The Soul of Truth

by Shaji Madathil

  I was shocked out of my wits at what I saw. On top of that tree was a well-camouflaged tree house and in that, aiming an arrow at us, was a crouching tribal! For a moment, I could feel the pain of that piercing arrow!

  Suddenly the bushes around us came alive. “Sir!” A few children ran out of the bushes and hugged me and Pappan. They were our students. Oh, the relief that surged through me!

  When the man saw the children talking to us, he lowered his bow and climbed down the tree to join us.

  “Our homes are near here. Please come to our house, sir.” The kids were pulling on our arms. They wanted to take us to their settlement. We laughed and let them lead us to their homes. It was an open area with a few thatched huts and appeared spotlessly clean. They seated us on tree stumps on the ground in front of the huts, and fed us pure forest honey in bamboo tubes. It was heavenly. We were touched by their simplicity and love. They seemed to think a lot of their children’s teachers. They were happy their children had access to an education that was denied them, and encouraged them as best as they could. It was no wonder that one of those kids we taught, Matha, went on to become the first doctor from the tribal community!

  We talked to them about the forest and their lives and left only at dusk. They accompanied us to the edge of the forest and warned us to be careful since wild boars roamed the area and could attack and hurt us badly.

  I had enjoyed the Onam holidays with Pappan so much that both of us decided to stay back for the Christmas holidays as well. We went out caroling with Cornelli and his friends, singing carols and eating goodies to our hearts’ content. I helped paint the paper lanterns and rejoiced in the simple pleasure of being a part of a happy crowd.

  Those were good days. When I look back though, I was a fool living in a false paradise—when I had shut my eyes and senses to the real questions in my life that demanded answers, sooner rather than later.

  I leave thousands of unanswered questions. Please don’t blame me. It is fate.

  Fate? The wind screeches in derision.

  There was a disturbance in the peaceful air of Kolayad. Death. It is always feared. There is no worse fear than that of losing a loved one

  It was one of my last few days in Kolayad.

  One day, I got out with Pappan for the usual evening stroll. I was aware of how much I would be missing him soon.

  That day, we took a new route, by the side of the theatre. It was a beautiful path with bright yellow flowers on both sides, leading to wide open green fields, reminding me of my own Choornikkara! Just then, I felt very close to this village.

  We came across the village pond. There was a well-kept vegetable garden next to it. It was full of fresh organic vegetables and was a very pleasing sight. A multitude of brightly coloured birds painted bold, resplendent brush strokes across the sky. The sun was setting over the fields, a fierce glow of bright red lingered over the horizon. Does the sun bleed to death every evening?

  Suddenly, we noticed a crowd further along the path, in front of the local landlord’s home. People were hurrying in that direction; a police jeep could be seen by the side of the road.

  “Something has happened. Let’s have a look.” Pappan started walking briskly, and I ran to keep up with him.

  When we got there, we heard that a murder had taken place there. The rich landlord’s daughter was in love with a poor tenant on his land, and the landlord’s son had beaten him to death. We were aghast at the cruelty. That too in broad daylight. The broken and bruised body was still lying on the ground. The boy’s relatives had come out in protest and were sitting next to the body, refusing to move until the landlord’s son was arrested for the murder.

  I grew anxious at the charged atmosphere. “Pappan, let’s go back,” I said.

  Pappan, however, had an inscrutable look—was it intense anger, pain or excitement. When he heard the fear in my voice, he turned back. “Why are you afraid? Do you see that? All those people sitting in protest must be the landlord’s tenants, dependent on him. But see how times have changed. Now, they dare to protest against an injustice, even if it means going against their employer.”

  “Yes, that is good. But Pappan, how did that tenant boy have the guts to fall in love with the landlord’s daughter?” I couldn’t believe it.

  “Uthaman! You are still in the dark ages. Do you think love can be controlled? And why shouldn’t a poor boy fall in love with a rich girl? Why shouldn’t a high-caste girl fall in love with a low-caste boy? Is there a law against it?”

  “No, but still…” I was still grappling with my thoughts.

  “These barriers should fall. Only then would our society progress.” There was a fierce light in Pappan’s eyes.

  “Do you think the police will arrest the son?”

  Pappan laughed grimly. “Yes, they might. To calm the protesters. But just watch, the landlord will get his son out in no time.”

  “But, how can he? So many people must have seen what had happened.”

  “Hah, do you think even one of them would dare to come forward as a witness? If anyone dares to do so, the landlord and his people would kill him and his family too. So, you bet, there won’t be any witnesses to testify against the landlord’s son in court and the case would be dismissed, and the killer will be free and emboldened to commit more atrocities.”

  “Not only that,” Pappan continued. “Some of those tenant boys attend the study classes in the forest. If the police find that connection, they will be jailed as Naxalites. Thus, they will paint the victims as the criminals.”

  “Will you get in trouble?” Now, I was seriously worried.

  “Who knows? Maybe.” Pappan shrugged.

  That night, I couldn’t sleep. The image of that murdered boy, the injustice of it all, the fear that Pappan might get arrested— everything made me uneasy. Suddenly, I wanted to escape from that place as soon as possible. How one incident can change our perceptions; innocent Kolayad now looked dangerous and menacing.

  So many dreaded memories. No more, says the dying night.

  The Thirty-Third night

  The golden dusk lies shattered in a thousand shards in the village lanes. The night has started its victory march. The stars in the skies blink in fear. Who are they scared of? The night?

  In the neighbouring houses, the cows moo softly as they settle down for the night. Poor things, bound to a lifelong service to humans.

  Our barn now stands empty. No more cows. It’s merely a storehouse for firewood and junk. During my childhood, however, we had many cows and calves. They were the best breed, yielding plenty of milk. We had an excess of milk and butter and buttermilk and yoghurt and even ghee those days. Amma never sold any of these. Instead, she shared them with our neighbours. It was a common sight to see little kids constantly at our kitchen door, holding small steel vessels.

  “Two cups of milk.”

  “One cup yoghurt.”

  “Do you have some ghee to spare?”

  Those were such happy and generous days. But when Amma got older and our finances became tighter, we sold the cows. When our last one, my favourite, was led away by the new buyer, I cried heartbrokenly, and refused to eat the whole day. It took merciless teasing by Oppol for me to act tough and appear grown up.

  Is it not the same for humans too? Everybody respects the earning, productive members of a society. But once they get old and infirm, we can only think of ways to get rid of them. Thankfully, killing off the old is still not acceptable, but don’t we gladly ignore their presence, pushing them into a lonely, neglected existence worse than death?

  We even had coffee plants when Amma was around. She used to roast and grind the best beans to make our coffee. That coffee with the milk from our cows was the best coffee I have ever had.

  No more cows. No coffee either. The yard is barren and neglected, except for a few palm trees, old fruit trees and some tubers, which grow randomly.

  Our house lost its prosperity with the deaths of Achen and Amma. They were
the lamps that lit up our home. Without them, we have been barely managing, stumbling in the dark. And now, with my departure, that darkness will be even thicker. A void that will take a long time to be filled.

  Farewells. They are never happy occasions.

  My farewell from Kolayad was very emotional. I saw many of my students teary-eyed, some, like Cornelli, even weeping openly. When Father Berthold handed me a memento with tear-filled eyes, I could barely manage my composure in front of the school.

  Father gave an inspiring speech.

  “We are forced to say farewell to a much-loved teacher. He is a role model. It is a huge loss, not just for the students and teachers in this school but for the whole village. In these two years, he had become so close to all of us. I was surprised by the rapport he had developed with everyone in the village, especially with the parents of his students. I have only heard good things about him, from everyone. I promise that I will try my best to get him back to our school as soon as a vacancy becomes available.”

  The standing ovation was an unforgettable experience.

  The day before I left, Cornelli came to my room. He was struggling not to cry. He had a small, borrowed camera with him. “I want to take a picture with you.”

  I felt very proud at the way this boy had grown and transformed, from the naughtiest in the school to the school captain. We took the picture together, and I gave many of the presents I had received from school to him. His smiling, loving face was my biggest farewell gift.

  The next day, most of my colleagues and roommates came to the railway station to bid me goodbye. That long journey back home with those cherished memories will never fade.

  I had promised everyone and myself a return journey, but as fate would have it, that never happened.

  The first few months, I used to get so many letters from there. But soon it trickled down to just the occasional one from Cornelli. That is only natural. Time, the magician, erases even the fondest memories.

  My old routine of sending out job applications and the unending wait for replies resumed. The old library was my favourite haunt to kill the abundant free time I had now.

  Ruby, in the meantime, had found a temporary job as a teacher at an unaided school. That was a big relief. She wouldn’t feel so depressed and lonely at home anymore. Loneliness is not a good companion for despairing souls.

  Manu master gave me company in the evenings at the Periyar and the temple. I could tell him anything and that was such a blessing at the time, as I was consumed by the anxieties about the uncertainty of my future.

  One day he opened his heart to me.

  “Uthaman, I carry a monument of love in my heart too, but I try to keep it hidden behind the curtains of time, forgotten. Though, sometimes, it breaks all barriers and burns bright like a candle, with her smiling face above that tomb, and then my heart breaks with unbelievable pain.”

  “I deserve that pain, Uthaman, because I had deliberately given up on that love. At that time, I gave more importance to other considerations. Now, in front of lost love, all that seems so trivial.” He sounded lost.

  He laughed suddenly. “Do you know, Uthaman, there is a funny anecdote to my love story. In college, my best friends were Radhakrishnan and Krishnankutty. On the last day of college, after farewell celebrations, we decided to have some fun at the bar. Radhakrishnan had always told us that he loved a girl secretly, but he had never revealed her name. That day, we teased him, and finally, he revealed the name of the girl. We both loved the same girl! He had no idea. How we laughed! And, after all that, I gave her up later. For my own selfish reasons.”

  The ache in my heart threatened to smother me. What was I doing with Ruby? Was I building her a monument in my heart too?

  I had to see Ruby. Talk to her.

  Finally, we got a chance to talk at the post office. We sat down on a bench in the corner. Ruby’s smile quickly turned to tears. I tried to caution her.

  “Ruby, careful. People will notice.”

  She was rebellious, not in a mood to listen.

  “Appu, you are worried about people seeing this? Don’t you know that everyone knows about us? What more can they know now? Why are you behaving like a coward? I am trying my best Appu, but I am losing confidence by the day.”

  “What can I do, without first getting a good job, Ruby?”

  “So how long are you planning to wait, Appu?”

  “I am trying my best. I am sending applications to every single vacancy available, everyday!” I felt a bit hurt by her anger.

  “And do you know that many proposals are coming in, and prospective grooms and families are visiting almost everyday? How long do you think I can resist my father?”

  She was right. How long could she hold on? She had lost the only support she had when her mother passed away. If her father took a decision, he would carry it to the end.

  But what could I do?

  On the one side was my family, dependent entirely on me. How could I marry and start a family of my own, with no steady income, and hurt all of our prospects?

  “Ruby, please wait till I have a job so I can support you and my family,” I whispered lamely.

  Was I being a traitor? Were my words mere excuses? Was I running away from my duty to her?

  She was already torn by our separation for two years. While I was happy at Kolayad, she was going through hell at home. But still, I tried to pacify her with promises of an end to our sufferings as soon as I got a job.

  I did try my best to get a position. I took all the tests, and sent in every application. But all was in vain. I wished fervently that a vacancy would come up in Kolayad, and I would be invited for the job. But that hope was never fulfilled either.

  Amma used to say, “Job, marriage, life—all of these are predestined. Try as we might, it will happen only at the right time with the right people. But that doesn’t mean we should stop trying. When one door closes, another might open. Keep knocking.”

  If only Achen and Amma were here!

  They didn’t have the good fortune to see their son settled in life. How carefree were my days when I was under their protection. Childhood is the best time in one’s life. Once the grown-up responsibilities start, we see another facet of life. Most people struggle with the new challenges. Some rise to the occasion and win. Some just manage to hang on, never satisfied with their lives. Some lose, utterly.

  I felt completely lost.

  I would have liked nothing better than row in my golden boat of dreams with Ruby! But that was a time when I felt like a boatman stranded in the middle of the choppy sea with no oars. Tossed about! Helpless! With no idea of what’s to happen!

  Those were indeed rudderless days. I knew I would lose my mind if I spent all day absorbed in gloomy thoughts of failure. Manu master, too, saw the destructive direction I was headed for and advised me to take active interest in wider matters than just myself and my family. I shook myself up and decided to do something good for my community and the earth rather than wasting my time and energy in self pity. It was a very good decision.

  From the role of the desperate lover, I transformed into an angsty activist. I started taking active part in various social issues. I rediscovered my Gandhian spirit, and started fighting for justice. For the voiceless. For the environment. For my Periyar. I organised protests against the sand mafia, who were gouging her and bleeding her dry. I protested against the garbage dumped in her, choking her. We organised the cleaning of the river.

  There was no selfish motive to my activism. I didn’t want to be a leader or to enter politics. I only wanted to do my bit for the earth that had given me so much. My unrelenting stand gained me some supporters but even more enemies. But after returning from Kolayad, for the first time, I felt alive.

  I was missing Kolayad. A few months after my return, one day I got a pleasant surprise when Cornelli visited me. I was overjoyed to see him, but my happiness was short-lived. He had come with bad news.

  Father Berthold was
no more.

  He had passed away two days ago.I couldn’t believe my ears. Father Berthold. He was so full of life.

  I met Teresa teacher later and she confirmed the sad news. Father was suffering from cancer, apparently, and he knew about it even when I was there, but had preferred to keep that information to himself.

  “You know him, Uthaman. He doesn’t like to worry anyone. That is probably why he never told you about it. He was under treatment. The last two months, he was bedridden.”

  I was very upset; it was overwhelming to get such tragic news.

  “I had talked to him over the phone, a few months back. Even in that condition, he asked about you and was hoping he would find a way to get you a position at the school.”

  Ho! How cruel is fate. I couldn’t forget his smiling face. Like a candle in the dark, how many lives he must have lit up? Like mine. Now, no more. Such a loss to the people who had known his love and care.

  Life is so precious. Once that essence is lost, what are we? Nothing! Emptiness!

  I feel hollow.

  There are the familiar sights and sounds of another morning awakening from the slumber. The crows, the roosters, the light, the laughter, the love. All for the living. For me, nothing.

  The Thirty-Fourth Night

  Black. Blackness everywhere. Does matter exist only because of light? Devoid of light, doesn’t everything look the same in the dark?

  My Periyar looks even more destitute in the dark. Hopeless. Despondent. She seems to shy away from her own stench. She has been abused by humans.

  She must miss the young couples who used to love her golden shores. She must miss the families who had spent evenings relaxing in her lap.

  The same people whom she nurtured on her breast are now bleeding her to death, digging graves deep in her heart.

  And now, she has lost her Uthaman.

  The moon has risen above the curtain of the night. The night flowers wait below with upturned faces, for a glance from the lofty prince of the night sky.

  The moon waxes and wanes. It pulls the oceans to high tides and low tides. We can see all the sides of the sun. But we can see only one side of the moon. What must the hidden face look like?