64 Squares of a Candle Light

He trained his ears on the wall clock in the corridor beyond the iron bars, listening to life slipping away with every jerk of the minute hand.

It was past his medicine time but did not feel like hurrying. Chemicals worked overtime inside his body and the mad action smothered his energies. He felt the church bells in his distant village were ringing for him.

Churchyard was slowly getting crowded. Annual Bible Retreat was on. Parish Priest had asked the villagers to bring candles for the evening session and everyone carried one. Young girls wore their better dresses and giggled for no reason while the women talked incessantly. Boys took up positions, along the compound wall and on the terrace of the adjoining club from where they could watch the girls.

Courtyard of the small house was clean; a few small plants here and there, none in bloom. The Healer sat on the verandah resting his lean frame on the parapet sideways, waiting for the Trader to turn up for their daily chess match. The board was set as he did not want to waste time. His wife, a portly woman in her forties, brought him a cup of tea, parading her midriff to the chagrin of the Healer. He disapproved of this habit of his wife as he knew it was a popular topic amongst the villagers. It always disturbed him that his patients were more focused on the auburn fleshy mass than on his country medicines.

After the address, the parish priest suddenly became very solemn. In a low but baritone voice, he urged the believers to light their candles and hold them in their folded hands. People hurried to light up the candles; those who did not bring matches lit theirs from others standing next to them.

Slowly, the amber light of the candles flowed over the churchyard.

The Trader greeted the Healer warmly as he walked briskly into the courtyard. He asked for a cup of tea before settling on one of the wooden stools, placed on either side of the chess board. Both the men were ready for the game in no time.

Petite candle lights fought with and complimented each other to transform the churchyard into a bed of radiance. From the height of the club terrace, the open ground below seemed as if someone has spread a burning cloth over the yard. The young man was oblivious to the talks of his friends on the terrace. He glued his eyes on the tiny globules of sweat on the girl's nose, shining and mirroring the world in a miniature canvass. He knew that the girl was aware of his presence on the terrace but she did not betray any signs of it. She just followed the litany solemnly.

Battle was intense on 64 squares. The Healer was scrambling for defence against the marauding knights of the Trader. The assaulter was being merciless and poked fun at his victim.

"You should stop your habit of taking country drugs before going to sleep. They have started to douse your mind."

The Healer did not like the comment but chose to ignore it. His wife, sitting on the parapet, felt sorry for him. The Trader looked at her flowing soft flesh and smiled.

The empty corridor was rather long but so silent that he could always hear his heartbeats. He felt that solitary confinement could never be solitary; no one can take one's heart beats away as long as one lives.

As he entered the courtyard leading to the Trader’s house, the young man's heart started pumping heavily. The verandah was empty. He stopped for a moment before making a sound to attract the attention of someone inside.

The girl came out and her face turned pale seeing him. He could still see the tiny drops of sweat on her nose.

The Trader was wearing a bath towel as he appeared on the verandah smiling and the muscular physique frightened the young man slightly.

“Father asked me to tell you he wouldn’t be available this evening”
“Where is he going?”
“He has a patient to attend to”

As he closed the wooden compound gate behind him, the young man looked back. The Trader had already gone in; the girl was still standing there, sweat drops twinkling on her nose.

Black gowns swayed and flowed and littered the room. Everyone was in a hurry for no apparent reason.

The young man was thinking of the sweat drops and the diverse images they reflected.
He knew that the soft hairs on her cheeks were too delicate to hold the drops should they chose to fall. He wanted to cup his hands so as to save the falling drops.

Sound of the gavel woke him up.

Sound of the creaking wooden door woke the young man up. It was dark and he could hear only the noise of the crickets. Then the door creaked again. He got out of the cot.

Down the corridor, he could see the soft flesh near the kitchen door; the ripples glistened in the dim moonlight. The door closed again. He waited for the footsteps to fade into the noise of the crickets. Then he moved to the kitchen and fetched the sickle.

Jumping over the fence, he reached the village path.

The first strike yielded a slight moan from the Trader. Unable to bear the repeated blows, he let go a loud yawn.

He could see a vague smile on the Jailor's face as the register was handed over to him. He wrote his initials; his signature was too long for the small column. Gathering a small bundle of clothes and his medicine box, he walked out of the room.

Somewhere in the distance, a candle light was playing naughty and painting a thousand emotions on a young girl's face putting soft shadows to use.

As the iron gates closed loudly behind him, he slowly walked towards the darkness of the candle light. 

Three Rainbow Lives of a Cargo Broker

The deceased had several reasons to die but none to carry on living.

One

The boy lay silently on the mattress spread on the floor, mindful not to twist or turn, lest he might disturb the pretty girl lying beside him. A whole day of sweet memories gave him a sense of fulfillment. The house was silent but for the sounds of the night time flies. Vertical wooden window bars of the ancestral home let in the moonlight only sparingly and the light spread unevenly across the room. A streak of rays rendered the little girl’s cheeks radiant.

The Summer vacation had filled up the ancestral home and its huge courtyard with a host of families where the night wind always brought down succulent mangoes from the fatigued trees. Poor girl woke up so early in the morning to collect the mangoes, even before the others would, only to give them to him. He remembered the covert looks she threw at him when people were around. He remembered her shy smile when she fetched him the morning tea from the kitchen.

Gently, he placed his hand over the girl’s forehead, careful not to wake her up. The girl smiled in her sleep.

 

Two 

As he entered the courtyard, he could see many people and recognized some of those faces from his childhood. A forced silence pervaded the atmosphere. All looked at him and a few acknowledged him. It seemed they were all tired from the previous night’s vigil. He walked straight up to the front room where a man lay in his coffin.

It was a simple death.

The coffin was placed on a wooden table covered by a sheet of white cloth. At the head of the table, a wooden cross stood out, as if leaning over to see the dead man’s face. A tall wooden candle stand held a few candles and the dry breeze threatened to snuff them out. A few flowers and a wreath lay across the body. The mourners gathered around the coffin as though they had nothing better to do.

It was a simple death. The deceased never woke up from his siesta the previous day as he preferred to carry on sleeping.

The man went inside where the wife of the deceased lay on a cot. She was weeping silently. A few women stood around with faces laced with sadness. An elderly lady sat beside the wife and stood up on seeing the man.

He slowly placed his hand on the wife’s forehead.

Outside, wind started to blow passionately. Trees swayed and the sound of the agitating branches warned of the impending rain.

The man trained his ears to listen to the music of falling mangoes.

Three

The beach was empty and the chilly wind did not bother him.

Innumerable elements argued between themselves within him. Years of toil was taking its toll on his mind and body. He felt tired and wanted to sleep.

A rainbow, with a smiling countenance, appeared on the horizon. He lay beneath the rainbow and started sleeping.

The Bride and the Vow of Silence

The cruelest lies are often told in silence.........

Robert Louis Stevenson

 

 

One - Wedding Night

 

Clamour from the hall amplified the silence of the room.

The bride sat there, on a corner chair, waiting and waiting. People walked by, occassionally, a few throwing a half-smile and the rest oblivious to her presence. She felt immensely lonely.

A soft hand on her shoulder woke her up from the slumber. A little girl, in her teens, wearing a long skirt, flashed a toothy smile at her.

"Big brother is waiting for you"

And gave her a naughty wink.

The bride followed the girl to a room upstairs, a spacious one which opened to the creaking noise of the door. The room was immaculately set with a wide cot and matching furniture. The book shelf was neatly arranged, side tables carried beautiful night lamps and the bed was spread with a silk sheet. She almost immediately started missing the chaos of her own room back home.

The groom got up from the rocking chair and waved her to the bed. His clothes sat uneasily on him and he wore a tired look. Slowly he walked up to the book shelf and took out a book and handed it to her.

It was a manuscript book. Bewildered, she flipped through the pages. It was written on the opening page.

"Welcome. Sorry I am observing a vow of silence for 3 days. Please write here what you want to communicate."

She looked up. He smiled and slowly walked to the other side of the bed and started to lie down. He was asleep in no time.


Two - The Mother-in-law and Magical Realism

The mother was fat with thin lips and a sprinkling of thick hairs as moustache. She sat on a wicker chair and was eating out of a plate on her lap.

The bride watched her mother-in -law. Slow movements of antique jaws aired a weird but rhythmic sound. A sad look on the creased face did not conceal her enjoyment of the food. Saliva splashed off and on out of her mouth. Tiny globules paraded a flurry of colours around the ancient lady.




Three - Hypochondria
It was evening and it would be long before the man would return. The bride did not have much to do but to sleep and sleep and wander inside the bed room. The room was almost military in discipline and the order of the room was oppressing.

Having nothing better to do, the bride went up to the book shelf and started rummaging the books. She felt it odd that all the books were related to health; various health magazines and medical books lined the shelves.

Dampness of the room started to rain germs of all sizes and shapes. Silent roars of the microcosms filled the room. They slowly shrouded her.

A cold turbulence ran up her intestines. She hurried to the toilet.


Four - Loneliness
Rain had just stopped and the air was full of mist. Sun rays gleaming down through the giant mango tree made infinite patterns on the lawn but none on her soul. Window pane separated her from the world.

She had grown up amidst the chirpiness of her brothers and sisters and cousins and the mist on the window pane reminded her of the care free life she had before coming here. A big ancestral home, a huge courtyard and countless girls and boys. They would sing, dance and make merry till they grow tired and fall asleep wherever they wanted to. They would run through the fields till one of the girls would discharge. The boys would panic and run to tell the mothers. With an obscure smile, one of the mothers would shoo the boys away. That night, the girls would whisper and smile at each other.

She did not at first notice the butterfly prancing on the other side of the window pane. The butterfly, fluttered its wings of a thousand hues to attract her attention. It took a while before its efforts succeeded.

Innocence of the beautiful insect overwhelmed her. She started to weep.


Five - Window Pane

It is a pity that glass cannot transmit sound or the music outside would have warmed her. Instead, the dry voice of her husband poured a pail of sand into her ears. Sand grains wounded the delicate membrane of her ear drum.

The day was dawning and the twilight sun promised a warm day.

"A cup of coffee, but not too hot"
"Get me the newspaper"
"Get the breakfast ready, got to go early"
"My shirt is not ironed"
"Who took my briefcase?"

Sand piled up and up to make a mountain and obstructed her view.
The day was not as warm as promised.


Six - The Writing On The Wall

The bride went to the book shelf and took out the old manuscript of her wedding night. She wrote.

"I am observing a vow of silence"

She stayed nonchalant seeing the bemused look on the man's face and ignored his smile.

She went to the kitchen and brought him a cup of coffee, not too hot. She placed the newspaper on the bed side table. She started preparing the breakfast for her mother in law.

Weather was chilly; it was raining outside. Cold wind was blowing and ruffled the curtains. Rain drops splashed into the room and slowly started to wet her mind.

She heaved a big sigh.


Seven - The Coffin

Only a part of his face was seen as he lay inside the casket. White gauze covered his cheeks and chin and part of the nose peeked through the white clothing. The man looked unhappy.

The old woman sat behind the casket, as if thinking. The bride realised that the woman had not had her breakfast and would be hungry. Old people should have their food regularly; acidity is a curse for them.

People gathered in and around the house were either lazy or busy. However, the atmosphere carried the regular air of one where a normal death has occurred. The little girl in long skirt tried to calm a crying baby to no avail.

The bride looked at the police woman standing beside her.


Eight - The Deed

She knew that her husband would ask for a glass of milk and would be mad if he did not find it on the bed side table. She hurried to the kitchen.

Her husband did not like the milk to be too sweet; so she was careful not to add too much sugar. Constant thoughts of innumerable diseases were robbing the poor man's sleep. She felt sorry for him.

Her medicine chest might have some sedatives and she went to look for them. She crushed a few pills and added the powder to the milk.

As the man lay sleeping, she felt her breasts welling with a newfound affection for him. Countless germs are conspiring against him and are looking for the first opportunity to attack. She knew that his defences had already started to wane.

She fetched a carving knife from the kitchen.



With the tenderness of a mother breastfeeding her baby for the first time, she opened a slender slice across his neck. Gush of thick liquid warmed the atmosphere and filled it with a heavy scent.

The man is now cured of his life; she felt fulfilled.


Nine - The Dream

After the therapy, the bride went to a corner of the room and sat there. She was calm.

Moon shone through the window pane but the air was still damp. The butterfly had already gone to sleep; dew drops, but, clung to the pane, creating a myriad of convex images.

And she started dreaming.

Jack Fruit Trees of Salvador Dali

The Healer was attired in an all white ensemble. He wore the serenity of a graveyard lily.

I handed him the bunch of papers I had carefully assembled; various test reports and a sheet detailing my own perceptions and experiences. He glanced through but did not seem to be enthused by them. I felt humiliated.

Lying on my side, I could see, through the window, the jack fruit trees crowding the compound, very green and very wet but almost devoid of emotions. They had started to bear fruits and gave the impression that the coming harvest would be a good one. Oil, splashed all over my body and dripping over my temples, spread a rainbow over the green picture, like in a Dali painting.

The route to Thycauttussery was through the crowded clinics of Dubai. At all the cross roads, there sat a Healer, each with a distinct persona and weird attributes. The jack fruits trees of Salvador Dali, in some way, resembled the Healers.

I had a desire to cloth the Man in pastels so that he would merge better among the Dali trees.

Ringing Ears, Dull Pain and the Fly



As I was watching the last scene of "Bhramaram", I could feel the fly whizzing past the tree and slowly crawling into my ears. The tiny legs caressed my ear walls as if a mother would scratch her little boy's neck. With not much trouble, the fly eased into the open space of the inner ear and slept immediately. The innocence of the sleeping baby lulled me into a dreamless slumber.

The next morning, on the way to Lakeshore, I moved away from the traffic junction of Vyttila but its buzzing chaos was still in my ears. Only reaching Kumbalam, did I realise that the baby had woken up and was clamoring for milk. I tried to ignore the cries but the wailing slowly picked up tempo. The obstinacy of the baby irritated me but I chose to train my attention elsewhere. Failing to draw my attention, the baby grew tired and went back to sleep.

Turning left on exiting the elevator, the path leads to a narrow corridor ending in a small room. The television on the wall is mute and the images are blurred. The ugly girl sitting behind the small counter taps on the keyboard of the computer while reading a girly magazine. Without looking up, she collected the slip from me and waved me to another corridor behind her.

The labyrinth of corridors unfurled ahead of me. Several doors to my left and right and people entering and exiting them made the corridor all the more narrow. At the end of many twists and turns, I reached a door where the Healer's name was painted in obscenely large fonts. I knocked at the door.

The large desk almost covered the Healer up to his neck. Crouching on a wooden table, the Healer adjusted his ear pieces and looked up. It seemed like the world of sound, accessed through his hearing aids, made him uneasy.

I told him I have ringing in my ears.

The Healer waved me to a wooden stool near him. He did not seem to be interested in my ears even when examining them with some weird looking tools.

I told him I have ringing in my left ear.

He told me I had no apparent problem with my ears but an MRI might reveal more. An audiogram would also help, he said.

The narrow opening of the imaging machine amplified the ringing in my left ear. The clicking noise of the machine, the buzzing of the fly and the metallic covering over my face called to mind the lethargy of a life inside a coffin. Breaking of wax of the candles would be audible, but the wailings of the loved ones, would they be?