by Nair, Anita
‘I don’t think she does.’ Krishnan shook his head.
‘What makes you think so?’
‘I saw you two walking up the road. If she loved you, you would have been sharing her umbrella.’
‘She asked. I said no because I was wet and dripping anyway.’
‘That’s not the point.’
‘Maybe you’re right.’
‘Or maybe she’s still in two minds about you.’
‘What do I do?’
‘Help make up her mind.’ Krishnan poured the dregs of the bottle evenly into both glasses, and offered Ramu his. He put the stove off, took a spoon and transferred the eggs into a mug of cold water. ‘You know, sort of influence her decision.’
‘How do I do that?’
‘I’m not sure.’ Krishnan shelled the eggs. Then he took a knife, dipped it in a pot of pepper and salt, and carefully cut each egg vertically into four pieces, so each piece had its share of the frills. ‘Have an egg,’ he said.
‘I love her like crazy.’
‘Abduct her.’
‘Are you mad? And?’
‘Make love to her.’
‘And?’
‘Make her your woman, man.’
‘This is Smirnoff talking.’
‘You’ve no balls.’
‘If I carry out your idea, I might land in jail.’
‘Well, that’s not such a bad thing, if you’re hoping to become a writer.’
‘On the other hand, she might fall in love with me.’ Hell, on the other hand, I’m drunk, Ramu thought. Very drunk, and very wanting Geetha. Ramu want, want. He looked at Krishnan and saw that Krishnan was in many places. Maya in the marketplace? On the other hand, Krishnan, you’re a bloody god. The other hand was the one you had to look out for. That was the tricky hand.
‘That other hand’s a good hand,’ Krishnan said.
‘Will you help me abduct her?’
‘Maybe I will. We’ve got to be careful, kid.’
‘What the hell, we’ll be careful. You bet we’ll be careful.’
‘Very careful.’
‘Very, very careful,’ Ramu agreed.
‘Strike while the iron is hot.’
‘Discretion is the better part of valour.’
‘Cowards die a thousand deaths.’
‘To sleep, perchance to dream,’ Ramu said, and crumbled to the floor.
Krishnan had his egg. He sat there, on the floor, staring at Ramu for some time. Still staring at him, Krishnan ate the leftovers from Ramu’s plate. Then his hands dived into the depths of the blue trunk again, and came up with a shirt. He shoved Ramu’s hands into its oversized sleeves, buttoned the shirt up. He opened the door of the shop and put his palm out. The rain had stopped. And the road was deserted.
He sat Ramu on the carrier of his old military-green Hercules cycle, and pushed him forward so his head rested on the saddle. With one hand round Ramu’s back, Krishnan rolled the cycle up the road towards Ramu’s home. It took him a good forty minutes. Once there, he got off the cycle, flexed his heavy muscles under the one star which had made a shy appearance right in the middle of the low-hung roiling dark sky, and lifted Ramu off the cycle onto his shoulder. The house was in the dark. Krishnan gently leaned Ramu against the door, and pressed the bell twice. Then he turned around and walked, and heard Ramu hit the floor in a heap just as he reached his cycle. Krishnan cycled fast towards his shop. He hoped the bananas wouldn’t rot in the rain. He looked up. The star was missing. It was a good night to abduct. A season to sin.
The Swamp
Kamala Das
This poem is taken from Only the Soul Knows How to Sing: Selections from Kamala Das, published by DC Books.
in malabar during the rains after one singularly dark week and one hot morning our backyard was a swamp my feet cracked the grey crust and i sank with a wail my lover ageing without grace says why do you want my child i am your child yes yes yes then again and again this tragic sport that has made of us its addicts he undressing my soul effortlessly blindly reaching the locus of anguish but still i shake my head i leave unsatisfied for what does he bare for me on the bed in his study except his well tanned body
the bhagavatis oracle took two steps forward to swing back again the chosen one with the long hair the waistlet of bells and the scimitar he spoke to my great grandmother in a warble not his own i shall protect
your descendants from illness and untimely death is this not enough and the old one her hands folded her eyes closed said yes it is enough i cannot ask for more
virtue is the richest jewel said my great grandmother she wore invisible jewels that respected one while the family sold every bit of gold to retrieve lost land the maids turned anaemic i was born fair but within months like the rolled gold bangles on my ayahs arms my skin grew tarnished i was the first dark girl in the family there was something tainted in me of this i was aware but my mother told my bridegroom be gentle she is the most innocent being you will ever meet
when i was ill my three year old son was brought to me amma he said leave this hospital come home with me even if i had died that week i would have walked as a ghost to my home
and him so much of me was taken out and sent in jam jars to the pathological lab but what the lab did not need lay under white sheets in room number five sixty five and thought longingly of that little boy
my beloved is armed with cunning and violent hate and mistrust but he comes to my arms unarmed and when the last of strengths in drops is shed i call him my baby i hold him to my breast but often after taking leave i open his door and see him at his desk signing letters with the glasses on with the stern look with the do you want something the change is so complete that i am silent and in silence must move away
i am the tainted bush the poisonous snakes retreat at three a m while the others sleep i have no name of my own and my past is a desolate terrain where memory like tall trees grow to my malabar home years ago on hot noons the devil dancers came walking past the bright rice fields behind them the pariahs reed wailed a long wail rising from the heat like a ribbon of pain
he is the richest the strongest the deadliest i lit one thousand and one lamps at our snakeshrine praying for a mate such as he he said power and money two and two make not four but twenty two he is simple politics and a little bit of love each day he did not read books or walk on marine drive or swim i am the puppet on his string virtue is the richest jewel said my great grandmother yes yes i know but he is the jewel i prefer to wear he rubs oil on me he puts me in his bathtub i cower before his incurious stare the warm water grazing my harbours his eyelids droop he is about to fall asleep like frankensteins brutal toy i shall rise one day i shall stalk out of his bed i shall walk along the marine drive he will then become just another man just another season and the summer then will burn to ashes in his garden
Notes on Contributors
Balachandran Chullikkad, one of Kerala’s best-known and loved poets, has published six collections of poetry and a book of memoirs.
Alexander Frater is a travel writer based in the UK. He has contributed to many publications, including Punch and the New Yorker, and is the author of the best-selling Beyond the Blue Horizon.
Shashi Tharoor is the author of The Great Indian Novel, Show Business, India: From Midnight to the Millennium and Riot. He is based in New York.
C.V. Raman Pillai (1858–1922) graduated from the University of Madras in 1881, was the founder–editor of Malayali and contributed to other Malayalam and English dailies. Marthanda Varma, published in 1891, was his first attempt at fiction, and was the first book of a trilogy of historical romances written by him.
B.K. Menon (1907–1952) was educated in Ernakulam and Madras. He gave up his job as the Secretary of Nedungadi Bank in his early thirties to concentrate on his writing. He wrote poetry in Malayalam and articles and short stories in English. Marthanda Varma was his only major work of translation.
V.K. Madhavan Kutty is a senior journalist and writer bas
ed in New Delhi. He is the author of The Southern Discomfort, a book that explores the North-South divide in India.
Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai (1912–1999) is the author of more than twenty-five novels. The Scavenger’s Son (1947) was the first work to win him acclaim. Chemmeen, Two Measures of Rice and Kayar are some of his well-known novels. He was awarded the Padma Bhushan in 1985.
V.K. Narayana Menon was one of the first Ph.Ds in English in India. In the course of a long and distinguished career, he served as the Director General of All India Radio and the Chairman of the Sangeet Natak Academy.
Jeet Thayil’s third collection of poems, English, co-published by Rattapallax Press in New York and Penguin Books India in New Delhi, will appear in Spring 2003. He lives in New York City where he writes for a newspaper and teaches poetry.
William Dalrymple’s first book In Xanadu was shortlisted for the John Llewellyn Rhys Memorial Prize. Other books include City of Djinns, From the Holy Mountain, The Age of Kali and White Mughals: Love and Betrayal in Eighteenth-century India.
Vaikkom Muhammad Basheer (1908–1994), one of Kerala’s finest writers, has written several books in Malayalam, of which the best-known is Me Grandad ’Ad An Elephant. He revolutionized the art of story-telling in Malayalam using lively, colloquial idiom to describe everyday matters. He was awarded the Padma Shri in 1982.
V. Abdulla retired as Divisional Director of Orient Longman. He has translated the works of Vaikkom Muhammad Basheer, M.T. Vasudevan Nair and S.K. Pottekkat among others.
Ammu Joseph is a writer and media-watcher based in Bangalore. Among her publications are two books: Whose News? The Media and Women’s Issues, co-authored/edited with Kalpana Sharma (Sage, 1994) and Women in Journalism: Making News (The Media Foundation/Konark, 2000).
Abu Abraham is a well-known columnist. His books include Abu on Bangladesh, Emergency, Private Views and Arrival and Departure. He has also edited the Penguin Book of Indian Cartoons. He lives in Thiruvananthapuram.
O.V. Vijayan broke new ground in Malaylam literature with his novel The Legends of Khasak. Since then, he has published several novels, short stories and essays. He is also an accomplished political cartoonist.
Pankaj Mishra is the author of a travel book, Butter Chicken in Ludhiana, and a novel, The Romantics.
Jayanth Kodkani, a senior journalist with The Times of India, resides in Bangalore.
M.T. Vasudevan Nair has won the Jnanpith as well as the State and Central Sahitya Akademi awards for his contribution to Malayalam literature. He is the editor of the leading Malayalam daily Mathrubhumi and is also a successful screenplay writer with several award-winning films to his credit.
Gita Krishnankutty has translated several Malayalam novels and short stories into English, including the work of M.T. Vasudevan Nair, Paul Zacharia, Lalithambika Antherjanam and Kamala Das.
Suresh Menon, one of India’s youngest newspaper editors, is currently writing a book. His son shows no serious aftereffects of having had his father sing Yesudas lullabies to him.
Ayyappa Panikker is an academician, poet and critic based in Thiruvananthapuram.
Salman Rushdie is the author of Midnight’s Children (the ‘Booker of Bookers’), Grimus, Shame, Haroon and the Sea of Stories, The Moor’s Last Sigh, The Ground Beneath Their Feet and Fury.
Lalithambika Antherjanam (1909–1987) is the author of many collections of short stories and one novel, Agnisakshi, which won the Sahitya Akademi Award. Most of her stories reveal the little-known world inhabited by the Namboodiri women of her time and the agonizing experiences they endured because of the severe social restrictions they had to live with.
Paul Zacharia is one of Kerala’s best-selling writers. Three collections of his stories exist in English translation: Bhaskara Pattelar and Other Stories, Reflections of a Hen in Her Last Hour and Praise the Lord: What News, Pilate?
A.J. Thomas is the Assistant Editor of Indian Literature, the journal of the Sahitya Akademi. He has translated the work of Paul Zacharia among others.
Ravi Menon is a senior sports journalist who lives and works in Kozhikode, Kerala.
M. Mukundan was born in Mahe (Mayyazhi), a former French enclave in Kerala. He is the author of twenty-seven books in Malayalam including a selection of essays and a play. He won the Sahitya Akademi Award in 1993 and his novel On the Banks of the Mayyazhi won the Crossword Award for Indian language fiction in English translation (1998). The second Mayyazhi novel, God’s Mischief, has just been published by Penguin Books India.
Bill Aitken is Scottish by birth and a naturalized Indian by choice. He has written on travel and tourism for newspapers and magazines in India and is also the author of several books including The Nanda Devi Affair, Seven Sacred Rivers and Riding the Ranges: Travels on My Motorcycle.
Arundhati Roy is the author of The God of Small Things, which won the Booker Prize in 1997, and The Algebra of Infinite Justice, a collection of essays. She lives in New Delhi.
Shashi Warrier is the author of three thrillers—Night of the Krait, The Orphan and Sniper—as well as two books for children—The Hidden Continent and Suzy’s Gift.
Shreekumar Varma is a poet and playwright, and has written a novel Lament of Mohini (Penguin) and a book for children, The Royal Rebel. He has completed a second novel, Maria’s Room, and is working on a biography of Chennai city.
Jaishree Mishra is the author of Ancient Promises and Accidents Like Love and Marriage. She lives in London and is currently working on her third novel.
Vijay Nambisan is a poet and journalist, whose published works include Bihar Is in the Eye of the Beholder and Gemini, a two-poet volume which features a selection of his poems.
Ramachandra Guha is based in Bangalore. He is the editor of The Picador Book of Cricket and the author of A Corner of a Foreign Field: The Indian History of a British Sport.
David Davidar is the author of The House of Blue Mangoes.
Geeta Doctor is a Chennai-based journalist and writer who writes on art and literature. Never having lived in Kerala, she does not believe in ancestral home worship but nonetheless finds Keralites an endless source of amusement.
C.P. Surendran was born in Ottapalam, Kerala. He started his career as a lecturer in English, before he took up journalism. He is a Senior Assistant Editor with The Times of India, Mumbai. His poetry collections are Gemini II, Posthumous Poems and Canaries On the Moon. He has stopped writing poetry and is currently working on a novel, an extract from which has been carried in this volume.
Kamala Das (Suraiya) is an award-winning poet, fiction writer and essayist who writes with equal felicity in Malayalam and English. She is based in Kochi.
Copyright Acknowledgements
The editor and the publishers gratefully acknowledge the following for permission to reprint copyright material:
The Random House Group Limited for the extract from The Moor’s Last Sigh by Salman Rushdie, published by Jonathan Cape;
IndiaInk for the extract from The Village Before Time;
East West Books for ‘The Garden of the Antlions’ by Paul Zacharia and the extract from On the Banks of the Mayyazhi by M. Mukundan;
Permanent Black for the extract from An Anthropologist Among the Marxists and Other Essays by Ramachandra Guha;
Prema Jayakumar and the Sahitya Akademi for the extract from Marthanda Varma by C.V. Raman Pillai;
Stree for the extract from Cast Me Out if You Will: Stories and Memoirs by Lalithambika Antherjanam; original Malayalam text © Saritha Varma, this English translation © Gita Krishnankutty;
Kerala Sahitya Akademi for ‘The Blue Light’ by Vaikom Muhammad Basheer;
Jaico Publishing House for the extract from Chemmeen by Thakazhi Sivasankara Pillai;
Penguin Books India for extracts from India: From Midnight to the Millennium by Shashi Tharoor, Chasing the Monsoon by Alexander Frater, Butter Chicken in Ludhiana by Pankaj Mishra, The God of Small Things by Arundhati Roy, Karkitakam by M.T. Vasudevan Nair, The Legends of Khasak by
O.V. Vijayan, Hangman’s Journal by Shashi Warrier, Ancient Promises by Jaishree Misra and The Better Man by Anita Nair.
Karkitakam
* The lean monsoon month when food is scarce in the villages.
The Garden of the Antlions
1. This riddle is based on the three-coloured appearance of the black mother shrub: the branches and leaves are green (black mother), two leaves just below the flower are white (fair daughter) and the flower itself is red (daughter’s daughter). The answer to the riddle is: the black mother—which actually makes both the riddle and the answer redundant!
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