Azad had met him accidentally in the travel wing. The staff got nervous when they caught sight of Rashidi, thinking he had a complaint. He came straight towards Azad as though he liked the look of him and started the conversation by saying that Azad had an Egyptian nose. Thought Azad felt like retorting that he did not carry his temper at the tip of it, he smiled his usual smile. He also sorted out the problems that Rashidi had, though they were not strictly within his department. Rashidi must have been in a good mood that day. He left without picking a fight with anyone. Instead, he shook hands and thanked everyone. The Egyptian nose paved the way for a certain friendship. They were soon calling each other Azadbhai and Rashidibhai.
‘To tell you the truth, all beaches look alike to me. But to Rashidi, each seashore was a different experience. As though each shore guarded its particular sea. He said even the wind smelled different at each shore—a smell compounded of the life of the people, the creatures of the sea, the soil there and the eateries around. The sand in each shore was of a different colour and tasted different. He wandered from shore to shore in search of these different sea-experiences. He had a long glass jar, which had stones of different colours he had picked from different seashores. He would claim proudly that the jar placed on top of the showcase in his drawing room held the wealth of his lifetime. To begin with, he had numbered the stones and written the date and place in a diary. Later, he got tired of that.’
Amidst all these wanderings, the thought of a woman did not enter Rashidi’s mind. He felt that a woman would be bothersome and an intrusion into his privacy. Once in a while, he would invite Azad to join him for an evening. Rashidi’s shelves were stacked with priceless wines gathered from all over the world. Since Azad did not like wine, there were always bottles of Chivaz Regal. Azad found these evenings with Rashidi amusing. He himself never stopped talking and Rashidi was a silent man. Azad could not forget the picture of Rashidi sitting and listening with great attention to Azad holding forth on various subjects.
‘Where is he now?’ Aravindan interrupted.
‘Gone.’ Azad voice became dead and his face darkened. ‘It was an accident. In a crossing that was not even crowded. Rashidi walked across the road, wrapped in thought, ignoring a red light. There were eyewitnesses to it. Some of the cars could brake to a stop, others couldn’t.’
‘Even otherwise, we live at the mercy of someone’s brakes, don’t we?’
Azad did not seem to have heard Aravindan’s comment. He was thinking of something. He said, ‘He must have had some intuition about it.’
‘Why?’
‘A couple of days before he died, it was a Sunday evening, he rang me and asked me to join him. This was unusual since such calls were usually reserved for Thursday, Friday being a holiday for me. He seemed very preoccupied that evening. He talked for the first time about his ancestors, about ancient Egyptian history, about subjects he had never mentioned before. He was not like the average Egyptian, who loved to boast about the past. But that day; it was as though he had forgotten his beloved sea.’
He drank more wine than usual, he talked a lot more than usual. Azad realised, for the first time, the man had a voice that was different, and conversations such as this. It was past midnight when Azad got up to go. Rashidi also staggered up. Leaning against the sofa with bloodshot eyes, he pointed to the glass jar kept above the showcase and said, ‘Azadbhai, I need a piece of help from you.’
‘What is it?’
‘You must take this and keep it above the showcase in your house. So that anyone who comes, can see it. So that they ask where you got it from.’
There was one more thing. It was a rare manuscript in Greek, which he had acquired in one of his journeys. Azad remembered being shown a bundle of half-eaten papyrus, wrapped in silk, once. If he wanted to auction it at the Sotheby’s in London, it would fetch whatever he asked for. Rashidi had also mentioned that the antique mafias would not hesitate to kill him if they knew he had it.
When Azad stood there stunned, Rashidi said, ‘Azadbhai, I had told you that this was for the next generation. Why should someone, who does not have a generation to follow, him keep such a thing?’
He regretted that he had taken so long to realise this. Azad was reluctant to take the gifts. Why did he need Rashidi’s long-kept treasure? But Rashidi was not willing to let it go. Azad agreed but said that it was not something that should be carried away at midnight. Let the day awaken. When he said that and walked away hurriedly, Azad believed when the intoxication of the wine settled down and the day dawned, Rashidi would have second thoughts about it.
But Azad awoke the next day to the sound of the doorbell. It was Rashidi’s servant. He had an elongated locked box in his hand and a bundle, covered in silk.
Azad gave a long sigh. After a while, he asked, ‘Aravindettan, do you understand why I’m telling you all this?’
‘No.’
‘I’m going to entrust those things to you,’ Azad opened the airbag that he was carrying.
‘Why me?’ Aravindan asked in surprise.
‘As Rashidibhai said that day, why should I, who do not have anyone to follow me, keep these things safe?’
‘Do we need to talk of such sentimental stuff, Azad?’
‘We need to, Aravindettan,’ Azad was firm about it. ‘All of us are growing old. This is for your granddaughter. It is through her, that yet another generation will rise.’
Aravindan did not feel like saying anything after that. People who had forgotten about heirs and the next generation when they were young were beginning to think about them in their old age, he thought.
Azad was getting up to go. ‘See you then, Aravindettan. I’ll ring up, once in a while. It is the company’s telephone, after all. Anyway, we must really do something about what we spoke about earlier.’
‘All right, Azad.’
When the taxi, bearing Azad, went out of the gate and turned into the lane, Aravindan too decided, ‘It is time for me to return as well.’ He should see about his ticket before the next phone call from Vasanthi. Anyway, he was sure of one thing now. He would be able to write some of this even if he went there. So much had settled in his mind, like sediment.
He would give Azad’s gift to Gayathri. Vasanthi would laugh at it—a gift given by a rich non-resident when he met his friend after years! His daughter-in-law Vandana’s reaction would depend on what Professor Appa thought about it. If Gayathri found it interesting it would be enough. One could only have some expectations about that generation now. Aravindan sighed.
Vasanthi’s call came at night, even before he could ring her up and tell her about his plans.
This time she did not protest and grumble as usual. It was as though she was going back to her old habits—boiling with rage one minute and cooling down almost immediately.
During their initial days, he had managed to keep up with the spoilt younger daughter of Mr Menon from Ottapalam, but when the conversations turned to the great life lived by the elder one Aparna, in Chicago, he got fed up. During her countdown of the transition from the Green Card to full citizenship, Vasanthi had been thrilled—‘It is so exciting, it is great to have something like that to look forward to!’ The excitement of changing citizenship, like the excitement of changing religions. If he did not rein her at that point, his wife, the scholar of six languages, might have started using a seventh, not-so-polite one. So, Aravindan had taken a firm stance.
‘What do you think you are doing?’ Vasanthi’s voice was heavy at the other end.
‘What is it?’
‘Have you forgotten that Raghu came four days ago?’
‘I spoke to him. And to Vandana.’
‘And is that enough?’
‘What else?’
‘Gayathri was complaining that her grandfather didn’t come to see her.’
‘I spoke to her too.’
‘Your daughter is not likely to come these holidays. Her children’s exams have got postponed.’
‘I spoke to her on the phone as well.’
‘Oh, so all you need is a telephone, you don’t have to see these people,’ Vasanthi’s voice had a brittle edge to it. ‘Raghu’s going to Chennai on Monday.’
‘I know…as usual.’
Those were the rules laid down by Professor Seshadri, Vandana’s father. Vandana firmly believed that Professor Appa was the perfect man in the entire universe. Though the school she taught had two months’ holidays, Raghu got only a month’s leave. Professor Appa had prepared a strict schedule, accordingly. The family would come to India together and return separately. They would stay for a week at Mumbai from the day they landed, but on the eighth day all of them had to reach the flat at Adayar. After a week there, Raghu could return to Mumbai if he wished. Vandana and the children would stay for another three weeks there.
By now it would be time for Raghu to leave. The remaining month could be spent by Vandana wherever she liked. If Gayathri insisted, Vandana would spend another week or so in Mumbai. After all, Gayathri had been born in Mumbai and had spent the first couple of years of her life there.
When it was time for Vandana to return, Professor Seshadri and his wife would come to Mumbai to see them off. They did not stay in their son-in-law’s home, but with one Professor Subramanian in Matunga, who was an old friend.
Aravindan had found this odd and mentioned it to Vasanthi.
Her reply was, ‘Well, they’re Brahmins.’
‘Brahmins can accept our son as their daughter’s husband, but can’t stay with his parents?’
‘When it is a love marriage…’
It had been a marriage that no one had particularly liked. The Professor and his tribe had stood with swords drawn till there was a threat of a run-away marriage, they had withdrawn their opposition, consoling themselves with the thought that Ragu was a Hindu at least.
Vasanthi had another excuse as well, ‘Well, they are both professors and probably have plenty to talk about.’ Whereas the professor would have nothing to talk about with his chartered accountant son-in-law. Aravindan had found that excuse very funny and laughed over it for a long while.
At the other end of the telephone, when he brought the receiver closer to his ear, he could hear her angry voice. ‘I’m wondering if I should go to Chennai with them.’
‘And?’
‘Stay with them. Why should I stay here all alone?’
‘In the Brahmin household?’
‘If Raghu can stay there, why can’t I?’
‘But what about those relatives from Ottapalam, Nenmara, Kollengode, etc.?’
‘Will you stop it? I’m fed up of hearing this all the time.’
Aravindan thought for a moment and said, ‘Let me see. If I can get a ticket, I’ll return the day after tomorrow. Give the phone to Raghu for a minute.’
Aravindan wanted to say a lot of things to Raghu—about Muchiri, about Chendamangalam, about the jottings he was making. But with Raghu’s second yawn, he gave up. The question Aravindan wanted to ask was: why didn’t he make a visit to Kerala, to his own place, at least this trip?
Raghu probably would retort. Which was his own place? Mumbai, Chennai, Chendamangalam, or Kuwait?
With each generation, the ties loosened. Other interests developed. Gayathri who had heard mainly Malayalam till she was two, now knew only Tamil and English. And a little bit of Arabic and Hindi that she had to study in school. Poor Malayalam got crushed in between somewhere. Seshadri had been very particular that Gayathri should be taught Tamil when she was a small child. Tamil was the best language in the world. His grandchild had to grow up in the Tamil culture. When she came back from Adayar after the three weeks of holidays the jeans and frocks would go back into the suitcase. Instead, there would be bright pleated silk skirts with the glitter of zari.
Once, she had worn a green skirt and come and stood before Aravindan, asking, ‘How do I look, Achachan?’
‘Very cute, sweetheart.’
He had spoken about what he really felt only to Vasanthi. Studying Tamil was a good thing. All languages were good. But were they all trying to turn her into a typical Tamil Brahmin girl?
‘Why? Is it such a bad thing to be a Tamil Brahmin girl?’ As usual Vasanthi tried to make it an argument. It had always been her habit to oppose anything he said.
Aravindan had found her attitude amusing. Vasanthi’s elder sister Aparna’s husband had seen to it that their son was baptised. Though Aparna had not converted, he would only call her Anne. He was very insistent the whole family attend the Sunday mass in their church.
‘Is there anyone at the other end? Am I speaking to the wall?’ He suddenly realised that Vasanthi’s voice could grow that loud.
‘What is it, tell me.’
‘What are your plans?’
‘I told you I’ll try to come the day after tomorrow.’
‘It’s still at the stage of trying?’
Aravindan did not prolong the argument, but put down the telephone.
Yes, it was enough. He had to return. Achumman had hinted about it last night. Why don’t you go and then come back. It’s been quite long since you came. They must be waiting.
But it was as though someone was pulling him back. Shadowy figures—Vadakkoth Thanka, Ponnu, Kunkamma, Adrian—unknown figures who wandered in from somewhere. He did not feel like leaving the place, abandoning them. He was also afraid that he would lose the rhythm of the writing. Though these were just jottings, he was realising for the first time that writing had a rhythm to it. He was afraid that if he returned to the bustle of Mumbai from the stillness of this place, that rhythm would be broken.
He sometimes wished he had not started. Who were all these people? How did they become characters in this narrative? It was not easy to carry their weight. As their doubts and anxieties spread into him, he was finding himself tied down.
Light from his predecessors fell before him and scattered. As the cursed Muchiri had waited for centuries, they had also been waiting. Vadakkoth Thanka, Ponnu, Kunkamma, Adrian and Orion and others…A whole place lay waiting for him…for him alone. That was what Perumal had said; what Azad had said. Maybe this trip here was a pointer to that destiny.
He would try for a ticket for the day after the next day. He would return for now and come back later as Achumman had said. Achumman has understood that all his departures were for returns. Appukuttan too. As though these departures and returns fulfilled a whole life. Even the fact that it was delayed so long might have been destiny.
Before he left he would like to show what he had already written to someone here. Who was there who could read it?
Aravindan felt that he was returning to the days of the manuscript magazine. The nervousness of a time when he wore half trousers and single dhotis. The hesitation of a boy who waited to submit his composition. Good old buddy Gopi stood somewhere in the dark and said, ‘You’ll be a writer sometime at this rate, editor!’
Let that be, he would show someone these jottings. Maybe Ramabhadran. Though he did not read books, he did flip through periodicals. He knew a lot of stories from the Puranas too.
It was not that he wanted Ramabhadran to assess the literary quality of the writing, but he wanted him to just read it. Perumal said that when you had written a lot, you always wanted someone to read it. Your family, the neighbours next door, then the people living in the house beyond that, friends, and then the people in the village…
For the time being, Ramabhadran would do, Aravindan decided. He would show Ramabhadran what he had written. Once he reached the flat in Malad, it might be days before his mind quietened down sufficiently. In between, there would be the disturbance of Raghu’s journey to Chennai, and then their return. Gayathri must be waiting. She did not like staying very long at Adayar. Professor Appa’s discipline was so unbearable. She felt as though the walls of the two-bedroom flat were papered with her grandfather’s eyes. She was always afraid that he would pull out a rule-book from his pocket and point out some edict
that she had transgressed.
When long perorations about the proper way to bring up children spoilt the taste of the food at the dinner table, Raghu would sit as though he heard nothing. Vandana who nodded in agreement to the words would not see Raghu wink at his daughter. For Vandana, her father was the last word in the world.
When she reached Mumbai, Gayathri’s wings sprouted. The three-bedroom flat, which came as a result of the years at the shipping company, had a fairly large sitting room. There was sufficient space for Gayathri to run around. There the clean walls were not studded with eyes. But Vandana always grumbled about it: ‘I’m the one who’ll have to suffer to make the child behave normally again.’ Gayathri would hide her laughter, ignoring the accusation that the proper behaviour that Professor Appa had instilled in her had been spoilt by her stay in Mumbai.
He decided he would hand over the papers to Ramabhadran the next day. When he told him that they had to be returned before Aravindan left for Mumbai, Ramabhadran would give his usual laugh and comment: ‘You are a “master of the twelfth hour”, aren’t you, Aravindan?’
He glanced through the papers before he slept that night. He could not believe that he had written so much. Most nights the room had stayed lighted till midnight. Achumman would come and peer in. He must have written all this unconsciously, words crowding into his mind. He could not remember how he had done it.
If Achumman found his eyes bloodshot as he sat for breakfast, he would admonish mildly, ‘Don’t stay up so late. Don’t forget that you’re no longer young.’
The Saga of Muziris Page 15