We tried to stay away from the madness of the election, attending the interesting classes and skipping others while we wove dreams of our own.
“What will you talk about for the rest of your lives if you exhaust all topics of conversation now, Uthaman?” It was that chatterbox Jinu again.
“Oh no, Jinu. Actually, we don’t get enough time to finish all that we want to talk about.” I quipped back.
There was a menace in the air those days. The rivalry between various political parties erupted as frequent scuffles between the students.
One day, we were in Suresh sir’s English class, when we heard the sound of running footsteps and saw a group of about ten young men running through the corridors. They were followed by another group of men. There were yells of “Catch them”.
Suresh sir paused the lesson and went outside to check. He quickly came back and told us, “Be careful. I think these are outsiders trying to stir trouble in the campus. Don’t go out into the grounds now. Take the stairs and go upstairs, especially the girls.” He hurried out to join the other teachers.
We all scrambled up the stairs. Everyone was scared.
The students queued up along the upstairs railings. We could see the whole campus from there. The chasers and the chased were now rounding the science block. Some of the hunted jumped the high wall of the girls’ hostel and disappeared from view. Not many could jump over that high wall.
A young man was walking alone in the middle of the courtyard. The chasers suddenly spotted him and shrieked, “There he is. Don’t let him get away!” They fell upon the hapless victim, who was screaming and putting up his hands in self-defense. The mob paid no heed to his cries, and right in front of our horrified eyes hacked him to death! We couldn’t believe it. The green lawn turned red with flowing blood. The girls were screaming uncontrollably.
Murder!
The first and only murder I had ever witnessed.
A man was killed right in front of our eyes. His shocked face, the pleading hands, the body twitching to stillness on the grass—images that would never leave the minds of those young students ever.
The culprits left the scene as quickly as they had appeared. The police soon arrived. It was established that the victim was an innocent man and was murdered due to mistaken identity. He was not even a student in our college. He was only a relative of one of the students there and had come to visit him on that fateful day. He was just at the wrong place at the wrong time! How unlucky can one be?
Later the murderers were identified and arrested. They turned out to be outsiders—contract killers.
The price of campus politics.
Police swarmed over the college premises for the next few days. The campus suddenly felt alien, dangerous. The students were subdued, especially the girls. Ruby was terrified. How could she not be? She had witnessed a brutal murder!
How could a temple of learning become the sacrificial altar for innocent blood? Why was it allowed to happen? How can man, who can never give life, have the arrogance to take one?
It took a long time for the campus to regain a semblance of normalcy.
The pattern of life. Even the most dreadful memories fade, to be replaced and superceded by the normal activities of everyday life.
Soon, it was almost the end of the academic year. Harshan sir was teaching one day. I was distracted, and fidgeting with the lunchbox in my hand. Accidentally, the reflection from the steel box fell on sir’s face. The class burst out in laughter. He was furious. He thought I did it on purpose.
“Are you playing in class? What is your name?”
“Uthaman. Sorry, sir!”
“Get out! Come and see me in the staffroom and only then enter my class again.” He was in a terrible rage.
I got up and quietly left the room. All my thoughts were about Ruby. She is in the class. What would she think? She must be more distressed than I was. I must quickly resolve this issue. I decided to wait for Harshan sir in front of the library and ask for his forgiveness straightaway.
Soon the bell rang. When I saw sir coming out of the class, I walked towards him. He still looked angry. “If you are not interested in the class, why do you come to attend it? You have a choice. But if you do choose to come to my class, you have to pay attention. You just can’t play the fool and distract the other students as well.”
“It was not on purpose, sir. I was just putting my lunchbox in my bag when it caught the sun. Truly, it was an accident, sir.”
Sir seemed to recognise the sincerity in my words. He looked at me for a long moment.
“Okay. This is the first time. I believe you that it was an accident. You can come to the class tomorrow. But don’t repeat it.” He patted me on the back and walked away.
Ruby was waiting for me outside the class.
“What did sir say? Did he scold you a lot?”
“No. I apologised. He was fine.” I answered sheepishly.
“You and your lunchbox! In school, it was the fish!” She pinched me in relief.
Soon, it was exam time. Both of us did well. The end of the year was also marked by a spate of activities—College Day, exhibition, Art and Sports Festival. These were fun times, memories which made college so special.
I stood first in poetry writing and painting. It was a big honour since we were freshmen in the college. I was requested to design the cover page of the college magazine, and my poem was even published in it.
On prize distribution day, when the principal handed me the award for the painting competition, he reminded me with a smile, “I hope you remember your promise to me.”
“Sure sir. The painting.” I answered with pride. He patted me on the shoulder. What a proud moment that was! To be singled out for praise in front of the whole college. I was very happy that I had the good fortune to study in this college under such a caring principal.
Soon, people started recognising me. I became a mini-celebrity in college.
The second year was even better since we were already considered seasoned hands in the college.
We had lots of good friends on the campus. Some of them are no more. Some had been forgotten. Some were still in touch, at least sporadically. Vijayan, Ajayan, Thomas, Sudhi, Prasannan, Sajeev, Krishnan, Charles, James, Jose, Raji, Reena, Celine, Sree Rekha... How many of them recall Ruby and me?
At the end of our second year, the college held a grand farewell ceremony for the principal. I spoke at the function. Throughout the speech, I was fighting hard to control my anguish at bidding farewell to such a great man. I then presented him with a canvas painting of the setting sun. He loved it and embraced me with tears in his eyes.
His speech still resonates with me.
“Death is a blessing compared to old age. To be infirm in mind and body is a curse in today’s society. Social ostracisation of the forgotten elderly—how terrible is that. Once upon a time, grey hair and a wrinkled face commanded love and respect. Now, they are despised. Unwanted. A burden. As a society, we have become cruel to non-productivity, and old age is a prime example of that. I hope I will be able to spend my retirement in peace as a contributing member of the society, and I thank all of you for wishing me well.”
The whole audience stood up to give him a standing ovation. There was not one dry eye among his colleagues and students.
Soon, it was time for the final exams. The important exams, which would determine our future. We got into a frenzy of cramming, exchanging notes and studying day and night.
Finally, the exams were over. The last day of pre-degree course of the college.
Ruby and I decided to apply for admission to the three-year degree course in this favourite campus of ours.
The holidays were a drag. For the best part of two years, we had been with each other. And now, suddenly, our contact was restricted to occasional meetings at the temple or the library. We missed our beautiful campus, the corridors we roamed, the flowers that smiled at us, the classes... all awaiting our presence again. Lis
tening for our footfalls.
The Twenty-Seventh Night
Chirping birds are settling in for the day, welcoming the darkness. Fireflies tumble out of the night’s loosened tresses. The night can be cruel—it rarely misses a chance to hurt the guileless. That is her depraved sport. But she is also the careful guardian of our secrets. We can tell her anything—she embraces grief and joy with equal gusto. And when tired of divulging our deepest hopes, our darkest regrets, we can lie in her lap in peace. She will sing us a lullaby. She will cuddle us to sleep.
The night is the spiritual daughter of the creator.
She is darkness personified.
She knows everything. All my thoughts, my dreams, my passion.
My stories sting her. She sends a gentle breeze tinged with her salty tears to soothe me.
The lanes are busy this night with people returning home. What big dreams must they carry. Some walk with purpose; others stagger around without a clue. How many more sunsets are promised them? In their hurry, without a second thought, they trample the innocent blades of grass—not knowing their dreams probably await the fate of those trampled blades, never destined to see the light of day.
Many times, I was tempted to ask the world. Is there anyone who hasn’t caged the golden songbird of love in their hearts? Is life possible without that innocent emotion? I don’t think so. Doesn’t all creation start with love?
My thoughts are preparing to take flight—like the nightbirds.
Eerie forms have taken on the shapes and hues of love and encircle me in a twilight dance. Probably trying to remind me of the nights that were, the nights that remain.
The truth is that even in this formless emptiness, I am unable to stop these escapes into my past life. As in life, as in death. A heart full of love.
Now, when fate has cruelly robbed me of my body, the only thing that keeps me alive are these memories.
You cannot imagine how much I enjoy these reminiscences.
The pre-degree results arrived.
Ruby stood first.
We met that evening at the temple.
She looked radiant.
“Appu, did you know?”
I nodded with a smile. “Yes, my Ruby is the topper!”
“How did you know?”
“Narayanan called me. He had gone to college to get the marksheet, and Harshan sir told him.”
“Yes, Reena had called me. You are second. Just one mark less than me.”
Ruby’s eyes sparkled in the reflected light from the multitude of lamps in the temple. Our happiness was palpable. I was relieved there wasn’t anyone else just at that time to witness our exchange.
The next day, we went to college together.
The campus looked as if it was awakening from a long slumber. We applied together for the degree course with Malayalam as our major. That would give us another three years of freedom to love and dream to our heart’s content.
After submitting the application, we roamed through our beloved campus once again. Then, we sat down under the fan palms to exchange news of the past few days. We were so familiar with the campus now that we knew each and every nook and corner. Even the tiny blades of grass were our dear allies.
On the way back home, on the bus, I took the seat behind her. When the bus was moving, the breeze played with her hair and it flew over my face. I cannot describe the feeling.
Soon, the degree classes started. Our daily routine of being together from morning to evening recommenced. It was heaven. But we again pledged not to let our love disrupt our studies. Both of us were mature enough to differentiate dreams from reality.
But were we, really? For us, weren’t those dreams more real than reality? How could we think that our life would be one long, carefree friendship? Did we have any idea about the harsh facts of life that we would be facing soon enough?
That first day though, nothing could dampen our spirits. Three long years. More than a thousand days. Our own days!
The campus was full of laughing boys and girls. Some were couples, like us. The fact that the campus was so beautiful helped with matters of the heart. How many love stories must have played out in these corridors? How many couples must have crossed these lanes to traverse the lanes of life together??
“When does a girl look the most beautiful?” I was looking at all the couples spread out on the lawn, and the question came unbidden to my tongue.
Ruby looked confused.
“How can I answer that, Appu? Only the one who is looking at the girl can judge when a girl looks the most beautiful. So, you tell me. When does a girl appear most beautiful?”
“When she is with her lover,” I answered. Ruby blushed beautifully. Her eyes sparkled like diamonds!
“So, do I look beautiful now?” she whispered.
“Not bad,” I answered with a loud laugh.
Ruby’s face fell. She looked ready to cry.
“Ruby, I was joking…” I was quite alarmed.
She suddenly got up. “No, don’t talk to me! You are always like this, making fun of me.”
“Ruby, that was a joke. Actually, you look stunning when you are angry.” I tried to mollify her.
A little smile appeared on her face.
“Okay, let me ask you a question. When does a boy appear the most vulnerable?”
I knew what she was driving at. But I wanted her to feel good by scoring one over me. So, I feigned ignorance.
“When?” I asked.
“When he is with his lover.” Her voice was trembling with shyness. I felt I was falling in love with her all over again.
We walked to the library. I wanted to borrow a book, a collection of poems by Changampuzha, the Malayalam poet of eternal love. She checked out a book too, Anna Karenina.
Love is a ballad, and lovers love poetry. I was heavily into Changampuzha at that time. He had a particular ability to evoke the most delicate thoughts in the reader.
Having an honest heart
Is my failing
In this dishonest world.
How true were his words.
It made us immensely proud that he was an alumnus of our college, that we walked the same corridors that he did and studied in the same classrooms. Varma sir did such a good job of teaching us this great poet’s works that we felt as if we knew him personally. The greatness of a writer. The greatness of a teacher.
We were inundated with our coursework as the year progressed. There was so much to read. So much to study. And on top of that, extracurricular activities.
But Ruby and I still found time and opportunities to be together.
On the bus.
By the lake.
In the glimmer of the light filtering through the trees in Subhash Park, across the street from the college.
In the melody of the Hindi songs playing at the Coffee House next to the boat jetty.
In the light and dark shadows of the campus.
The sighs, the tears, the quarrels, the laughter. Our campus was our biggest book of life. The pages on it were our bubbling dreams. The chapters were the vague, shadowy images of reality. It was stained by the tears of broken-hearted lovers.
The city bustled as ever. In that ever-moving ripple, we were just two insignificant points, but we had our own stories. And what we couldn’t say, we wrote in letters. Those letters were sometimes heavy with unsaid dreams and fears.
I was a loner. I had some good friends, but in a crowd, I always felt alone. The white bank of the river was among my favourite haunts. The Periyar was my friend. She would always listen to my woes and never belittle me. I used to spend nights lying on those sandy shores, gazing up at the stars. Some days I was joined there by Manu master and other friends. I mostly enjoyed being a silent listener to their discussions and songs.
Days and weeks and months and years passed by swiftly. It was very soon our final year at college. Such a busy time. So much to study, and so much to do.
I was elected the secretary of the Arts Club that y
ear, and Ruby became the magazine editor. Very soon, we found that twenty-four hours are too few for a day.
We wanted to make that year’s Arts Club Day a truly memorable event. Fortunately, a famous film star agreed to inaugurate the function. The whole college was in a celebratory mood. Ruby sang at the function—about flowers and butterflies and longings! As her sweet voice filled the auditorium, my friends raised me on their shoulders and yelled, “Hey, flower, your butterfly is here.” Ruby wasn’t perturbed. She finished the song with a smile. The audience burst into loud clapping. The film star smiled at her. She was the biggest star of the day!
That was an unforgettable night for us. The melody of her song and the music of the orchestra still resonate in this lonely night.
These nights are the open doors to another world.
Before I disappear through these doors, here I am, curating my choicest memories for you. There is so much to share, but only so much time.
The pain of unfulfilled dreams and bereavement ripples like blue shadows in this ocean of silence that surrounds me.
The Twenty-Eighth Night
The birds return home, shadows across the setting sun. How disciplined are these birds. Why doesn’t man, who boasts of higher intelligence, have even a semblance of this order in his life?
They are nesting in the big banyan tree in Meenakshiamma’s property, four houses down from ours. Meenakshiamma from the now-defunct Theroth family. The property was sold to one Jeevan from Kottayam. He promptly proceeded to demolish the graceful old two-storey house there and has now erected a huge three-storey monstrosity in its stead.
The coconut sapling planted over the grave of Meenakshiamma, in one corner of the property, has now grown into a tall, mature tree.
The curse of Theroth is still talked about in our village.
Meenakshiamma was a regal-looking lady. Pale, thin, small-framed, graceful and dignified, she had a quiet smile for everyone. A full head of silver hair. Always well dressed, with sandalwood paste on her forehead. It was a joy watching her sitting down to evening prayers everyday. She lived with her son and daughter-in-law—active and always happy to help in the household chores. Her husband had died quite sometime ago. He was an employee of the panchayat office.
The Soul of Truth Page 19