Remembering Kochi - Part One

Kochi of the sixties permitted no beginnings, no ends.

Shanmugham Road, too, did not start anywhere nor ended anywhere. It formed a barrier along the west coast of Ernakulam, holding the backwater away from the commercial chaos of Broadway where people from Israel and Kunnamkulam sold goods and dreams to the people of Kochi and nearby districts. Starting from the end of the Banerjee Road or from the High Court junction, not sure where, Shanmugham Road lost itself as it curved to look at the CSI church. Along the way, however, it presided over a host of important landmarks; the High Court of Kerala, the Police Club, the seat of the Archdiocese of Verapoly, the Police Commissioner’s Office, Ernakulam Central Market, Sridhar Cinema, Sea Lord Hotel, Menaka cinema and Cochin Refreshment House, CRH, a favorite eatery of the Kochiites. Rocky parapet bordered the road on the west where people sat with their backs to the sea, unaware that the evening sun was splashing a thousand hues on the horizon. The fishermen too, who were returning from the day’s work, were too busy thinking of the evening drink to notice the colourful canopy spread over their heads.

A canal split the road midway through and flowed into the Market Pond adjoining the Central Market. Commodities of all sorts, fish included, reached the Market through this canal from the nearby islands and the Fisheries Jetty. The steps leading to the pond were crowded with vendors and buyers on Tuesdays and Fridays; beyond the steps, the Market paraded its stalls and shops through a labyrinth of passages. A small bridge over the canal watched the bustle below with indifference.

Ramkumar, Raman to his friends, was an enfant terrible during his college days. Born to Vyloppilly Ramankutty Menon, who himself was known and feared for his candid remarks and repartees, Raman had a tumultuous life during his young days at Kaloor Government High School and Maharajas College; the elder Menon soon realized that his son would fit a normal job only like a square peg in a round hole. He talked to his friend, Srinivasa Shenoy and thus Raman joined Sridhar Cinema as Assistant Manager. An avid movie buff, he changed the focus of the theatre to make it a preferred joint of the youth of Ernakulam. His circle of friends grew rapidly and he still remains a favorite among them.

Sridhar Cinema was the first air-conditioned movie house in Kerala and was a quantum jump from the school auditorium styled theatres found all over the State, during those days. Built by the Shenoys' Group, it brought in a new experience to the moviegoers with its ergonomically designed seats, multilevel floor, multiple curtains, clean interiors and marble-clad pillars. Every day, as the first show of the day opened at 6.30 pm, a tall man, wearing slacks and dhothi, would stand in the lounge, leaning on the staircase rails and watching the crowd. His head was tilted to one side due to a chronic neck condition. His name was Pallan and he was the manager of the theatre. This was before Ramkumar joined Sridhar Cinema.

Between Sridhar and its owner’s hardware warehouse, a small lane ran southward to reach the first ice cream parlour in Kerala. The shop sat on the ground floor of Sealord Hotel, the first high rise and the tallest building in the State. During a period when refrigerators were the stuff of dreams, this small outlet lured passersby but catered only to those who had money to burn on the snowy delights. This is the place where George, a small time contractor, was fooled by his mates who wanted to play a prank on him, to order for “ice fry”. The perplexed vendor wondered how ice can be fried; “fried ice cream” was not known during those times.

Sealord Hotel stood majestically facing the waters and could be seen from all the islands nearby. With many firsts on its belt, such as the elevator, the cabaret floor and the like, the iconic building was a must see for all the visitors to the city. Built in 1966 by a trader whose main line of business was liquor, the hotel was a mystery to most of the Kochiites who wondered how a girl could dance in skimpy clothes in front of a host of rich men, all enjoying the physical richness of the dancer than the dance itself. Years later, the hotel changed hands and the cabaret stopped to give way to the rich music of 13 AD, a rock band which went on to become one of the major music groups in India.

Cochin Refreshment House always smelled of biriyani. This was the place my father would bring his wife and four children, every month without fail, for dinner. We would be treated with biriyani, ending the meal with Falooda, and CRH was the only place that served Faloodas. Behind CRH, Bharat Cafe offered vegetarian dishes and cold coffee to the intellectuals of the city.

Towards south, the road became nameless; the name Park Avenue came much later. Three parks lined the road, one for girls, one for children and the largest of the three, Subhash Bose Park, for all and sundry.

Subhash Bose Park attracted people from all walks and small time vendors and prostitutes earned their daily bread from here. It was here, people of Kochi and Travancore states, through the forum, Aikya Kerala Vedhi, started their agitation for the unification of the two princely states, paving way for the State of Kerala. Deservingly, the Park witnessed the lowering of Kochi State flag, to be replaced by the Indian Tricolor. People thronged the lawns of the Park, especially on holidays. A lonely monkey, in a cage placed near the Park Office, waited for kids to feed him and, in return, entertained them with his antics till he died on a desolate monsoon day. The chilly winds and the pouring rain distressed the animal to such an extent it decided to call it a day.

Rajendra Maidan, to the south of Subhash Bose Park, was an empty expanse which came to life only during meetings organized by political parties. Due to the proximity of a full-fledged park, it attracted very few people and remained mostly empty. Rama Varma, erstwhile raja of Cochin, stood on the ground gracefully, mindless of the weary solitude.

The eastern side of the road hosted three colleges, all special in their own rights. St. Theresa’s College was the only all girls college in the city and rightfully took its place opposite to the Girls’ Park. One of the most prestigious girls’ colleges in the State, perhaps rivaled only by All Saints’ College in the capital, it shone on academic, cultural and sports areas, proving its caption, Shine Where You Are, meaningful. Boys from other colleges in the city made excuses to move around the area to ogle the girls and try a hand at romance, which more often than otherwise, ended in misery.

Across the canal which caressed St. Teresa’s College, the Government Law College operated out of a few newer buildings. Due to the professional nature of their studies, the law students considered themselves elite, rarely mixing with the student population of the city. Their involvement in the city’s cultural milieu almost always evoked laughter. Participating in the Kerala University group music competition armed with kitchen utensils and brooms, entering dog shows with silver painted mongrels or performing a streaking through the crowded Broadway, a first in the State, they always added a smile to the faces. One of the maverick boys who organized the strip show, a young handsome man, later became the symbol of Malayali manhood. He answered to the name, Mammootty.

Maharaja’s College was an institution by itself. Started in 1875, its activities were spread across a sprawling campus of 10 acres. Lush vegetation, moth eaten wooden roofing, parched floors, skeletons of fountains, dark corridors and sandy pathways lent the college a primeval look. Many literary stalwarts graced those archaic rooms with their scholarly classes; Prof. M.K. Sanu, Prof. M. Thomas Mathew, T.R., Prof. M. Krishnan Nair and Prof. Bharathan were some of them. Great personalities like Swami Chinmayananda, A.K. Antony, N.S. Madhavan and Dr. M.S. Valiathan sat on the benches to listen to the discourses. It was here, in the thirties, the students of the College started a bloody agitation against the Raja of Kochi which could be suppressed only by ruthless police intervention. Political activism, literary endeavors, scholastic pursuits and artistic expressions found ways of easy coexistence in these fabled surroundings.

During the seventies, a young man, with unkempt hair, careless attire and perpetual presence of pan in his mouth, wandered through the dark corridors of the college. The students and the faculty suffered his eccentricities with a smile as he was dear to them. Soon, he was recognized as one of the most promising writers in Malayalam only to fall back into a shell, never to fully realize his potential. Years later, on a miserable morning, T. Ramachandran, fondly known as Teeyar, was found dead on the street side, pan still dripping out of his mouth.

A wall across, functioned the lower courts of the district. A few shabby buildings, all painted brick colour and in states of poor repair, witnessed how law was interpreted, upheld or distorted. Lawyers, criminals and laymen rubbed shoulders on the dirty paths of the building complex which concealed the District Treasury, where old people queued to receive their pensions at the beginning of every month.

A young man with disheveled looks was a regular visitor to that office; in fact, he worked there. Much earlier, he had recited his poem, Yathramozhi, at the Sahithya Parishad golden jubilee celebrations at TDM Hall where he received instant recognition. Balachandran Chullikkadu, a self-proclaimed Buddhist, slowly grew to become one of the great Malayalam poets.

Ernakulam Temple, standing on the northern side of a round-about was a reasonably big structure. Devotees from the city regularly paid homage there but it failed to attract believers from outside the city and never reached the status of a major place of worship. Lord Shiva, in the name of Ernakulathappan, was the deity. A bus by the same name, plied the city roads, too, owned by a trader who amassed his wealth through selling Ganja, dried opium leaves. Smoking ganja was a past time of the youths of the city and the bus owner ensured that the users never had any shortage of the material.

On the southern side of the round-about was a modern building. Bharat Tourist Home was one of the most popular places for dining, serving well-accepted vegetarian dishes to movie celebrities and other guests. The rooms, on the western side, offered excellent view of the backwaters and Cochin harbour. From there, one could view Foreshore Road which took one to Fine Arts Hall, a state of the art auditorium, with comfortable seating but no car park area, leading to chaos whenever the Hall hosted a function.

Sandwiched between Maharaja’s College and the Law College, were two government institutions of prominence, the administrative office of the Cochin Corporation and the General Hospital.

On a steamy summer morning, a man in his forties visited the General Hospital. He headed straight to the cancer ward and joked with the nursing assistants there. They prepared the intravenous medication while he slowly lay down on a steel cot spread with soiled sheet. The nurse fixed the drip chamber, allowing the fluid to flow down the fatigued veins of the man. As the chemicals began their battle with the marauding cells, the man lifted the bottle from the stand and started his journey through the hospital corridors. He was my uncle. He succumbed to lung cancer a few months later.

Entrance to the boat jetty was crowded with street vendors, rendering it difficult to walk inside. Numerous boats, all in dilapidated condition and foul-smelling, stood moored at the jetty, waiting for passengers heading for the various islands nearby. Boats would move out of the jetty crammed with labourers, office-goers, students, fisher women and street vendors; young girls would giggle as they tried to ward off the predators.

Life was pure and simple.

Trials and Tribulations of a Small Pea-sized Engine - An Endoscopic Perspective

February is the most compassionate of all months; it limits its misery to 28 days or a day more but no more.

ROAD TO DAMASCUS

Every Tuesday, they served drinks and dinner on the lawn with a long verandah bordering it on two sides. It was a modest but clean and well run eatery, just away from the bustle of the city center. The food was excellent and adding to the pleasure, a flautist would lace up the evenings with soft Hindustani ragas.

I used to carry those tunes home with me every time I visited the place. The sound of the reed would ring in my ears, more pronounced in my left ear. I wondered if others also felt the same way; nurturing a previous experience with them for a long time. Slowly, my wonder turned to bewilderment; the reed started playing in my left ear every now and then. Sometimes, the flautist would take up the reed even at midnight. Like an ideologically correct politician, the choice was always the left ear.

That was when I started thinking about seeing an Oto-Rhino-Laryngologist.



It was a drive of 35 minutes from the airport to the hospital.

As I sat impatiently in the taxicab on the New Year day, several disconcerting images revealed themselves as it had been during the four hour flight and ever since the phone call the previous morning.

An old lady sat on a wooden stool, late at night, in the kitchen, waiting for her grandchildren who had gone for the late night movie, to turn up. She was dozing. Every now and then, she would wake up to check and finding no one around, she would go back to her dreams.

On that New Year day, inside the ICU, my grandmother lay silently on a slanting bed. Many tubes and video monitors conspired with each other all around her. Her frail arms jerked ever so slightly off and on.

I feared the others would see my tears when I turned away from the peeping window.


The first month of the Year 2013 smelled of Hospital and medicines.

After numerous hours of vigil at my grandmother’s bedside, occasional bursts of laughter with the members of my rather huge family, socializing with the security guards of the hospital with a view to easy entrance even during the forbidden hours, casual chatting for hours with my mother each night, and many expeditions, often monotonous, through the hospital corridors, my grandmother started showing signs of recovery.

Yes, February is the most compassionate of all months. It was in February, I met the Oto-Rhino-Laryngologist.

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

A 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 Medicine Man'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, he adjusted his ear pieces and looked up. It seemed as if 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 in my ears but an MRI might reveal more. An audiogram would also help, he said.

The young girl at the MRI Center showed a sympathetic face. She, being a technician, knew that an MRI of the head, more often than otherwise, foretold misery. She also knew that it was better to sympathize than be sympathized and this gave her the strength to be generous in her care. She held my shoulders with both hands as I tried to lie down on the narrow bench. The smile on her face was slightly uncomfortable but the dimples on her cheeks were glowing. She exuded an unusual radiance.

I asked her about the length of the ordeal before submitting my head, braced by a metal bracket, to be shoved inside a tunnel, 70 mm in diameter and packed with endless abundance of disconcerting anxieties. 40 minutes is not a long duration, she assured me and gave me a switch to alert her if I felt the unhappiness grew beyond my level of tolerance. She gave me a soft pat on my shoulder as she went out of the room and I sensed she would make a good mother one day.

A few minutes into the search, I lost the sense of time. The machine performed like an incompetent percussionist, often missing beats altogether, but always trying to cover up the error by a bout of mindless clatter. The metal bracket had small openings which offered linear windows of light but the rest of the focus was all blurred. To escape the bizarre music from the machine, I started counting.

Reaching 600, I marked it with a closed finger, assessing 10 minutes had passed. Each closed finger seemed like an hour long and after several hours, the music stopped.

I waited for the young girl to come and rescue me from the suffering.



Pituitary adenoma

From Wikipedia, the free encyclopedia

Pituitary adenomas are noncancerous tumors that occur in the pituitary gland. Pituitary adenomas are generally divided into three categories dependent upon their biological functioning: benign adenoma, invasive adenoma or carcinomas, with carcinomas accounting for 0.1% to 0.2%, approximately 35% being invasive adenomas and most being benign adenomas. Pituitary adenomas represent from 10% to 25% of all intracranial neoplasms^{[citation needed]} and the estimated prevalence rate in the general population is approximately 17%.^[1]

Non-invasive and non-secreting pituitary adenomas are considered to be benignin the literal as well as the clinical sense; however a recent meta-analysis (Fernández-Balsells, et al.2011) of available research has shown there are to date scant studies - of poor quality - to either support or refute this assumption.

Adenomas which exceed 10 millimetres (0.39 in) in size are defined as macroadenomas, with those smaller than 10 mm referred to as microadenomas. Most pituitary adenomas are microadenomas, and have an estimated prevalence of 16.7% (14.4% in autopsy studies and 22.5% in radiologic studies).^[1][2] A majority of pituitary microadenomas often remain undiagnosed and those that are diagnosed are often found as an incidental finding, and are referred to as incidentalomas.

It was a sunny morning.

The term adenoma was new to me. I called up my friend, Raman and asked him to check what adenoma meant; I didn’t have internet access on my phone. A few minutes later he called up to say it was a kind of tumor, mostly related to brain.

Going back to my Grandmother’s room, my mind was blank. It was close to noon and she was awake and pleasant. I sat beside her holding her hand. She smiled and reached out to touch my cheek. Her fingers were warm. I kissed her and slowly walked out of the room.

ROAD TO BANGALORE

Airport was very crowded. There was a long queue at the check in counter, quite unusual for a mid day flight.

As I settled into the airport lounge seat, a hand patted me on my shoulders. It was one of my old friends. He asked me where I was headed to. He said he was also going to Mumbai. I was confused for a moment as to what I should tell him about the purpose of my visit. I told him I was on business tour.

Madhu waited for me at the arrival terminal. As we drove to the hospital, Madhu tried to be too hilarious but I could still see the worrying thoughts clouding his forehead. He reassured me that the Doctor we were meeting was one of the best in Mumbai.

The Doctor was a young man in his thirties and exuded confidence. He went through the test results without much hurry, occasionally looking at the MRI film as if to cross check. He was casual when he said I could go for the surgery and the time I could choose, but without much delay. He said the surgery would be through the nose, a transphenoidal endonasal endoscopic surgery where the intruder is accessed through holes drilled through sphenoid sinus.

I knew the war with the prowler was on.

When I called up my sister to check on Bangalore hospitals, she was confident that Vakkachan uncle would be able to find a competent doctor. He was my mother’s first cousin and lived most of his life in Bangalore. It was he who led us to Dr. Venkataramana and BGS Global Hospital.

Uttarahalli is a hamlet, roughly 20 kms away from Bangalore city, on the sidelines of Bangalore-Mysore road. Turning right from Kengeri, the road leads to a huge arch, welcoming the visitors to the hospital complex. A dual carriage way, both the sides lined with taxi cabs and autorickshaws, takes one to the hospital gate. The building is a sprawling one and conceals the medical college standing behind it. Young medical students strolled all over the place, living their friendships and little romances.

The Doctor stood watching the MRI film for a long time. When he turned back, there was a glint in his eyes.

"We do not have much time to lose now. This is the ideal time to remove the intruder"

A few twinkling stars flew behind him, past the roof and the trees, slowly disappearing into the sky; the evening sun had already vanished.

Endonasal Transsphenoidal Endoscopic Pituitary Surgery

Transsphenoidal surgery is performed to remove tumors from the pituitary gland, sellar region, and sphenoid sinus of the skull. The surgeon approaches the pituitary through the nose. The surgery can be performed with a microscope or more commonly with an endoscope in a minimally invasive technique. Pituitary tumors cause a variety of hormone problems and can grow to large size, compressing important nerves and arteries at the base of the brain. When this occurs, surgery is needed to remove the tumor, especially when vision is at risk. Tumor removal often reverses endocrine problems and restores normal hormone balance

As I lay on the stretcher, faces all around me flashed uneasy smiles. I returned the smiles before the male nurse pushed the stretcher along the corridor towards the operation theatre. The wheels of the vehicle made curious noices till we reached a room where a Doctor and a few nurses were waiting for us. The Doctor told me he had to prepare me for the surgery and proceded to give me an injection.

The flautist had already taken his seat and started playing the reed. Soft music filled the room. The gentle notes of the pipe lulled me to sleep.

I woke up to the stillness of a large room.

The sky was pink and blue and green. From amidst the flurry of colours, a white cotton candy cloud came floating towards me. It spoke like my sister:

“How do you feel now?”

From beneath my nose which was stuffed with splints and wads of cotton, I gave her a nasal smile. The cloud slowly faded away, leaving behind splashes of colours shrouded in an overwhelming silence.

I could vaguely see a number of beds and a nursing station where a few nurses, both male and female, whiled away their time chatting. The room was forlorn and the dim lights highlighted the stillness. I could hear a young nurse teasing her male colleague. The young man did not stand a chance against the bubbly girl and was always meekly surrendering.

Heavy head, stuffed nose and dull pain brought me back to life.

Sedation was slowly easing. My nose was stuffed tight and I realized that I was breathing through my mouth. Cool air of the temperature controlled room made my lips parched and throat dry.

Rain stopped. The smell of rain-soaked soil filled the room.

I felt immensely thirsty.

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?