“In that case, how do the fishes in lakes, ponds and seas survive?” I asked.
“Plants,” said Madan. He also told me that there were oxygen tubes that could feed oxygen into the bucket by artificial means in the absence of power.
“That won’t work,” I told Madan. “We’re already struggling to raise two dogs. Who needs all that?”
So he suggested something else.
Four koi fish were placed in the second tank. I firmly objected as I had seen gigantic koi fish in the Buddhist monasteries in Thailand. Koi can grow to three feet, so it’s impossible to raise them in glass tanks. They require a small pond, and they have a lifespan of fifty to two hundred years. In the third tank, which was smaller, there was only one fighter fish. Fighter fish has to be raised alone. Pardon me for going on a diatribe about fish, but it is necessary for you to understand what is to follow.
If you put two flowerhorns in the same bucket, they will attack and kill each other – there is no exception to this. If you put a male and a female flowerhorn together, the male will kill the female unless the female has a lot of places to hide. Perundevi, however, put them both together in the same tank, skeptical of all this hand-me-down wisdom. You should have seen the battle that ensued! It put India’s and Pakistan’s cricket team arguments to shame. Such commotion, such bloodshed! The bigger flowerhorn’s kok was injured, so we placed a barrier in the middle of the tank. The flowerhorn doesn’t fight with other fish in the same tank. Like human beings, it fights only with its own kind.
I once returned from Erode at around five in the morning, and in my house, five in the morning was no waking hour, so I stood at the gate, trying to reach Perundevi on the phone. Like V.O. Chidambaram who had to do toilsome physical labor in the British-run prisons, Perundevi toiled in the house. She would start by washing clothes in the backyard at ten and you could hear the scrape of her brush on the clothes till noon. Clothes are washed differently in every country. In my hometown, I had seen people washing clothes on stone slabs, slapping the cloths against the stone to dislodge the dirt. In our Mylapore house too, there was a stone platform on which Perundevi washed the larger laundry items like bed-linen. She would hand-wash and scrub my veshti, my shirts, my pants, my underwear, my handkerchiefs, my yoga mat, Madan’s drawers, his shirts, his jeans, his underwear, her sarees, her underskirts, her panties, her bras, her churidhars, her nighties, our towels, curtains, bed-sheets, blankets, pillow covers, kitchen towels and rugs. She gave my linen shirts gentler treatment. The backyard received an abundance of sunshine that accelerated the drying of the clothes. If ever I asked her why she chose to wash the bedclothes by hand when there was a washing machine, she would sternly tell me, “Mind your own business, Udhaya.”
I never quite understood if her obsession with washing clothes was some kind of disorder. When I heard the sound of her whacking the hidden dirt out of the clothes, I would feel centipedes and scorpions crawl in my head. Because of this obsession of hers, things were going haywire at home. To make it clearer, I would have to be at the mercy of a restaurant for breakfast. Perundevi would wash clothes all morning and open the kitchen counter for breakfast only at eleven-thirty.
I had failed to reach her on the phone, so I knocked at the gate.
The dogs came running long before Madan did on hearing the knocks.
The sanitary worker arrived shortly after. Noticing some dead fish in the trash, my heart lurched. There was a koi among them.
Grief and boundless rage took hold of me. The koi fish were dying at the rate of one per month. And why were they dying, you ask? Due to the lack of space! Only one koi had remained and now, it too was dead. Now spiritualists ascribe all sorrow and misfortune to fate and expect us to reconcile ourselves to it. Remember the girl who died after being brutally gang-raped in a moving bus in Delhi? It was her fate to be brutalized the way she was. Similarly, it was the koi’s fate to die and now all the kois had succumbed to the same fate.
“Couldn’t you have taken a train that reached later? Was this the only train from Erode?” Perundevi asked. I didn’t understand. She went on to explain that my arrival had excited the dogs who started jumping about frantically. In the melee, they’d ruptured the oxygen tube of the tank and the fish had died due to deoxygenation.
This had happened four years ago when Perundevi’s workload was bigger on account of having no maids. She used to complain that the dogs were taking up most of her time and would ask me if she was born with the sole purpose of cleaning up after them. To complicate matters, she had sprained her ankle and was finding it difficult to walk. As she opened the gate to draw the kolam, Baba darted. I had gone to the park and Madan was out of town. With her injured ankle, she walked through the streets, found the dog and dragged it back home. When I returned home, she said, “Please give the dogs away, or I’ll die young.” The ordeal had traumatized her. I tried to coax her into changing her mind by telling her that the dogs were like our children. Finally, my friend in Pondicherry – a billionaire with more than fifty dogs – agreed to take in Baba and Blackie. They were soon gone.
Two days had passed. On the third day, I did not know what happened, I banged my laptop on the floor and it cracked. That laptop contained years’ worth of research. Like a madman, I began to rip my books and shouted that I’d kill anyone who dared to approach me. I shouted that I’d burn the house down if Baba and Blackie didn’t come back home within a few hours. (Perundevi told me all of this when I had cooled down. I had no memory of anything I’d said.) Baba and Blackie returned home that very day. They were starved of water and drank by the gallon as soon as they’d arrived. They neither barked nor growled as they were exhausted. It took them a couple of days to get accustomed to us again. Dogs were possessed with a superior sense of understanding than human beings. They understood that I would return for them when, on occasion, I left them at Varun’s clinic; they also understood that they were being sent away forever when we loaded them into my friend’s car.
Old Baba would come and sit on my lap when I sat cross-legged on the floor. He would also climb into my lap when I was meditating. Baba was the size of a lion. I wondered how my lap held him. He did feel uncomfortable after a few minutes and would run off. Once he was gone, Blackie would appear and rest his head on my lap. I would rub my hands after I had finished my meditation. When Baba heard the sound of hands rubbing against each other, he would come running back to me, bully Blackie out of my lap and out of sight, and reclaim his throne.
When it came to food, Baba and I had similar palates. In the morning, I would eat tender neem leaves on an empty stomach and Baba would chomp through them as though they were halwa. We also shared an affinity for chapatti, idly, dosa, jaangiri, halwa, paalkova, murukku, jamuns (Baba once bit into the huge seed and, despising the taste, spat it out. Thereafter, I saw to it that I’d scooped out the seeds before giving him his share), apples, pomegranates, oranges, grapes, guavas, potatoes, ice cream (the doctor had warned me not to eat ice cream and the vet had warned me not to give Baba ice cream), curd rice, coconut water, apple, beetroot and carrot juice, bread and almonds.
One day, Perundevi was taking out some ingredients from the kitchen containers. Baba would usually sprawl in the kitchen when she was cooking. Labradors are generally lazy dogs and Baba was no exception. Even the apocalypse wouldn’t make him budge, but when the almond tin opened, he would bark, bite Perundevi’s dress and wag his tail, looking at her expectantly.
Blackie had a keen sense of time. He knew when I would return from my morning walk. At exactly seven-thirty, he would head to soundly sleeping Perundevi’s bed and nudge her face with his ice-cold nose.
I was daily witness to a most amusing sight. When Perundevi approached the fish tank, the two flowerhorns would become frisky. They would talk to her with their mouths pressed against the glass and somersault in the water. All the trouble of rearing fish was worth it for this sight, I felt. Per
undevi would coo to them like they were her babies. “Are you hungry sweetie-pie? There you go! Eat up, now!” She would feed them “Humpy Head” which was supposed to make their koks grow bigger.
When Perundevi was not around, I would try every trick I knew to get the fish to pay me some attention. I was completely ignored. When I had gone to the aquarium to buy them processed fry and worms, the owner of the aquarium told me that even the fish he sold would ignore him completely, but would get all excited at the sight of the shop assistants who fed them. How discerning fishes are!
One of the fish that died in our tanks was a blood parrot cichlid. It was a timid fish – the color would literally drain from it if I approached.
The flowerhorns, like stubborn children, refused to eat in Perundevi’s absence. I would feed them twice a day, but the food remained uneaten. For three days they starved, like they had gone on a fast in protest, and I feared they’d die. When Perundevi returned, oh what joy! I thought they’d fall out of the tank, what with all the jumping they did. They would have even jumped into her lap if they could.
A few days later, we found the bigger flowerhorn, the more active of the two, floating upside down. It didn’t eat; it hardly moved. We called the fish vet from the aquarium over. This was what he had to say: “It’s old. Its lifespan is over. There’s nothing you or I could do for it now. It might carry on this way for another couple of months and then die.” Perundevi never gave up on the creature. She talked to it every day, hoping against hope that it would survive. It didn’t. I had indirectly killed and eaten so many chickens, goats and fish, but the death of that flowerhorn affected me deeply. Fifteen days was what it took for its life to depart from its body.
In the twinkling of the stars, in the touch of the wind, in the smell of the earth, in the rustling of the trees, in the golden pollen of the hibiscus, in the swell of the ocean, in the blueness of the sky, in the fire of the volcano, in the softness of the clouds, in the loneliness of the mountains, in the music of the flute, in the first cry of an infant, in a tongue of fire, in the rays of the sun, in the sound of a gurgling stream, in the gentle rain, in the brightness of the full moon, in the mooing of a cow, in the croaking of the frogs, in the roots of the banyan, in the swaying of the leaves, in glittering ice crystals, flickering lamps, fragrant flowers… I see you in everything, my dear flowerhorn. Where did your flowerhorn soul vanish? Do you still exist somewhere, glowing like a sphere of light? Can you see me from wherever you are?
Right now, I feel like a lousy writer; my inability to describe how the flowerhorn oscillated between life and death for fifteen days fills me with shame. I, who could describe anything with extravagance of language, am forsaken by the words I now need. It pains me that I cannot find the words to eulogize and immortalize my flowerhorn.
I recall a scene in Fellini’s La Strada. In the movie, Gelsomina and Rosa are sisters. The latter is sold to Zampanò, a street performer. She dies during travel. Zampanò returns to the girl’s house with a sum of money and a request to be allowed to take Gelsomina in her sister’s place. Gelsomina was to Zampanò what a monkey is to a monkey-trainer. He is chauvinistic and physically abusive towards her. At one point, she tells Il Matto, the fool, “I am useless and I’m sick of this life!”
To this, Il Matto replies, “If Zampanò keeps you with him instead of chasing you away, what does it mean? Doesn’t he keep you around because he profits from you? If not, why would he continue to keep you? So tell me now, why do you think you are useless? If it had been me, though, I wouldn’t have kept you for a minute. It is my belief that he loves you.”
“Zampanò loves me?”
“Yes, poor man! He is like a dog and dogs can show their love only by barking. I too could have been like him, but unfortunately, I happened to read a book or two. There is nothing that is useless in this world. Look, even this pebble under my feet has some use, it means something.”
“Which pebble?”
“This one, and not just this. Everything in this world has a meaning. I don’t know what purpose this pebble has, but it does have one. If it has no use, then everything in this world is useless starting from the stars above us.”
The novel ends here, my friends. You are probably disappointed; perhaps you think it lacks a proper ending. Tell me, other than death, is there any interesting end to life? I plan to write about my experiences in the Himalayas on another occasion. Now all that is left is this mountain and myself.
Silence.
A vast silence surrounds me.
Epilogue
When I finished the novel, I waited for a year instead of immediately handing it over to the publisher. I don’t know why. It’s probably because I felt that this epilogue had to be written.
It’s been a year since I’ve returned from the Himalayas. Certain incidents witnessed by me after my return deserve mention here.
First, let me talk about Anjali. There used to be a huge gooseberry tree in front of her house that has since been cut down as the owner of the house needed space for a garage. Anjali could not digest this. The tree was the first thing she saw, the first thing that waved at her, every time she opened her bedroom window. Birds had built their nests there, so she used to wake to birdsong every morning. Where would those poor birds go now? The house owner destroyed those helpless creatures’ homes to meet his own selfish ends. Here are some of the messages Anjali sent me on the subject:
At first I thought they were cutting only some of the branches. When I heard they were going to fell the tree, my heart sank like a lead balloon.
I opened the window to see a branch from the tree hanging from the balcony wall.
I don’t know if you can understand how I feel about this.
As I looked at that branch, I felt like the tree was being cruelly and painfully dismembered.
I closed my window as I couldn’t bear to see the skeleton that lay before me.
When I saw all those chopped branches, I felt such a stab of sorrow. The pain was indescribable.
I used to talk to that tree every day, Udhaya, and to the birds and the squirrels that lived in it. I would gaze at it every morning.
Now, I have a fresh problem. When I’m alone, I hear the window opening on its own. Maybe it was just my imagination…?
I heard the sound again. Maybe it was the wind…
I hear the sound of spirits weeping about me as I write to you now. I am not imagining it. Their cries are piercing my ears like sirens.
It’s terrible, Udhaya. I curse myself for having such a fragile mind.
The tree bore plenty of fruits.
I used to draw the curtain back a bit before going to sleep so that I could see the tree. I’m not going to sleep in that room anymore.
The branch hanging from the balcony wall seems to be telling me something. It seems like it’s looking at me in wretched misery.
Those spirits are still hovering around me.
Have I gone mad?
Or is this mere illusion?
Or perhaps I am just making a scene, as Suresh likes to say.
But no! my feelings are real! The sobbing of these spirits is real! These spirits have been with me even before, but I have not told a soul other than you.
Do you know how deeply this has wounded me? When I was driving, I felt like ramming into a bus and getting myself killed. I’m worried now. What if… what if I actually do it? This is why I’m thinking of seeing a psychiatrist. I am not in my right senses when I go out these days.
When nobody is around, the silence of this house is deafening.
I sense the spirits moving when I turn on the TV.
I leave the fans and the lights on when I leave the house because I don’t want to return to a house in darkness.
When I am home alone, I feel their presence. They’re trying to tell me something.
I don’t like thi
s. I’m afraid.
Perhaps I am imagining all this…
But the spirit must be good. It doesn’t try to harm me. That’s a good sign, right?
Maybe there is more than one spirit.
Please tell me I’m imagining all of this!
My head feels heavy – like there’s a block of iron in it.
I don’t understand anything. I feel so confused.
What is happening to me? Is it real or is it some kind of illusion?
I am not going to sleep until sleep comes for me.
The day after I received all these messages, I met Anjali at her house.
Laughing, I asked her, “Did a spirit try to get to know you better today?”
“Don’t say that, Udhaya! They can hear you…”
It wasn’t cold, but I shivered in fear.
One day, a fledgling crow fell out of its nest. Blackie bounded towards it. The fledgling was saved, but the next minute, a murder of crows descended on us, circling our heads, cawing raucously. Their cacophony would have been enough to wake the dead. Terrified, dog and man ran into the house. On that day I had been to Nochikuppam to buy fish. Just then all of a sudden, a ferocious crow dropped a huge chunk of saliva on my head and flew away! (Not fabricated for the sake of the story, it happened thus.)
For the next three days, an army of crows attacked Perundevi, Blackie and me whenever we crossed our threshold. Knocks from their beaks were like raps on the head from a bouncer with knuckle dusters. Perundevi had to cover her head with the pallu of her saree and hold an umbrella when she had to draw the kolam.
Blackie soon started having conversations with the fish. The fish responded to him just like they did Perundevi. Blackie would bark fondly at them and they would acknowledge his presence with aquatic tricks. The dog was particularly close with the flowerhorn that remained.
One day, that flowerhorn, like its deceased counterpart, began to float upside down. Maybe it had grown old too. It wasn’t dead. It was still breathing. Blackie would bark at it angrily, so as to say, “Get up and play with me! What’s all this upside-down business supposed to mean?” The fish, having understood Blackie’s meaning, wiggled for a few second and then went limp.
Marginal Man Page 49