five at the bottom.
The children liked to play among the chillies and tamarind, for these were sold as a side line by the ration-shop vendor to make a little extra money. His programme was, he who eats rice cannot eat it alone, so why not make some more profit? Government or no government, who is there to come and see? Sometimes the children went and sat in the huge scales, shouting and chaffing, one weighing against the other till the women, who came with their baskets and sacks, would jerk and let the scale go from one side to the other as if it were a cradle. And the louder shouted the children, the wilder became the crowd. Meanwhile people from the street came rushing forward to see the fun, and old ladies standing in the queue would say: ‘The sun is hot for us. The fun is over now. Why make us hunger more?’ And from the staircase of the ration office, a head or two would show, to prove that under the office is the ration shop, and one should not play with such serious things. What is this nonsense going on? The first to come would of course be Govindan Nair, his underclothes showing (it was always too hot for him) and a pen in his hand. He had a long nose, pointed and expressive, and when he turned anywhere, it was as if he could speak with his nose. He looked at the children and laughed. Then, going to the scale, he pushed the needle to the middle and said: ‘Everything in the world weighs the same. Look, look!’ And the women looked up and saw and said: ‘Of course, look, everybody weighs the same. How did he do it?’ The children lost some fun. But when he let go, he did so with a bump, and the younger child went up shouting: ‘Father! Father!’ Then he caught hold of one of the children of the crowd and set it against the uplifted child. The scale went down with a thud. The elder child, called Gopi, cried. ‘Gopi, Gopi,’ said Govindan Nair, ‘you can’t always be at the top. Even Hitler some time has to come down. Now, children, you g
o home to grandpapa. When you come next time I’ll build you a swing in the garden. And I will sit with you under the casuarina tree. And we shall see the sky.’ Meanwhile, half of the ration office staff—except, of course, the boss, Bhoothalinga Iyer (he lived in the fort near the temple, an honest, disgruntled man with a hair knot on his head, namam10 on his face, and a Ramayana on his lap; so he sat, looking after the ration office)—would come down.
There are very few interesting faces in the ration office. Abraham is a Syrian Christian from Nagercoil, and he looks the very image of Christ with his flat face and longish beard. He hurts no one, he earns enough for his childless wife and himself, and he smokes incessantly. Sometimes he talks poetry to Govindan Nair, especially of Eletchan,11 and they compare notes on Malayalam words. When everything is over, Govindan Nair will say: ‘Man, how can you know Malayalam? You have to be a Nair.’ Abraham accepted this as an axiom. Only a Nair can know Malayalam. Only a Nair can belong to Malabar. Only a Nair can see right. Look at the boss, Bhoothalinga Iyer. He can no more understand truth than the buffalo can see a straight line.
Velayudhan Nair is the opposite number of Govindan Nair. He is tall and fair and shouts at the top of his voice that his father was a Brahmin. That does not make him equal either to Bhoothalinga Iyer or to Govindan Nair. He is one with one and other with the other. He manipulates ration cards with a facility that makes everybody wonder whether he learned street jugglery.
There was the famous case of Ration Card No. 65477919, which just disappeared from the office. The register marked the name Appan Pillai, of Medi Vithu, Palayam. The thumb impression of Appan Pillai was there. His people said they have been getting the right rations, but when asked about the card, they said they never received it. Inquiries brought forward four or five such cases. Govindan Nair just joked. He knew A from B as he knew left eye from right eye. He knew just enough about the matter to show Velayudhan Nair he knew. So Velayudhan Nair smiled at him and thought his colleague too would know what was to be known and perform what was to be performed. After all, sir, it is wartime and everybody has children. Two is the limit—but then if you have three—on forty-seven rupees, how can you feed a third child? Especially if it has a bit of difficulty in the spleen? Three years old and she has the belly of one of eight. Spleen may be just a pouch on the left side of man but it gives infinite trouble. It makes the child bloat and cry. What can you do with a child’s cry? Doctors are expensive—even government doctors. They don’t take fees, but they like gifts. What is the gift for a good-sized spleen? Thirty rupees, etc., etc.
Velayudhan Nair’s wife, when you see her at a cinema, has an array of gold bangles on her hands. She inherited some money from her aunt. We all have aunts; why don’t we inherit? is a pertinent question and Govindan Nair, who is pertinence itself, asked it. He was interested in children, in houses for children, in medicines for spleen that bloats, etc. When one is curious one can know anything. It’s like the kitten seeking the cat, etc. (I use etc. because that is exactly Govindan Nair’s language. It comes from working in offices disinterestedly, he says, does Govindan Nair.)
So, to use his phrase, the cat came out of the bag. It was a big cat and the bag was a gunnysack. It smelled peculiarly of rice. There’s a saying of Kabir they often quoted in the ration shop: On each grain of rice is writ the name of he who’ll eat it. The ration card is the proof. Medicine for spleen is proof of the ration card. The child is proof of his father, said Velayudhan Nair, showing his child to Govindan Nair. ‘My son has no spleen. He has malaria or filaria, I don’t know what it is,’ said Govindan Nair. ‘You must take him to a decent doctor,’ said Velayudhan Nair. ‘Who is your doctor? ‘ asked Govindan Nair. ‘Why, Doctor Velu Pillai, MBBS, MRCP from Edinburgh. Specialist in children’s diseases.’ ‘My son is seven years old. He is neither a child nor a man. So where shall we take him?’ laughed Govindan Nair. ‘Why,’ replied Velayudhan Nair, ‘I have just the fellow for that. You come here tomorrow at five. And we’ll settle it.’
‘Ah, sir, the cat is out of the bag,’ he said, coming to see me that evening. Hitler was winning his wars. The prices went up. The British army poured into India. India sent rice to Persia. Russia attacked the German left flank. Von Boch was hurtling towards Moscow. Von Rundstedt’s armies rushed towards Kiev. The Dnieper Dam was blasted. Paris decreed against Jews. Roosevelt was wiping his spectacles—that was one of the pictures stuck against the wall in our office. We liked Roosevelt because we hated Churchill. We love what we cannot have. When we have it, we have it not, because what it is not, is what we want, and thus on to the wall. The mother cat alone knows. It takes you by the skin of your neck, and takes you to the loft. It alone loves. Sir, do you know love? O Lord, I want to love. I want to love all mankind. Why should there be spleen when in fact there is no malaria? Why don’t children sit in scales and play the game of ration cards? Who plays, Lord, who plays? ‘Give unto me love that I love,’ such was the prayer that went up from across my garden wall to the nowhere.
‘How is Shantha?’ asked Govindan Nair abruptly, as if suddenly he had seen the mother cat with the kitten, and I said: ‘She was asking your wife about a good maternity doctor. Dr Krishna Veni Amma is no good. She is too young. Do you know of one?’
‘Yes,’ he said. ‘I am seeing a child’s doctor tomorrow. I think he will do.’
What is a doctor? One who knows diseases is the simplest definition. One who knows a wound and heals a pain is a doctor.
Five o’clock on any watch (including the clock on the Secretariat) is the same moment all over the world. But not the same hour, for the world is regulated by the watch. Pray, what is a watch? A thing that turns on itself and shows the moon. What is the moon? The thing that turns on itself and (elliptically) goes around the sun. And what is the sun? The sun is a luminary that made the earth—the grasses rise green on the sward; the clouds form; the dawn comes; the cattle go home; man puts manhood into woman and the child is born; the tree shoots into the air, and birds sit on it; houses rise, houses, and our children, when they are born, are well looked after . . . Eagles circle. That is all due to the sun. And the moon. And the clock on the Secretariat. (If the government did not run, then who would pay whose debt?) So, at five-fifteen, Velayudhan Nair went over to the table of Govindan Nair (and what an ocean of ration cards was there, with cigarette butts, shirt buttons, broom grass for cleaning the ears, sandal paste—on little banana leaves—dry flowers, books—Eletchan and one or two books on Vedanta—and in the drawers would be pencils, razor blades, stitching needles, and pice. To buy a cigarette the pice is easier to give than an anna. Copper makes the waste simpler, and the boss does not mind it as long as it is cheap and he knows you are not making money on ration cards. Two rupees a ration card is the official black-market price, if you want to know. If you have children you can have ten cards. To have ten children is permitted by law. And the doctors have no objection. ‘So we have ten children. Look how well fed I look. My wife has a ruby earring. Look, look at her,’ etc., etc.).
Velayudhan Nair says: ‘Man, we go to the doctor.’ Velayudhan Nair always began every sentence with Man, for he had been to Bombay. In Colaba every De Souza says: Man. This they learned from the P & O ships. And P & O ships touch Plymouth. Do they say ‘Man’ there, one wonders.
‘So, man, we go to the doctor,’ he repeated.
‘Mr Man, I come,’ said Govindan Nair. He sometimes used Mister to show he too could be elegant. He called his son Mr Shridhar. (‘Mr Shridhar, go and get me a chew,’ ‘Mr Shridhar, the thing that father puffs is wanted,’ etc., etc. Mr Shridhar therefore brought the chew tobacco or that which father puffs, according to orders.)
Velayudhan Nair: ‘Man, it is hot.’
Govindan Nair: ‘Mister, it cannot be cold in April.’
Velayudhan Nair (wiping his face): ‘Yes, but we will have to wait at the doctor’s.’
Govindan Nair: ‘Why, is he such a busy man?’
Velayudhan Nair: ‘Busy? He is as
busy as he wants to be.’
So we go, said Velayudhan Nair, and Govindan Nair pulled the shirt over his body and there they were going to the doctor. The doctor lived off the main road, before you come to the temple. You know, as you go down after the railway bridge, there are a number of cloth shops. Then if you turn to the right—the first lane after where the policeman stands—you come to a small square.
A pleasant rain began to fall. It was refreshing, this cool shower of the heavens. They went up an ordinary tier of house steps, knocked at a much-knobbed door (more like houses in Madras than here), and they entered. It was a living house, obviously, for there was a bronze swing at the far end of the corridor, in the huge hall, where there were many lights. Perhaps the clouds had made the house dark. Suddenly the sun shone and the lights went off. There were many ladies inside the house. There were also some men.
‘The doctor is a busy man. Let me go and see,’ said Velayudhan Nair, and went towards the swing.
Govindan Nair sat on a sofa and started reading the Cheeranjivi.
