by Gracy
Inside the room, Karthu’s hands were tightened like a vice around Black Ravunni’s ox-like neck. Within his bulging, reddened eyes, death was dancing the final steps of its macabre jig. Ravunni’s muscled hand was still on the handle of the dagger stuck deep in Karthu’s chest. As she leaned against the wall in her tattered blouse, Kallu’s open mouth dribbled a scream tasting of blood.
At one glance, people surmised exactly what must have happened. Kicking open the front door, Black Ravunni must have entered the house and grabbed Kallu who was not yet seventeen. Karthu, who had always guarded her daughter like the apple of her eye, would have leaped in between them like a fiercely protective mother tigress. A resolve sharper than Ravunni’s dagger must have entered Karthu’s mind, taking charge of her fingers.
As two or three young men from the gaping crowd stepped into the house, willing to face whatever might come, Ravunni collapsed. And Karthu fell right on top of him. A few words splattered into the air, as Karthu breathed her last: ‘Even if I have to die, I will not let my daughter be raped!’
The young men retreated, certain that they would hardly be able to escape from the trap of a police enquiry if they were to touch any of them at this stage.
Neighbour Shivaraman squatted on the ledge of the veranda and mumbled into the ears of darkness, ‘So unfortunate!’
Kannankutty, as black as a palm-tree stump, was Karthu’s husband. A first-class labourer. After shutting the door for a post-lunch nap, Kannankutty had opened another door to go to his death. Karthu was only twenty-one then. Many had advised her to secure her life again with a mangalyasuthra.25 Karthu insisted that her Kallu was enough for her. Rearing cattle and fowl, Karthu survived. Fed on surplus milk and eggs, Kallu turned into a growing wonder. Complexion of black granite. Eyes that extended to the edges of the face. Tremulous breasts. Curving hips. Whenever he met her, Shivaraman would tease her until she turned into a fuming, black Kali!26 Every time he teased her, calling her Karimkali, Kallu would, in pretended rage, sprout tusks with her index fingers poked into the edges of her mouth, let her crimson tongue hang out and make her eyes flare with rage, at which point Shivaraman would admit defeat: ‘Save me, my Goddess! Bhagavathi, save me!’
Hanging his memories on the hook of a sigh, Shivaraman asked, ‘Shouldn’t the police be informed?’
Entrusting Shivaraman to keep guard over the house, two or three of the bystanders left for the station.
The single policeman at the station was dozing. Letting his head fall on his chest, he snored even as he asked how much a lone policeman was supposed to deal with.
It was past ten in the morning when the police jeep finally arrived. Inspector Rarichan circled the dead bodies like a fretful rooster. It was in the middle of all this that he spotted Kallu. Savouring the taste of desire welling on his tongue, he summoned her close and asked a few particulars. He had by then decided that a thorough questioning could be done at the station.
The policemen were unable to separate the bodies. Finally, they had to shift them to the hospital, still conjoined. Inspector Rarichan ordered Kallu to get into the jeep. However, the locals intervened and stopped him. Twirling his moustache and grunting pointedly, the inspector got into the jeep, revved it until it roared, and took off.
It was dusk by the time the bodies were released after the post-mortem. Shivaraman and his mother tried hard to persuade Kallu to go home with them. But she merely stood there like a stone statue, with her empty eyes trained on the blazing pyre. She did not move even after the pyre had burnt down. Shivaraman kept her company.
The very next morning, policemen arrived and took Kallu to the station. When they heard the news, Shivaraman and the others followed them. Inspector Rarichan was the first one to go inside the dark room where Kallu was lodged. Twirling his moustache, he began in his usual style: ‘Daughter of a whore … you invited him at midnight and made him bump off your mother, didn’t you?’
Kallu’s eyes were transfixed on the inspector’s face. The inspector’s hand was heavy on her shoulder as he complimented her with a lewd smirk, ‘Aren’t you a ripe piece…!’
From the shoulder, his hand slid down to her breasts. Exactly at that moment, from the air, a pair of pincer-like arms descended between them. An emaciated bosom with a dagger wedged deep in it, and a face that blazed like a lighted torch, followed the hands. ‘Amma!’ The inspector shut his eyes tight to ward off the spectral vision. Suddenly dizzy, he stumbled out, deathly pale. Head constable Kuttan Pilla kept him from falling. ‘Water,’ the quivering voice managed to say. Handing him a glass of cold water that he poured out from an earthen water jug, Kuttan Pilla hurried into the inner room. Kallu stood clueless as to what had happened. He faced Kallu. ‘What did you do to the boss, girl?’ At once, Kuttan Pilla’s eyes popped out. The blood in the icy veins of that father of five daughters, who had started to grey and shrivel, began to warm up. With a stinking leer, he reached for her.
‘What’s so heavy on your chest?’
Assailed by the reek in the question, Kallu wrinkled her nose. Suddenly, between Kuttan Pilla’s hands and Kallu’s bosom, appeared a pair of pincers. They were followed by an emaciated bosom with a dagger wedged deep in it, and a face blazing with rage. ‘Bhagavathi!’ As if scalded, Kuttan Pilla retracted his arms and kept them on his grey chest. The policeman guarding the entrance heard the sound of something like a log being felled, and rushed in. Surveying both the fallen policeman and the stunned Kallu carefully, he quickly smothered a giggle. The guard’s eyes darted a quick glance outside the door, as he said, ‘Poor old man! Couldn’t cope with a siren like you…! Come here!’
As the policeman tried to gather Kallu into his arms, he saw the same eerie vision. ‘Oh, my Lord!’ he screamed as he jumped out.
Fed up with what was happening, Kallu too came out. Those who were standing here and there on the veranda and the front yard were relieved to note that Kallu had emerged without a scratch or bruise on her. ‘This is madness! Let’s go, Shivarametta.’27 Kallu hurried ahead.
That night, Karunakaran Thandar walked in with a smile that reeked of arrack. He began with a preface: ‘Your father, Kannankutty, and I were two bodies joined with a single heart. You hear me, girl?’ He continued, ‘You’re like my own daughter. Whatever you need, just say the word.’ He pressed her head, as if his hand was blessing her. After that, his hands made an investigation of her shiny black cheeks and slipped down to her throat. The sudden spectre that materialized pierced the hazy mist that had taken over his conscious mind. With a shriek, Karunakaran Thandar fell from the veranda and lay flat on his back in the front yard.
With that incident, the news about the phantom vision spread all over the village like forest fire. From then on, no one dared to look at the house, even if he happened to pass by.
Kallu acquired the habit of standing with her arms entwined around the pillar on the narrow veranda, staring intently at the pathway. Noticing the days blossoming aimlessly and falling like yellowing petals, she sighed.
One evening, while she was standing near the outer fence, grazing the cow, she spotted Shivaraman and hailed him to come closer. ‘I’m fed up with this life, Shivarametta!’ said Kallu with hope, twirling around her palm the rope used to tether the cow. Glancing at it, Shivaraman was silent, and Kallu proposed boldly, ‘Can’t you marry me, Shivarametta?’
Taking care not to look at Kallu, Shivaraman said, ‘Suppose we did indeed marry. Being husband and wife, we may occasionally have some small disagreements or the other. Perhaps I may even pick you up and give you a sound thrashing … and each time something like that happened, if your mother’s ghost were to jump in with her hands and dagger, what would I do? Why court trouble unnecessarily, my Kallu?’
Head bowed, Shivaraman walked away. Stunned, Kallu stood still for a long while. When the night began to advance, the cow dragged her home.
Kallu left the cow’s rope on the ground, shaking it off her palm, and went into the house. She stood in
front of the mirror she had bought from the festival held at the temple grove. A stone-faced Kallu stared back at her. As if in a dream, Kallu asked the Kallu in the mirror, ‘Why do you need such big eyes? To see what?’ She untied her abundant tresses that hung like the flower-clusters of wild palm as she lamented, ‘Who do you want to hide with all this hair?’ Caressing her breasts, she asked, ‘To feed whom do you need such bouncy breasts?’ She stared at the fingers wandering all over her tremulous body. Then she took down the mirror and threw it out into the front yard.
Rolling on the ground, Kallu cried her heart out.
(Kallu)
20
Doomsday
That midnight, Krishnankutty was not going to sleep. Lost in himself, he was meditating. In the meantime, Krishnankutty’s wife, Radha, was wrestling with the snobbish boasts of her neighbour Theresa, the wife of a Gulf expatriate. The dark clouds of jealousy gathering on her face clearly showed that she was losing the struggle. Retreating, she turned over to the other side and scolded Krishnankutty. As her lips moved, soundless words emerged, aiming to pierce through Krishnankutty’s chest. With trepidation, Krishnankutty watched Radha’s canines revealing themselves, their edges growing sharper. Barely hidden, her appetite for gold began flashing. Banging against Krishnankutty’s congealed silence, Radha’s words gradually lost their edge. Stopping her scolding, Radha started cursing herself. Worn out, soon she would start snoring.
Krishnankutty recoiled from the hissing sound emanating from Radha’s mouth. For some time now, a serpent had been living in Radha’s breath. Its hiss had turned Krishnankutty’s garden arid. In the valley of his sleep, Krishnankutty owned a garden. The ground beneath the fifty-one plants he had planted was ploughed and properly manured. In all of them, words flowered and spread their sweet aroma. Krishnankutty always started his day by inhaling the refreshing smell, drawing it into his soul. But this serpent had not been letting him take even a single step into sleep.
In the morning, Radha looked daggers at Krishnankutty who was sitting on his haunches on the bed.
‘Aren’t you going to the office today?’
He grunted indifferently. Radha hurried into the kitchen. After finishing her chores and sending the children to school, she repeated the question. This time, there was not even a grunt. Shoving the lunchbox inside her bag, Radha muttered irritably, ‘Anyway, I can’t not go. I have no leave left. Loan for the flat, kids’ fees and four bellies to fill! What’s the point of talking about it? Can the plans drawn by destiny be erased?’
Radha stomped out of the house. Krishnankutty wailed. Ha! The relationships between human beings now swung, dangling from numbers.
2.
Sitting at the table on the balcony, Krishnankutty began to write:
Doctor, the game of numbers is turning nastier. When they began to jump amidst the files and make faces, I ignored them. They were no better than clowning monkeys. However, they waited on trees, patiently watching my moves closely. Exhausted from lugging the burden of dreams, I finally dragged myself to rest beneath the trees. I dozed off for a moment. And they scrambled down from the branches and took over my dreams one by one. After turning them upside down, and inspecting them by sniffing and chewing, they went up the tree again. When I woke up, my bundle of dreams was empty. I remembered that old folk tale. I pelted them with the only dream left with me. A naughty monkey caught that as well. None of them threw down any of the dreams they had with them, the way the monkeys in the old tale did. When I sat there on the ground, with my head heavy in my hands, the Bhagavathi idol in the attic of our ancestral home kissed me on the crown of my head, and the smell of breast milk spread all over. The music of anklets followed me all the way. Again, I gathered dreams. But that’s when the numbers began to march and trample all over them.
Doctor, have you observed them? When number 1 stands upright, rooted in the ground and staring arrogantly, worms of irritation invade my body. Number 2 is like a hooded snake. Watching it crawl forward, striking everyone en route, our blood would freeze. Ha! Number 3, like a pimp, bends over with greed and slyness. A slimy smile on the lips. What recourse is left for us but to run without looking back? When number 4 reigns supreme on a throne, one leg crossed over the other, the sour realization that we are all still in chains makes us lose control of our consciousness. Who can confront 5, which pushes its way forward and triumphs by practising each of the chaturupayangal28 one by one? No one can touch the heart of 6 which is pitiless, its back turned to sorrows and laments. Can one withstand the cruelty of 7, which has crushed all softness and stands with its head upright? Doesn’t 8, despite all its wanderings, fall back on the same selfishness that suffocates us? Aren’t we disarmed by the duplicity of 9, which publicly decries how values have been overturned, but always tears them to shreds in private? As for 0, it shuts all the doors to the outside and crushes us. Certain that I wouldn’t be able to escape them, I collapsed, until I was roused by the scorching brilliance of the Bhagavathi’s sacred sword. It was the Bhagavathi who advised me to fight numbers with words. She showed me the signs too. Wasn’t that why all the white roses in the balcony turned red?
3.
Radha looked up from the paper.
‘Who is this doctor? Is this a letter or a story? If there was a Bhagavathi in the attic of the tharavad, wouldn’t your mother have told me?’
‘Radha, listen,’ Krishnankutty began. ‘For the menfolk of Kunnath House, marital happiness was never in their destiny. The story behind this belief is rooted in ancient lore. The Bhagavathi was brought over in a large boat to be ensconced in a newly built temple, with the usual accoutrements of a ceremonial umbrella, a fan of peacock feathers, and whisk made from the tail of a yak.
When the boat came ashore, it was Elder Uncle who took down the Bhagavathi’s idol from the boat. Suddenly, the Bhagavathi revealed her real self. Dishevelled tresses flowing down to touch the floor, covering her ankles. Eyes lit with oil lamps. Moist red lips. Splendorous breasts sheathed in silk. A sixteen-year-old. Elder Uncle was a lithe young man. A warrior. Still, before the Bhagavathi’s eyes, he felt drained. He fell at her feet and cried, ‘Do not abandon this devotee!’ Thinking that Elder Uncle had gone mad, the priest and his entourage carried away the icon. However much they tried, the icon refused to stay on its pedestal. Finally, the priests were summoned to conduct a ritual to identify the problem. It was revealed that the Bhagavathi had left with Elder Uncle and was installed in the attic of the house. Everyone begged Elder Uncle to let go off the Bhagavathi. Finally, he was forced to agree. Blessing him and assuring him that her presence would never leave him, she left. The men of this house continue to lust after the Bhagavathi. Then the lust melts and clarifies into devotion. The wives only have second place in their hearts.’
Radha’s face darkened. ‘These days you always come up with such phoney stories. It’s a ploy to avoid the real issues. Men always use such means. But what about women? Where will they hide?’
Krishnankutty touched Radha on her shoulder. ‘Radha, to try and solve those issues, I’m going to apply for a long leave.’
Radha was shocked. ‘Leave? On what account? If it’s going to be with loss of pay, things will turn upside down here. Look at the good fortune of women like Theresa! When God gives, he gives in abundance. And look at a man like you…’
Radha started crying.
4.
Doctor, when I took down the calendar, Radha shouted at me saying that only the jobless would do things like that. ‘Don’t I go to the office? And the children to school? Can we erase days and dates from our minds?’ – this is how Radha rails on and on, refusing to understand that a wall free of days bordered and guarded by dates will make life brilliant. That office superintendent, whose head is stuffed with limestone, doesn’t understand either. I had substituted all the numbers in the office files with words. He not only issued a warning, but also forced me to root the words out and replant the numbers. Then one syllable ‘ka’ settled in my
lap like a dove and asked if it wouldn’t be better to use Sthirajeevi’s29 tactics to demolish the enemy. Caressing the shining blueness in its feathers, I replied tenderly, ‘Beloved, that trick was successful only because owls are blind by day. The eyes of these vulture numbers will never close.’
That’s how I decided to immerse myself in writing books. This is not just a dictionary, Doctor. The etymology of words. The dilutions that set in through time. Clues to sharpen words. New islets of meanings. Greenness! Ha! What I’m creating is going to be a rare work. Still, whenever I start my work on this, that secret agent of the numbers will begin his sorcery on the other side. Look! Watch through this wall which has become transparent. Look at him performing potent sorcery with the ash from the burnt menstrual clothing of virgins, the heads of fowls and black cats. How then can I finish my book, Doctor? What about the problems that will arise if it remains incomplete? A deluge of numbers! In that doomsday deluge, not just me, but Radha, my children, and you too, Doctor, will drown. It’s to prevent that, that I’m on leave and struggling so much. I just catch a catnap in the afternoon. In my sleep, I constantly travel on a ship called ‘ka’, my head held high like a captain at the helm. When my ship touches the horizon, I lift my head with a smile! Ha! And then, abruptly, my ship sinks with a blast that shatters the eardrums! I’m battling sharks. No, numbers. I drown in the darkness in the belly of some number.
5.
A sly smile hid in Radha eyes as she came in through the door. When she stood, hands pressed on the table, the smile wagged its tail and jumped out to scratch him all over his face: ‘Theresa’s husband died when his car crashed into a camel.’
Krishnankutty turned pale. His head fell back on the headrest of the chair. Walking towards the kitchen, Radha reminded him in a brutal voice, ‘She’s going into her final month.’
