The Magical Mantras of Manjooran

Episode 1: Uncle Kaka

It was mid-afternoon. Manjooran was celebrating his 72nd birthday. In splendid isolation. There was a small cake on the table, chocolate coated, with white sugar piping around its edges. A wisp of the moving air licked at the flame of the single candle stuck into the top of the cake. The chocolate was slowly melting in the heat. Likewise, a glass of wine was rapidly warming in the summer breeze blowing through the window. He hummed the birthday song to himself as he cut into the cake with a blunt knife, lifted up a large piece and stuffed into his mouth.

Without question, he was completely alone. The house maid who cleaned his flat and made his meals, had long disappeared after her duties. Early that morning his son, a highly paid IT professional in Silicon Valley, had mouthed his birthday greetings into his ear via the cell phone. It was swiftly passed it on to his wife and then to his spoilt daughter, both of whom made their falsely cheerful salutations before quickly going back to whatever work they had been doing before being interrupted.

Manjooran's daughter, whom he considered to be something of a dimwit, had not even bothered to ring up. She lived in Chandigarh with her Sikh husband, a burly, turbaned giant of a man, involved in some shady business, about which he was rather elusive. How this unlikely couple had come to meet was a mystery to him. What they saw in each other, despite fifteen years of marriage, was even more baffling.

Manjooran's wife, Saroj, the long-suffering, pious woman he had married, and lived with for 40 years, had found it fit, some two years ago, to lose her battle with multiple sclerosis. She had quietly slipped away late one evening, without fuss or complaints, as had been her wont, during the long years of their marriage. Her departure left him completely and utterly alone. And so he sat, unrepentant and ever bristling, in his third floor apartment in Bangalore. In his meandering thoughts, he often found himself reminiscing about his glory days in the aery upper rungs of the corporate house he had helped create. Recently, and more often than not, he had noted his mind was flitting from one thought to another, thoughts of no consequence at all, neither elevating nor significant, but just one wisp of memory after another. Or one anxious thought endlessly following the one before it. Often these peregrinations went on for hours on end, until he jolted himself awake when he noticed the evening light starting to fade.

He moved to the verandah and looked down at the road some thirty feet below; in the late afternoon, there was hardly any moving traffic. The falling leaves from the large trees on both sides of the road had left a thin carpet of brown wisps over the tarred road. They tended to fly off this way or that, buffeted by any vagrant wind that passed by. In a moment of lucid clarity, he saw how the moving leaves were mimicking his thoughts these days. Leaves and thoughts, scattering helter-skelter in slow motion. His face melted into one of his wry smiles. It is coming, he thought to himself, the dementia that he had been warned about several years ago, surely it is coming.

But now it was time to lean back into his arm chair and allow himself to doze off a little. He realized, more clearly than ever before, that the major part of his life was over, that he had achieved whatever he had set out to do when he had joined his company as a young and energetic officer. The rest of his days could only be a post-script. He had once boasted of both brains and brawn, armed as he was by a muscular athleticism that brooked no opposition to his plans. That he was a favourite of his European bosses in those early days, (before the Indian members of the Board bought them off), had become clear to the others soon enough. What was unique to Manjooran, and acknowledged by his enemies, was that even after the ownership of the company passed to the brown-skinned sahebs, he had retained the trust and confidence of the new owners of the company. He had always been the rising star of his office, its most valued professional, who almost singlehandedly had trebled the company's profits within a few years. He knew it, and he had carried about him an easy arrogance both in his gait and his swag.

All gone, all fleeting as leaves in the breeze. Well, he thought to himself, it is time for a quick snooze. His arm chair invited a deliberate inertia and he closed his eyes. From the verandah, the thick branches of the tabebuia rosea trees and its pink flowers were almost within reach. The dull sounds of passing cars soothed his mind. He lay back on his armchair, almost dozing in the light of the late afternoon.

It was then that a most mysterious occurrence took place, completely turning his life around. It jolted him from his somnolence and startled him into a fearful wakefulness. Even as he saw the afternoon light shining red through his eyelids, suddenly a big fat crow, jet black, with beady red eyes and a vicious beak, flew down from the sky and sat on a branch of the tree just a few feet from him. He noticed it was bigger than usual and how it jerked its head and looked this way and that with sharp intelligent eyes.

"Hey Manjoo", the bird cawed into his startled face.

Completely bemused, not sure if he were in the middle of some crazy afternoon fantasy, he looked up and murmured some words that made no sense even to himself.

"What, what?" he muttered, logic and reason flying out through the glass windows on the balcony.

"Don't you recognize me, I am your uncle; your uncle Kaka."

Manjooran knew well that he had no uncle of that name. As he jumped awake, he realized the barely hidden irony in those words: Kaka as in uncle, kaka as in crow. But he could just stare foolishly.

It croaked again and said. "72: interesting number. Appears on the multiplication tables of 2,3,4,6,8 and 9. Two years beyond the allotted three-score-and-ten. The sum of four consecutive primes from 13 to 23; or six consecutive prime numbers from 5 to 19."

Uncle Kaka then deliberately provoked Manjooran, "To me though, it is the number of an idiot." He paused, wanting an angry response. Manjooran, still recovering from the sight of this loose-tongued corvid, felt his temper rising.

"Mind your words, sir", he said with some aspersion, "substantiate your allegation, or else be damned."

"You think your life's work is done. But to me it appears that the real work is yet to start. The three chaptered book of the rest of your life. Seeking the forgiveness of the three persons whom you have condemned and betrayed."

"Three persons? What are you chattering about?" But he knew, instinctively he knew, just as he knew that Uncle Kaka also knew. Achan, Parvathi and Chedathi.

Uncle Kaka laughed in derision, frowned a little and muttered. "Achan, Parvathi and Chedathi. Got it, or do I need to explain?"

Manjooran sank back into his chair: Suddenly, he felt his hands turning cold and damp; he could only stare back in confusion and seemed to shrink into himself. Uncle Kaka spread his wings, ready to fly off.

"One year, Manjoo, one year. I'll be back then: in the meanwhile, settle your accounts with them. And then we shall talk of another journey."

With a loud flutter of wings, Uncle Kaka lifted his fat body into the sky and flew away. Manjooran shivered a little. In the fading light of the late evening, he felt more alone than ever before.

He muttered to himself: "Unsettled accounts. Fleeting time. Things to set right, and make amends. Miles to go. Before I sleep. One year." He went into the safety of his bedroom, lay flat his bed, his mind awash with memories and recollections. Needless to say, no sleep came; just wonder at what had happened, and wave after wave of uneasy regrets.

Episode 2: Achan

The tharavad home was built on a promontory overlooking the deceptively placid Pamba. The homestead lay sprawling over several acres of land, with outhouses and cattle sheds and huts for the retainers. There were three wide-mouthed wells bringing up cool sweet water from a great depth. When the monsoons came, Pamba swiftly turned into a furious and pounding elemental force that swept away everything in its path. Each year there would be several deaths by drowning, the bloated bodies often surfacing some fifteen or twenty miles downstream where the waters broadened and calmed down.

Achan, Manjooran's father, had been undisputed master of his clan for four decades, before the pancreatic cancer came to ravage him. The king of rubber estates and areca nut plantations, his wealth was spread out over three districts in the state. The assets he had inherited had, with his deft management, and some would say manipulation, trebled in volume and value within a decade. Achan's voice held gravitas and solemnity, and resonated with the mighty heft of money. He stood out like gold against a setting of lead. All people in the neighborhood, including political leaders and church dignitaries, listened when he spoke. Universally known as Estate Paulose, he had a large heart, and many were the poor families he helped out with scholarships for indigent children or a bundle of notes for someone lying in a hospital.

But there were whispers too that refused to completely go away. It was said that Achan no longer shared his bedroom with Amma. That Amma had no choice but to reconcile herself to the stories that filtered back in. These stories revolved around his frequent tours to inspect the family estates, where willing managers attended to his every need. There were even some mischievous tales spread by his critics, of fair-skinned children amongst the dark adivasi plantation workers working on the estates. Estate Paulose simply shrugged and moved on.

Amma was not immune to the whispers she heard, but she chose to be deaf. No, she was not a shrinking violet. She had her own sphere of activities where she led by example: presiding over the women's wing of the church, or helping in collections for the education of poorer children. She too was regarded with some admiration. But she knew, and without a shadow of doubt, that hers was the reflected glory of her mighty husband. Their relationship was unlike anything known to genteel society. There were no pleasantries exchanged, no easy conversation or silly jokes. She became tongue-tied whenever he was near. It was clear to everyone that he was the lord and master, and she a willing slave. The vast elegant home she lived in, the gold jewellery on display, and the minions who surrounded her to do her every bidding: these were recompense enough, was it not, to balance the weight of a magnificent husband, though of uncertain merit.

His children too, the older Sosha and the younger Manjooran, rarely experienced the love of their father. When Achan went on his extensive tours, it was Amma who would preside over the household. She did so with a gentle hand, ensuring that her children were pampered, fat and contented and provided with the best education available in missionary schools. Sosha had left in marriage some years earlier, with a hefty dowry and an imported car as a wedding gift. She had, without demur, married into the family of her father's choice. When she went to her husband's, it seemed that she had been absorbed, body and soul into that family. According to all reports she was happy. Soon enough she became a mother herself with a set of boys -twins - and later a frail young girl, who demanded attention and medical care throughout her childhood. With her marriage, Achan felt his duty was done, and but for the gold coins he presented Sosha when her children were born, he was certain he owed her nothing more.

With her gone, Manjooran was the sole male heir to the great realm that would be his someday. Manjooran, heir apparent, spoilt with all the attention Amma - and a retinue of servants - bestowed on him, soon turned into the prodigal son. Perhaps it was expected in those days that the sons of rich landlords would turn truant, that the family would look away. But the narrative twists here: Manjooran who was completing his master's degree in the district college – where his Achan was a member of the governing board – foolishly fell in love with the delicate and highly-strung Parvathy. And horror of horrors, she was the daughter of a communist labour leader whose union frequently clashed with the plantation owners on small and everyday labour welfare matters. Kerala's proud political heritage imbued with leftist principles, gave a special status to these struggling cadre of labourers. Despite these dark contradictions, the lovers pledged themselves to each other. Achan was one of the last to be informed of the growing romance. But Achan entertained no doubts: he was certain that Parvathy, the object of Manjooran's affections, belonged to the wrong religion, the wrong class and the wrong caste.

Their love-story could only end badly. One Saturday evening, when Manjooran broached the subject over the dinner table, Achan - who was forewarned and thus forearmed - was ready with his response. The concrete wall came up in an instant. Iron-faced and without a moment's hesitation, Achan simply put his foot down–no discussion, no debate. Don't we all know that he belonged to a proud family, with a long standing tradition running over almost two millennia. He could trace his family history through the genealogical tree, into the branches of which was braided the fruitful vines of the best of Kerala Christian aristocracy. He was Estate Paulose and he would not, repeat would not, tolerate the very thought of such sacrilege.

But Manjooran too had the same streak of obduracy that his father demonstrated. Diamond cut diamond. The headstrong Manjooran, accustomed to having his way in all things, refused to stand down. The battle went on for a couple of months, turning the stately homestead into a wrestler's grim sand pit. Amma was tossed hither and thither between father and son. When the climax in the struggle finally came, it was Manjooran who lost out. The iron-faced Achan pointed to the door and asked him to leave. To both, it seemed the final solution. Both knew that neither would bend. He hurriedly packed his stuff, his mind in a whirl. Amma was weeping in the corner of the sitting room. But he would be damned if he turned weak now. And so it was that at the age of twenty-three, Manjooran left the family homestead, flinging a last curse at his father over his shoulder, promising to return only when it was time to succeed to the throne, when he would perform his father's last rites. The dreadful words were harsh and acid. Achan's face turned ashen. Amma shivered in fear at the mindless pusillanimity Manjooran flaunted.

Manjooran thus cut the cords to his ancestral home. It had always been the bedrock of his innocent childhood and his careless youth. Storming out of the gates of the homestead, he took a cab and made the trip to a small house on the east end of the town, beyond the railway line. From the gate, he called out to Parvathy. She heard, and knew that the time had come. He had to wait for half an hour. Then, with her face wooden and bloodless, whispering last goodbyes to her mother, she came out with a bag in hand. Her father, a diminutive man with the fervor of a Marxist ideologue, loved his daughter, but did not know how to imprison her in the small house. He had no clue how to talk to his child. He was better equipped to make a fiery speech on material dialecticism. He knew that his daughter had done what he could not: wag a finger in the face of his enemy, a blood-sucking capitalist, who posed a clear and present danger to an egalitarian society. While people would talk behind his back, he knew there was some admiration for Parvathy, who had snared the most eligible bachelor in the district. And in her victory was his too: getting the better of Estate Paulose. He could see how his own status and reputation within the cadre, would be enhanced: the dragon killer who brought the arch villain, the enemy of the proletariat, to his knees. He could not have been more wrong.

Yes, Parvathy was prepared to leave with Manjooran, and or so it appeared then. The taxi took them both to the railway station and they boarded the first train that steamed in. It was the Mail to Palakkad and so to Palakkad they went. It took but a short term sojourn in a hotel for a week to find their bearings, to explore each other's bodies and to prepare for their lives together.

With Amma's secret help, by telephone and written missives sent through trusted servants, Manjooran found a place to stay in Bombay. Chedathy, Amma's elder sister had married a business man in that burgeoning city some years ago. And she had lived in blissful marital contentment for twenty years before being suddenly bereaved. Her husband had perished in a road accident, leaving her with a young son, just eight, and a substantial market in textiles. It was now her duty to manage the large enterprise, of which she knew absolutely nothing. It was serendipitous that Chedathy Ammayi was looking for a helping hand to manage the business, at just the exact time when the romantic scandal was ripening, and Manjooran, in a dark pique, was abandoning his home.

Amma and Chedathy conspired: not a whisper to Achan. The fond mother's heart could not reject her wayward son, though his transgression was extreme. Her impassioned pleading over a long trunk call to her Chedathy did the trick. And so it was settled. Manjooran and Parvathy would leave for Bombay by the next fortnight and settle down into a small house attached to Chedathy's business. The Special Marriage Act of 1954 would be invoked through court for a formal registered marriage. It seemed to Manjooran that life, freed from the inexorable clutch of Estate Paulose, was actually beginning for him right then. With Parvathy beside him, he felt he may have won this battle, though he knew well that the war would be long and bloody.

Manjooran had never been one to confess that he knew nothing. A more contemplative person would have stopped to assess the nature of his audacious decision. But not him. Only decades later would he would confess that he did have some lessons to learn; and learn them he did. Looking back, he would compare his fledgling days to the Pamba in flood. The chain of events he had set in motion would shake and wobble and finally upturn him like logs of wood caught in the smashing, whirling, pounding flood waters of Pamba. With Achan estranged, and Amma almost inaccessible, it often seemed that the air he breathed was acrid and inflammable. Yet, as Parvathy and he boarded the train to Bombay, he knew he had to struggle on, against the beating of the tide, and prove to himself, and to those who had written him off, that he mattered. That he would survive and thrive.

But he was confounded again. The best laid plans of mice and men. Barely three months after Manjooran had stormed from his home and fled to Bombay, Parvathy left him. It was another sweltering Bombay afternoon when she, dry-eyed and with clenched jaw, walked out the front door, refusing to even look in his direction. She boarded the train back to her home. That she could expect no kindness from Manjooran's family had always been a given. Her father and mother had kept in regular touch with her this past one year. Much of the conversation centred around unconfirmed rumours that Estate Paulose was planning a dreadful revenge, sure to rain hell-fire on the comrade's family. And when it came, the fragile Parvathy, despite the hidden steel within her bones, could stand it no longer. Indeed, Manjooran knew the facts and the reason why she left. His abhorrence for his father only increased. Yet, he was almost inconsolable by Parvathy's betrayal. Perhaps he did not consider the question as to who had betrayed whom.

It took him five years and three months to return to the homestead. Manjooran had gritted his teeth and clung to his promise. He would travel all over the country in the course of his work, but he simply refused to go home to Achan, to make amends, to say he was sorry, that Parvathy had left and that there were now no impediments between them. He did not know how to say the words, to extend the olive branch. His stupid mulishness held him back from taking the first step. Even bulletins of Achan's worsening condition did not melt his hard heart.

Amma's call late one evening informed Manjooran of the inevitable. Achan was dead: the crab had sunk its claws into his emaciated body and sucked everything out, leaving but a shell. In the coffin, his body seemed to be half the size it had once been. The funeral ceremonies were held in the old family church, even as a dull squall of rain swept through the trees. Manjooran was cold inside, struggling to forget his old enmity, and still not reconciled to the fact. He wondered once again what had happened, how they had reached this sorry pass; what was lost and what was gained. The arc of his actions though long, had gone awry. When the ceremonies were over, and the mourners had left, he sat in his old room and stared out through the window into the twilight, trying to make sense of the bitter lees of his sorry life. The chempaka flowers were in bloom. The night stars were coming out, one by one. They brought no consolation, only the cold fire of an indifferent universe.

Episode 3 Parvathy

The image of her daughter, as she walked out of the house, swaying between terror and anticipation, her bag gripped tight in her hand, was seared forever into Uma's retina. Though she was the wife of a godless Marxist, she prayed for her daughter with all the faith she could summon inside her. Whatever may be said, in all these days of her married life with an atheist, her faith had never faded. The question of the existence of a God should have been a matter of contention between Uma and Unni: but it was not. They each followed what their beliefs bid them do: one a card-bearing communist, the other a devout pilgrim who kept her faith through all adversities.

Through the weeks after her flight from home, Uma had pleaded with Bhagawathi Amma to protect her daughter Parvathy from harm and keep her safe and happy, wherever she may be. And she believed that She did. However, exactly ninety-two days after she had walked out, Parvathy returned. The honk of the taxi early one morning had jolted her out of her sleep, and when the door-bell rang, her heart had leapt within her, as a distressed doe when surrounded by the hounds. Parvathy's eyes were red; she had not slept for a couple of days. The train journey from Bombay had left her bedraggled and worn out, and she walked to her room and fell heavily onto the bed.

Unni, her father, looked at her expressionlessly; he was not sure what to make of her, what to do in these circumstances, preferring to keep silent until his more perspicacious wife could figure out the lay of the land. Uma, thoughts scurrying within her troubled head, made the unwanted cup of coffee and handed it to her on the bed. It was only then that she folded her daughter's slim body into her arms. Mother and daughter softly wept in each other's arms. The man of the house lay in silence on a cot in the corner of the house, both his legs, heavily bandaged, helpless and immobile, at least for another eight weeks. A wordless inertia gripped his thoughts and his body. He was unable to utter a consolation, or a curse. He surprised himself with the unexpected dampness of his eyes. He knew, without a doubt he knew, that his daughter would henceforth be the centre of his world, that his life in the service of the common man on the street was now changed, transformed in a manner that he himself would not recognize. As the days and the weeks and the months would pass, as a family, they compacted themselves into the bare basics that would sustain life. It was difficult to face the critical, or even sympathetic, glances of their acquaintances and friends. There would be shame and ridicule; they would say that their daughter was a whore. They tried to ignore the world outside, except for forays to the market for essentials. Thus they sought to make sense of what had happened in the months just gone by.

Parvati is the consort of Shiva, who was himself the protector and destroyer and regenerator of the universe. She was the daughter of the mountain king Himavan and queen Mena. Along with Lakshmi and Saraswati, she forms the trinity of superior Hindu goddesses. When she was born, Unni had decided to forgo all religious practices associated with the birth of a child. Uma, however, was determined to contest his Marxist beliefs and had, with deliberate defiance, called for the pujari and had all the rituals performed in the midst of her relatives and friends. Including naming her. Unni had had better sense than to challenge his wife.

But we digress. The real story of Manjooran and Parvathy began some two years earlier, with Parvathy's admission to the political science department of the University for her MA course. That she would complete her masters was a necessary condition Unni had insisted upon. Studious, contemplative and inclined to a deliberate reasoning in all things, Parvathy was only too willing to comply. She looked forward to two years of intensive study and finding her own bearings.

On the other hand, Manjooran's Achan had a different view. No special educational qualification is required to be the son of a plantation owner. Experience and a sound business sense, not available in universities, was more than enough. Yet, Manjooran was keen to acquire a master's degree. His only condition was that it should not require too much of hard work, that it should be a convenient and easy-to-pass course. Thus, political science became the preferred subject. He needed to be one up on Achan who was but a graduate from Madras University, a fact he was inordinately proud of.

Admission in the post-graduate college was a cinch: after all Achan was on the governing body of the college. Achan was a promoter of the institution with substantial investment in its infrastructure. So, when the semester opened and Manjooran swaggered into the classroom -as the son of Estate Paulose he was entitled to do so – he was thoroughly inspected by the group of about a dozen scholars, who like him were waiting for the class to begin. Before the day ended, the diverse set of students was divided into two: those who fawned at the feet of Manjooran, and those, like Parvathy, who despised his opulent life-style, his fat purse and the casual confidence that wealth bestowed on its votaries.

The class was evenly divided between the boys and the girls; six of each. There was a natural logic in the complicated transactions of the class room, that encouraged them to pair up. In the first weeks, the girls were deliberately shy, and clung to each other as a group. The boys on the other hand, talked loudly and tried to excel each other in jokes and pleasantries, all the while with sideways glances at the girls who pretended to be bored and uninterested. By the time they were into their second month, the foundation of some genuine long-standing friendships had been laid, some of which would last for many decades into the future.

As a matter of fact, at the beginning, Manjooran had not noticed Parvathy in any conspicuous way. She did not even figure in Manjooran's appreciation of the world in general. His initial attentions were drawn towards another girl, who had the looks and an in-your-face attitude that was just short of brazen. Parvathy, on the other hand, was diffident, frail and small-built: she tended to disappear into the desks and benches of the classroom. She was just short of being mousy and unattractive. Yet, she carried a presence that attracted several glances and an unusual interest. Within a few days, Manjooran began to note some extraordinary characteristics in our Parvathy. There was a deliberate stillness in her body as she sat on the bench in the first row. An intense concentration accompanied her every action. She paid close attention to the lectures and assiduously took down notes and references. Within a few days it appeared as if the lecturers had a propensity to be speaking to her in particular; she invited their attention by way of her fierce absorption in what they were teaching.

In the gossip of the class, he soon found out that she was daughter of Unnichettan, as her father was fondly known amongst the workers and labourers, whose impossible causes he strongly advocated. And Parvathy too came to learn that Manjooran was aristocratic money in person and, something of a prize catch in the marriage market. Initially both were put off by their respective descriptions, being as different as oil and water. Yet, within a couple of months, an unexplained undertow in the dynamics of the classroom brought them together, with no reason for the mutual attraction they had started to feel. Manjooran was deliberately polite to her, not wanting to bring into the lecture halls the animosity that their respective parents may have had for each other. And Parvathy decided that her natural dislike of money should not spoil the nature of their acquaintanceship simply because they happened to occupy the same space at the University.

Opposites attract. The nature of their conversation, changed from day to day as they increasingly felt a certain sympathy for each other's kindred spirit. Manjooran, at first, was reluctant to speak about the estates and his palatial house, sensing that it would be distasteful for someone who seemed to have no interest in wealth and riches. And Parvathy avoided all reference to her father, despite being proud of him, his spartan life and his dedication to his work. She was always moved by his compassion to those not quite so fortunate in the game of life. With time it became increasingly easier for them to converse, to find common topics of interest, to narrate the events of the day to each other and to find a compassionate ear that resonated with understanding and sympathy.

By the time post-graduation was getting over, it had become common news in the college that Manjooran and Parvathy were a thing, a pair of sweethearts, and that they had promised themselves to each other, in complete contradiction to their respective life-styles, their philosophy of things in general and the manner in which they perceived the world around them. As was his wont, Manjooran did not share the news of his increasing fondness for Parvathy with Achan and Amma, nor describe the enchantment of the moments he shared with Parvathy. How time seemed to fly when he was with her. He felt a completeness in her presence. Parvathy on the other hand, had taken her mother into confidence, but gave strict instructions not to let her father know.

Much later, Manjooran would wonder whether his reticence to talk about Parvathy with Achan and Amma, even as their love for each other was growing, may have prejudiced them both when he finally disclosed the momentous news to them. In that Manjooran was wrong. Achan would have never ever consented to this match. It was surprising that Manjooran could have even hoped for a happy conclusion to the proposition. He should have known his Achan better. At the end of two years and after the University examinations were over, Manjooran finally broached the subject. He had not even taken Amma into confidence till then. What followed could have been anticipated, though Manjooran had assumed that things would fall in place if he were determined and unyielding. He had already made his promise to Parvathy; she only had to await his word and be ready. But as we have seen, the obdurate father and the stubborn son clashed. There could not possibly be a peaceful ending to the drama. After about two months of this uneasy standoff, which left Amma drained of all her composure, and the house uncomfortable with the sullen stress of unspoken things, when the denouement finally came, it stunned Manjooran himself. The image of his father pointing to the door and asking him to leave, would remain forever in his mind.

Manjooran and Parvathy would play over and over in their minds the drama of that afternoon. When he appeared at her doorstep, after his headlong flight from his home, she took no time to collect her things and leave with him for the railway station. That she could demur and seek time before eloping was a possibility that she did not even consider for a moment. The slow train to Palakkad, the week's stay at a hotel and the flight to Bombay thereafter, they all seemed like an unworldly script of a romantic movie. It was only when they settled into the small flat at Bombay, under the benevolent gaze of Chedathy Ammayi, that these star-crossed lovers began to breathe easier, hoping that the future would be as bright as Manjooran promised it would be. As he immersed himself in the work that Chedathy Ammayi entrusted him with, he felt the beginnings of a new phase in his life with Parvathy that would bring contentment and a quiet joy.

Fools! Both of them! It just did not work that way. Manjooran was an idiot to think that Achan would forgive and forget. Any perceived slight, any insult or unintended slur would be answered in an unambiguous manner. After all he was the unquestioned king of his world, the indomitable Estate Paulose. Who dare challenge him would face consequences; even if it were his one and only son. Achan gave no indication of plotting revenge: his life went on as busy as usual, with his meetings and tours, his political and religious connections strengthening his stature and repute. But in fact, Achan was seething inside. He planned and calculated and perfected a stratagem that his unknown henchmen would carry out when he was ready.

Unni had returned from his party office a little earlier than usual that evening and had immediately thereafter left for the market to buy the groceries that his wife wanted. It was dusk and the street lights were not yet switched on. From out of a narrow side lane, three men, their faces masked, with stout sticks in their hands, suddenly fell on him. They dragged him down and pounded at his legs with a deliberate fury. He felt the bones of both crack under the blows and he cried out in terror and pain. Within a minute they had disappeared as people gathered around, voices raised in shock and disbelief. Some colleagues from his office who had coming running at the commotion ensured that he was swiftly taken to the hospital for first aid. Surprisingly none of the vital organs had been touched: it was only his legs that the villains had gone for. They were both shattered. Uma was by his side for the two days he had to stay at the hospital, overcome by grief and a fear of the unknown. When Unni finally reached home, both his legs bandaged and in plaster, he was told that he would have to stay in bed for at least two months. There was much consternation and surprise among all those who had known him. Nor could anyone identify enemies who would take this extreme step. The FIR registered in the police station came to naught even though the station house officer did want to help Unni and apprehend the perpetrators.

But, Uma knew, and without any doubt at all, that this could only be the handiwork of Estate Paulose. She mentioned her fears to Unni, but he brushed her away with ridicule. Unable to keep the terror within her, she spoke on the phone to Parvathy, far away in Bombay. For Parvathy, the weight of the news suddenly fell heavy on her shoulders like a load of bricks. In the pit of her stomach was a dread that would not be quelled. She wept her heart out and confronted Manjooran with the accusation that it was Estate Paulose who had done her father in. Shocked and taken aback for a moment, he felt he should rebuff the notion that Achan could ever have contemplated anything of this nature. But even before he could quieten her down, the plausibility of the crime, the method of its execution and the identity of the perpetrator became very clear in his mind. Knowing Achan, the very nature of the man and the manner in which he had thrust his own son out of his house, Manjooran felt the truth of the accusation run like a flash through his body. Yes, it could only have been him. And he bowed his head and suffered the indignation. His wordless fury at his father found no release. And he accepted the horrible truth that he was not able to protect his wife, that he had failed in his solemn duty to keep her safe and contented.

When Parvathy immediately left for her home, there were no words spoken. She knew that a life with this man would only mean the destruction of her family. She bluntly told him she would not return and to stay away from her. And Manjooran knew that she was right. Achan would always loom large and menacing in his life. There could be no peace as long as his father crouched like a malevolent gargoyle over his head. His dreams of living a placid life with the woman he loved, suddenly crumbled inside him. There was no hope for any redemption, no prospect of joy in the near future.

Episode 4: Chedathy

She was Amma's sister, older, calmer, wiser. Why she was known as Chedathy is a mystery. Or Chettathi as a purist would spell it. In her social milieu she should have been Ammamma. And again, why Amma's children, Sosha and Manjooran, should call her that was even more surprising. Though as they grew older, they were persuaded to add the suffix of 'Ammayi' to the name.

When she was married off to Bombay, and into the arms of a suitable man, an approved and vetted Malayali Christian, everyone was satisfied. Amma's family boasted of a pious background, having yielded at least two of her cousins to the church to wear a collar and offer consolation to the laity. So, the prospect of a well-to-do husband, who still went regularly for Sunday prayers, was applauded as the right choice for Chedathy. For Manjooran and Sosha, she was the favourite aunt, who brought them toys and books and other stuff on her annual visits to Kerala.

Kurien, her husband was a decade older than her. He had risked the vagaries of a socialist economy, availed of a large loan from a financial institution and set up a textile marketing business. Marketing was his forte. Purchases made from manufacturing mills were dispatched across the country and sold to consumption centres, at a neat margin. Within a couple of years, he had made a name for himself. The customer could always expect a fair deal. His honesty and his ethical business practices soon made him a popular, reliable business man. When Chedathy wed him, and they went off to Bombay, it was Amma who was quite forlorn. The sisters had been inseparable and Chedathy had always been a shoulder to cry on, a patient ear, a close friend offering wise counsel. Amma missed her even more after her own marriage to Achan, when she moved to the luxury of a plantation owner's homestead.

Many years later, when Kurien passed away in a tragic car accident, he left behind a young son and a widow. The mourning done, Chedathy was invited to come back to Kerala and set up home somewhere near, where the sisters could be of consolation to each other. But she refused: she was determined that the business Kurien had left behind would not be disposed of in a distress sale. She was also clear that she would not be the cause of its decline. So patiently, steadily and painfully she set about mastering the complexities of the business. Forced to depend heavily on the staff in the office, there were times when she despaired and it all became too much for her. Amma talked to her on the phone at least once a week, offering consolation and good cheer, often turning herself into the big sister.

So after Manjooran had stormed out of the house, and then off to Palakkad with his Parvathy in tow, Chedathy was the first person Amma talked to. She was in much confusion and despair, her voice breaking into gasps and tears across the miles of telephone wire separating them. But, 'all things', as we know 'work together for good'; Amma's tribulations and Chedathy's needs coincided. Chedathy had been searching for a reliable and trustworthy manager to administer her business. Amma's fears for her son and this unfamiliar girl with unknown credentials, needed to be calmed. Chedathy was only too glad to offer Manjooran the job of manager of the Kurien Textile Marketing Corporation. They all realised how serendipitous it was. Amma's faith told her that despite the odds, there was Someone watching over her and her family. Of course, Achan could not be told; she was not sure what consequences would emerge if this was divulged to him. Yet, she knew too that Achan would, in time, find out.

Parvathy realized that in a way she was more of a victim than Manjooran. Having cut herself off from her own family, despite the love Unni and Uma had for her, she wondered if she would now be able to seek recourse to them, should things become difficult. She was not naïve to be unconcerned about the awful step she had taken. She had defied tradition, the diktats of religion and even the natural order of things, when she had walked out. True, Unni and Uma had not stood in her way, though it was quite clear they were troubled. Clearly they had not fully approved of her action. That she would never be accepted in Manjooran's household was also unambiguously clear. She had placed all her bets on one man, who himself had been expelled and banished from all that he may have held dear.

Chedathy was not quite clear as to how she would manage her own awkwardness when this strange girl, at odds with the world around her, with all the attendant oddness of religion and social class, walked through her doors. It was late evening when an uncomfortable Manjooran and the nervous Parvathy knocked on Chedathy's door. Chedathy had a big smile on her face as she opened the door: she had painted it on just before the elopers rang the doorbell. She hugged them both in a sense of family loyalty, though she was not sure if her heart were as cheerful. And what cut her to the bone was that they were not even married through ritual and prayer. Just imagine, she muttered to herself and shuddered. The girl looked pale and ill, she thought. The small separate rooms within the compound, had been readied for them and, with a deep sense of gratitude and relief, they settled down. All that Chedathy said was: Dinner is at 8.

At the dining table, it was uncomfortable and awkward as they pushed the plates towards each other. Some of the conversation was directed at the young serious-faced boy, himself grappling with the loss of his father. Chedathy's son, who had recently been rendered fatherless, sat with unusual dignity for a young lad his age. He spoke little, for he did not know how to express the pain of the vast tragedy that had befallen him a few short months ago. His only friend was a large golden retriever his father had acquired for him: they were inseparable. He had little Malayalam and less Hindi, with but a smattering of English.

There was a large spread on the table and Chedathy urged them to eat more, especially the Bombay duck she had specially made for the occasion. By the time the sohan papri had been served as dessert, all of them were exhausted by the attempts to keep the jollity up. Manjooran realized the immensity of the good deed done to them by Chedathy and was not remiss in saying so. Parvathy, unaccustomed to the social graces required, mumbled something inaudible and smiled wanly. And then it was time to retire for the night.

They had found an island, in the midst of the steel towers and the concrete of Bombay. In the three months of an unsettled bliss, it was Parvathy who was often left at a loose end. Manjooran with Chedathy would leave for the office, a half-hour away, at nine in the morning and would return in the late evening almost at seven. She would spend the day in the room in her kaftan, reading, listening to the radio, and brooding about the future. Try as she might, she could not even peer into the next day. She had invested her soul, her body, her future into the hands of Manjooran and left it all to him. She pecked at the lunch the cook brought her and then tried to nap in the afternoon. It seemed her day started only when the car brought Manjooran back in the evening.

If there were time, and the weather were clement, the two of them would wander into the dusk of the city, with the smells of the sea and the chawls all around them. The splendour of the glittering Marine Drive was at some distance, but they would often wander aimlessly, munching at hot, salted peanuts or a pav-vada. Some nights they would pop into a tiny restaurant and stuff themselves with an oily, spicy meal. They talked long and late into the night, about the troubled and indeterminate journey they had set upon. They made love with a frenzy that eloping couples knew how to. It was the only thing that kept the uncertain future away. With the unfounded and foolish optimism of young lovers, they saw only the rainbow and the pot of gold, the sun shining bright each day as they awoke. They would overcome, of that they were sure. Fond, foolish hopes. She did not know, that fate would soon spin her a googly she would be unable to read or bat away.

Once or twice a week, Uma, her mother would telephone Parvathy. Their conversation was forced and unfamiliar. And they talked of things that were not even remotely related to the ongoing crisis they were living through. Uma kept repeating, Bhagawati Amma would set things right soon. Of that she was confident. Manjooran's Amma too would call him, her voice faltering and weak. Her unshakeable faith in the Almighty was being tested as never before. So she doubled her prayers and trebled her readings of the scriptures. He who knew everything would listen and find the way forward. He must have something planned for her and her son. Of that she was sure. Yet, to her it seemed Achan had even forgotten he once had a son. the subject was taboo at the dinner table. And in private moments, she tried but did not dare to face the rising fury on her husband's face. And so it was always behind Achan's back that she telephoned her son. Chedathy assured her all was well and that Manjooran was picking up the work and learning to manage the affairs of the business. She did not have much to say about Parvathy, except that she was well and that she must be encouraged to eat more and put on some weight. After Amma had spoken to her son, she would ask for Parvathy; apart from asking her how she was, there was nothing much they had to talk about. Each assured the other: things would work out in time, don't worry.

Three months passed this way when, without warning or notice, the final straw broke their backs. Until then, it had indeed seemed that things would work out. Manjooran had initiated the process of a court marriage, seeking the help of a lawyer known to Chedathy. He had settled down into his work, proving to be an invaluable asset to his aunt. Chedathy was depending more and more on him and the results were starting to show. Parvathy appeared cheerful. She often helped Chedathy in the household chores. She had even started venturing out on her own in the daytime when Manjooran was away, to explore this monstrous city. Yet, it took but a single phone call from Uma to splinter the bubble of the tiny fragile island they inhabited. Uma wept her heart out as she related the details of the murderous attack on Unni. He was completely immobile now, both legs broken. She fearfully spoke of her terrors about Estate Paulose's role in the dastardly attack. Uma could have hardly expected the sudden turn of events that her tearful narration would trigger in her Parvathy.

To Manjooran, the Parvathy that returned to their room after her conversation was a complete stranger. Her face had turned furious and unrecognizable. She spat out her conviction that it was Estate Paulose who had taken the extreme step; that her father was now a cripple because of Manjooran's father. And that she had no hope whatsoever that Manjooran could keep her and her family safe. That her love for him had suddenly fallen away with that one irrevocable incident. That she had been a fool to think that love would overcome everything.

She was already packing her bags even as Manjooran started to protest about his father's innocence. But he found himself rendered wordless as the truth quickly sank in. Achan, the unconquerable, undefeated Estate Paulose, who never forget a slight and never forgave an insult. Manjooran's shoulders bent with the truth of Parvathy's accusation. He knew now that he had completely failed her. Achan's cold logic had seen it all long ago: the folly of his actions, the doomed failure of his love story. Parvathy was indeed from the wrong religion, the wrong caste and the wrong class.

When the weight of the centuries falls on you, it falls heavily. When society's prejudices are stronger than you anticipated, there is no ready-made filmi hero who can stave off disaster. His newly fashioned world was coming apart, the bricks and mortar were already crumbling. In the silence that followed, he could only watch as Parvathy stuffed her clothes into her bag and readied herself for her long journey back. She requested Chedathy, aghast and unable to comprehend the speed with which the lovers' world had come apart, to call for a taxi. When it came, she left immediately with no backward glance, no hint for future reconciliation. All she muttered to Manjooran was that she would not be back, and that he should not come after her.

No pleas would have worked, so he made no pleas. In the week after she had left, he excused himself from his duties, preferring to shut himself up in the bedroom. His mind refused to work, his body disinclined to move. He walked out of his room to the dining table only when Chedathy called for him. Amma's entreaties to come back, to fall at Achan's feet and seek pardon, to resume his appointed role, all fell on his deaf ears. Chedathy was supportive, but she was not equipped to offer advice that he could accept. When Parvathy had deserted Manjooran, Achan came to know of it almost immediately. He did not say a word, but there was a grim, satisfied glitter in his eyes, a sharp edge to his jaw, that said it all. In the days that followed, Chedathy conveyed all the news to Amma, how her nephew was facing the end of the world. She did not know what consolation she could offer.

The clock had stopped ticking; there was a pause in the diurnal rotation of the earth. He held his breath, his chest pounding, waiting to exhale. He had learnt his first lesson in life, a mantra that he would repeat in the days to come. He had heard it before, in different words, at different times. Yet, he understood the burden of its truth just now. 'God guffaws when plans are made'. In other words, welcome to an indifferent universe!

Episode 5: When life is uncertain

What a difference a day makes! The world had mutated overnight into a flawed and ugly facsimile of itself. The sky was a vast and senseless vault above his head, the cold light of the stars telling him that he did not matter, not even a moiety. It was clear to him that he had completely and irrevocably let down his Parvathy, she who had left home and hearth on the strength of his love for her, and hers for him. His guilt was swiftly turning corrosive; he could feel his stomach churning, acid and bilious. His blood boiled when he thought of his father, coldly plotting his son's downfall with the logic of an evil serpent. And how undeniably successful he had been in his designs! He had killed three birds in one fell sweep: Unni, the union leader immobilized; his daughter who dared to love his son, now shown her rightful place; and Manjooran, left adrift, with no compass, in uncertain ocean currents. And there was nothing Manjooran could do, for or against; not for Parvathy, not against Achan.

Dully he realized that there was no longer any purpose for him to stay on in Bombay. The life of wedded bliss he had fabricated out of his schemes and dreams, lay shattered on the sharp edge of reality. But for a terse call to Amma, who said nothing for she knew not what to say, he had been completely isolated. The days and the nights had contracted and expanded like an accordion, each melding into the other. A week after his self-imposed imprisonment in that small house, staring at the ceiling and the walls, he considered going back to the office. Not yet, he thought, not yet. At least there was some regularity in his culinary schedule. The food arrived on time, carefully curated by Chedathy. Breakfast at eight, lunch at one, dinner at eight,

At times, Chedathy would send her little son and the golden retriever over to him, hoping their company would alleviate his dark moods. She was completely flustered, and often overwhelmed by a sense of panic. What the two sisters talked to each other was between them, not a word went out to Manjooran. She could only imagine the trauma her little sister was going through. Chedathy assured her that he could stay on as long as he chose. She wished that her nephew, now deprived of home and family, and wife-to-be, should stay on with her, help her out in the business, as he repaired himself in body and soul.

Manjooran's mind was turning like a tired, twisted leaf in the wind. He felt like a circus bear, jerked at the neck by a steel collar, full of impotent rage and terror, jeered at by the crowd. As a single footloose bachelor, estranged from his family, there was no need to think of anyone else now; no need for Chedathy to support him, no need to inhabit a regular home. Any hotel room do. A bachelor's pad would be sufficient. Any job would suffice. That he could not, and would not, depend on the family wealth was clear. Alone and fearlessly, he had to find his own destiny. He would seek no help to survive and thrive.

And so, painfully, patiently and hopelessly, he tried to fit the pieces of his broken life back together again. At first, it seemed impossible. He could not sleep; his nights were disturbed with images of Parvathy. He saw her falling into a deep, dark bottomless pit, falling endlessly, mouth open in soundless terror. He was clawing and scrambling at the edge of the crater, trying to reach out to her, to break her fall. At that point he would jolt awake, his heart thud-thudding in his chest, gasping for air. At these moments he knew that he had been fully and conclusively vanquished. He heard the cold and prophetic words of Achan: she is not for you, nor for our family. It was now clear to him that society and convention and tradition would always win, the centuries that have flown by would always win, that rituals and customs would always win. And though we may have walked on the moon, old boundaries cannot be crossed with impunity, without consequences. How he had ever hoped to succeed, he wondered bitterly.

He had ruined a life. It would take a miracle for Parvathy to find that life back again. It hurt him like an open wound to think she may be doomed to live out the days of her life in bitter isolation. The daughter of an idealist who had spent his life seeking the demolition of the social order, had been defeated by the very social order sought to be destroyed. He knew she would be condemned as the whore with loose morals, damaged goods discarded by a capitalist play-boy. Yet, he could not summon the courage to talk to her. He dared not face her sorrow, her contempt, her fury. Her dreams too, like his, lay shattered into so many porcelain fragments.

One evening, Chedathy followed the servant bringing dinner to his room; she smiled hesitantly, meeting no smile in return. In the course of her meaningless chatter, steering clear of the elephant in the room, she wished that he would continue with her at Bombay and help her out in her business. Manjooran was non-committal. It was then that she made the titanic mistake she would regret for a long time, one that would destroy forever the tenuous relationship between aunt and nephew.

"Manjoo", she said, "I think Parvathy was not meant for you. She would not have suited you, and your family. Your worlds are very different."

Manjooran's face turned dark: he was not here to listen to anybody's reproach about Parvathy. Nor did he have to tolerate disparaging comments about social suitability. True, she had left, and for reasons he could just about fathom. But woe to anybody who judges me or her. His face turned cold and unyielding. He looked into Chedathy's eyes and said: "Chedathy Ammayi, it is better you steer away from this subject." Silenced, tears glimmering in her eyes, she left the room immediately.

And thus was born the seed of Manjooran's plan for his future. It was one more plan, but one he would make on his own. One kept secret from God. He did not wish to hear His guffaw again. In the big wide world of Bombay, he would seek another job, however high or low, clerk or sweeper, typist or accountant, and rebuild his life again. Alone against the world, he would survive and thrive. And so, two weeks after the departure of Parvathy, he stepped out of his room for the first time. He read the wanted columns, and one by one, ticked off the available vacancies, by letter and phone call, through pleas and demands. He spent hours on the newspaper, wrote letters, met people who knew people, all the while wandering the sultry streets of the big city. It was exhausting and humiliating, his legs ached at the end of the day when he staggered back to Chedathy's place. His food was always ready, though Chedathy no longer kept him company at dinner. He knew bitterly that he was overstaying his welcome. His room, curtains always drawn, was silent and cold as he slipped into bed for yet another flustered night, adrift between uneasy sleep and troubled waking. He had lost weight pounding the streets of Bombay, eating street food and drinking quarts of sweetened tea. The buzzing of the big city in his ears did not lessen even in the quiet of the night. It was a harsh undertone beneath his internal conversations, his accusations, his guilt, his despair. It took him another month of relentless effort to be finally offered a job as a clerk in a business conglomerate. The sudden vacancy and the coincidental appearance of Manjooran proved fortuitous. It was merely a temporary assignment for six months. If found suitable, he would be given a permanent appointment. Meanwhile there was a bunk for him in the dormitory with a common washroom, maintained by the company for the junior staff. That would do for now.

The next morning, he called for Chedathy to give notice of his departure. Not a word of gratitude for the grace she had shown him, or for the job she had offered, for the sanctuary he had sheltered in. Not the hint of an apology for the way he had treated her. And most callous of all, breaking off the promise he had made to help her in the vagaries of the business. He left without a backward look, abandoning her and her son to drown in the deep ocean of a hostile city, which each day threatened to swallow them both. To Chedathy, he had turned a complete stranger, with no resemblance to the young lost lover with his wife-to-be, whom she had harboured for three months, and provided the attendant security and peace they needed. All gone, utterly changed; he had turned into a bleak and surly stranger she could hardly recognize.

She nodded, words failing her; there was a sense of doom she felt all around her. She had failed too in protecting the son of her beloved little sister, due to no fault of her own. Yet, she burnt with a shame and sorrow that would last her for a lifetime. As she looked at the taxi taking him away, Chedathy knew that fate had given her yet another drubbing. She clutched her innocent little boy close to her and wept silently. She found it difficult to breathe, but knew she had to make the effort for her little one, one slow breath after another.

Episode 6: Manjooran: His testament.

The long steady climb: that is the precis of my life. In prose, not poetry.

After Parvathy had left, I had to climb a mountain, plumb the deepest ocean, to shake myself out of a dull stupor. Chedathy Ammayi had supported me then for several weeks, but I was eager to get on with my interrupted life. I visited all the offices in the commercial area of the city, searching for vacancies, meeting admin staff of all kinds of offices, making my request for a job, any job, using my fine record in my master's exam to win approval. I came back each day from my wanderings in the city to the quiet of the room that Chedathy let me have, for a quick bite to eat before I fell into bed. No company but Parvathy's ghost, as she walked through my mind in the early hours of the morning, even as I struggled between waking and sleep. Somewhere I had to accept the mess I had made. Yet, the bitterness of my humiliation and shame, my sense of profound failure, my fury with Achan's machinations, were all overshadowed by my disappointment with myself. How I was bested by an evil man whom I was unfortunate to call my father. By him, I had also lost the love of my life. With no hope of redemption.

In me was a sense of humiliation, to know that the son of the wealthiest plantation owner of Kerala, was pounding the streets of Bombay, in search of a job. How else could I keep body and soul together. Finally, my strenuous efforts to find a job, any job, bore fruit. I was appointed on a temporary basis as a junior clerk in an old automobile parts company, set up through British investment in the first decade of the 1900s. It had then catered mostly to the British, mainly to service army vehicles of the British Empire. In fact, for a few decades after Independence it had retained some foreign share in its capital mix, until by the early 1990s they were bought out by upwardly mobile Indian entrepreneurs. Within a few years it had turned into a wholly Indian owned company. I had grown with it, from a junior clerk to a senior clerk, and then assistant manager in finance. From there within a space of less than a decade, I had reached the upper management echelons, vigorously participating in management decisions. In the final decade before retirement, I sat in the chair of General Manager Operations, the very heart of the company's business.

But I go too fast. For now, suffice it to jump to about five years after my fall from grace. I was deeply absorbed in my duties at the office. As a bachelor with no domestic ties to slow me down, my undivided attention was directed only towards my job. I was the workhorse of the office, tireless, confident, and soon enough the favourite of my bosses. Yet, back in my room, when the moon was high and I was mellow, Parvathy used to saunter through my thoughts. The memory of her soft touch still singed my skin, the fragrance of her hair seared my nostrils. At night, in the light of the moon shining through the window, she often swayed past my bed. My yearning for her was endless; she made my success in office turn bitter and rancid.

Amma was always there for me, with her weekly phone calls surreptitiously made behind Achan's back. Apart from general queries about my welfare, there was nothing more we could say. This time, however, she had news: Achan had been diagnosed with cancer of the pancreas. The discovery was made late, and even the most optimistic doctor did not give him more than six months. Her voice breaking, she sounded defeated. She queried in a weak voice if I could come down and be with him in the difficult days ahead. The request annoyed me no end. How dare she make that demand! I muttered it would not be possible; my work was too intense for me to take six months off to care for a man who had spurned me. My fury was alive and endless.

I could not, however, put her off for long. Achan's end came after the hospital had discharged him, saying nothing more could be done. He would spend the next three weeks, dozing off in his bed. It was only morphine that could ease his journey to the next world. Sosha, my sister had come down, and helped Amma to make him comfortable. Curious neighbours wondered about his only son, though most knew the pitiable story of my elopement with, and abandonment of, the labour leader's daughter. I cannot deny that the fear of snide remarks and crude jokes was also a reason for my refusal to go back home.

When Amma informed me finally of his passing, her voice tired and resigned, it was time, I thought. With a curious indifference she asked if I could, at least now, come down for the funeral. I said I would. It surprised both her and me. But then, both she and I remembered my promise to Achan, that I would be back only to bury him.

There was a milling crowd in the yard outside as I stepped out of the taxi. A pandal to accommodate the guests had been set up. The priests and the presiding bishop were about to start the last rites. Enquiring faces and curious glances were turned towards me as I walked into the grieving house. Amma, who had not seen me for more than five years, had tears in her eyes. Yet, she only nodded and turned her head away. Sosha took my hand and escorted me to my old room. She cried wordlessly on my shoulders, then let me go. I dumped my bag on the bed and went back to the pandal where the chanting of hymns had begun. Without expression, my gaze cast downwards, I went through the rituals at home, then at the church, and finally in the cemetery. A rain had started to fall by the time it was all over. Strangely unmoved, I heard the chant: ashes to ashes, dust to dust. It all seemed pitiful and pedestrian.

It was late evening and the guests had all departed. There was rice gruel and chutney for the few who had stayed back. Amma was exhausted. In a way she was relieved too, for the six months of caring for Achan had drained her of all strength and emotions. We will talk later, she muttered to me. She slipped onto her bedroom, followed by Sosha who kept her company that night. In my room, nothing seemed to have changed in the five years intervening. The frames on the wall, my books, the study table, all looked the same. I lay on the bed and looked out into the twilight.

But sleep did not come to me: perhaps I may have dozed off a bit in the early hours of the next morning. At dawn, the sky was overcast. The pall of sorrow hung heavy over the house. The melting dew was hazily smoldering on the grass outside. The elders of the family came back to the house one by one: there were arrangements to be made, the holy rites for the third day to be planned. They all came to me for approval of the arrangements, the sequence of events. Silently I nodded in agreement to the suggestions. Amma and Sosha scurried between the kitchen and the living room, directing the preparation of meals, feeding the retainers, watching over the oil lamp that would not be snuffed out for forty days.

I was more guest than son. I was silently brooding over my recent past and the nature of my wrath against Achan. Somewhere behind my eyes, there was a burning point of pain, a throbbing at my temples. Seeing my inexplicable lack of concern over the activities whirling around me, the conversation was soon directed to Sosha's husband. He, poor chap, puzzling over my conduct, was now forced to take the lead. As for me, everything seemed disconnected. My thoughts scattered here and there in my mind, like dry leaves caught in an errant gust of wind. Yes, I still knew with a painful clarity that what Achan had done was unpardonable. But the sting was fast disappearing. And so it must, I thought; I had indeed buried my father, as I had promised. It was only after the prayers and the church service of the third day was over, with lunch served to all the visitors and guests, that the house started limping back to a hesitant normalcy.

My nemesis was gone now, had left the building. The thought of reaching out to Parvathy once again crossed my mind. But I knew, without a doubt, that she would have spurned me with contempt, with a hissing fury that would have crushed me. It was then that Amma called me into her room, to talk plainly with me: she was tears and smoldering fire all at once. She cursed me for my terrible adamantine heart, a trait I had shared with Achan. And then, came the question I knew was coming, that could not be put off any longer. When would I take over my legitimate responsibilities? And be the new master of the empire Achan had left behind.

Since I was not totally unprepared, my response came easy to me. "Give me time, Amma, I need time, to think things over", I muttered.

"And what is there now to think over", she countered, "you think I can do it all alone? Take over all these responsibilities? While my son and rightful heir ponders his future in Bombay?"

"Rightful heir? You forget I was kicked out of the house." Try as I might, even in this hour of her mighty grief, I had to reiterate my wrath. That's me, that's who Manjooran was. Unforgiving to the end.

Over the next couple of days, with Sosha and her astonished husband as witness, over many recriminations and copious tears thrown in, along with harsh accusations and appeals to my conscience, she elicited a promise from me. Six months. Six months to make up my mind and return home. In the meanwhile, she would make do with her Manager, an experienced old hand, along with some help from Sosha and her husband. She would also find the right girl for me, to take up the burden of the mistress of the homestead. She was tired now: she needed to retire and rest. She had even threatened to follow Achan to wherever he had gone, should I display the temerity to refuse. "Later, later," I mumbled. She took it to mean my consent.

When I returned to Bombay, two pending decisions of paramount significance lay like heavy black clouds over my head. One, should I leave my job in Mumbai and return home to the family business, and two, should I consent to marry a duly approved bride, to stand by me in my new duties. On the first, I was not keen at all. The manner in which I had last confronted Achan reinforced my desire to stay away from the family wealth. I had to prove, to myself and to Achan's ghost, to the world at large, that I was my own man, needing no family estate and wealth to sustain me. I was comfortable enough in a job that gave me dignity and confidence, a good compensation and the respect of my peers. On the second, I needed to sieve my thoughts, to plumb through my cluttered emotions, to find where I stood with Parvathy. And she with me. With Amma peering over my shoulder, I would not have been able to do that. I needed solitude, my own space, and the time to dig deep. Two days later I left for Bombay.

And sure enough, not more than a couple of months thereafter, while in the midst of a meeting at office, I got the summons to go back home for the girl-seeing ceremony scheduled for the weekend. But I jump ahead of myself. I must first rid my memory of the peregrinations in my mind. They had disturbed me over these past two months. In the weeks after I had returned from home, in my evening hours, I sat in deep contemplation, glass of whiskey in my hand, and brooded over the sad little tale I had wrought for myself; love found and lost, the paradise of the small guest room in Bombay now forever vanished, the ghostly shadow of Parvathy who walked through my disturbed sleep. Her large eyes were wet and wordlessly accused me of betrayal, of treachery, of my shallow love that could not face Achan's ire and duplicity. I had not stood by her in sickness and in health. We had parted before death could do us part. How could I blame her? Her misfortune and what had befallen her family, outweighed my loss beyond the power of words to tell. I was certain she would consider no rethinking, even though Achan was dead. In her place, I would not have.

If Parvathy were not to be mine, and I had not the courage to face her again, then where did I stand? Time to take decisions, I said to myself. I could not place my life on hold: I would not be the love-lorn fool waiting for one who would not return. I had had enough time to look back in sorrow. So now, Manjoo, look forward in hope, of the thin chance of fleeting happiness, that may, who knows, come my way again. With much hesitation and despair, I knew I had to bid her farewell. I knew too, that somewhere in my troubled life, she would always be there, at first as unattainable love, then as a troubled burr under my skin, and finally as a memory that would bring remorse and momentary joy. I know, Parvathy, nothing, nothing at all, can make you change your mind. I wish you well and seek pardon. For my feeble will against the rock of Achan's obduracy. Goodbye, my love; if I had had the gift of persuasion in the face of such unsurmountable odds, I would have fallen to my knees at your feet. But now I know that can never be. I have done you much harm. Still, may you find joy in what you do, in the life you have to lead. Goodnight sweet princess, and flights of angels bring thee rest.

I thought long and hard too about my duties in the management of Achan's estate. I cringed at the thought. Treading the path between Amma's helplessness and my distaste was difficult. My reluctance won the day. I would never allow Achan to manage me from the grave. When I conveyed the news to Amma, she was heartbroken. I offered a solution. We would appoint a couple of professional managers, trustworthy and faithful, who would do all that was necessary to keep the estate going. In time, we would parcel out the estate into viable bits and pieces and sell them off, finally getting rid of them all. Only the homestead and its surroundings bit of land would remain, which we would keep until Amma's days were over. Amma wept bitter tears, but I would not budge.

Four months after Achan's passing, almost to the day, Saroj entered my life. The formal viewing of the hapless girl had been set by Amma and the family about a week earlier. Shy and inarticulate, she had sat before me, nervously smiling, her fingers twisting and turning the end of her pallu. With the tea rapidly cooling in its cup, I let her know of my past. At the very least, I owed her that. I could not tie the knot without that confession being made. I told her of my flight from home holding Parvathy's hand, swiftly followed by her flight from me. I spoke of the end of love. With big round eyes she heard me out and quietly whispered that she knew; her Papa had been honest with her in the telling of my life-story, now translated into song and jibe narrated by the town dwellers. She knew it was almost six years ago. Even greater sins are washed away with time. She too acknowledged an innocent puppy love that had diverted her at college, too trivial even to mention. Confessions done, we broke the news to waiting parents. The day was set. A week later, amidst the burning of frankincense and the chanting of prayers, the tolling of the church bells and the orgy of a fabulous lunch, with close family and friends about, we were wed. The marriage ceremony was, as marriages go, quite without frills and very pedestrian. I wanted it that way.

We were back at Bombay a fortnight later. I owed Saroj justice, and I promised myself I would keep the face of that old flame out of my mind. God knows I tried and, with time, succeed I did. As the months passed, we learned to give each other love. Life settled into the steady routine of a successful career, the domestic glow of everyday life, the birthing of children, the blossoming of family. My career was booming and I was firmly ensconced at the centre of the company. As the decades passed, the children came, were schooled, were married and went away. Chedathy left this world, leaving her business to her son, now an adult and in full command of his company. A couple of years later, Amma too passed on, dying alone in her own bed in that large mansion, with none but a maid servant and a couple of retainers to assist her. She had refused to join me at Bangalore. Achan's large estate had by now been dismembered, its proceeds distributed between her two children.

As age caught up with me, I decided it was time to hang up my boots, though I could have worked productively for a few years more. But Saroj wanted a more placid life and a change of scenery to Bangalore where friends and extended family lived. And so, some years hence, we landed up there. I had thought that we would have a couple of decades more, growing old together and living elegant and serene lives. But Saroj it was who finally betrayed me. After some four decades of a conjoint life together. She deserted me one evening, without any fuss, lying in the haven of her bed. She left me completely forlorn and lost. The days that passed were empty, though the mind churned and frothed without purpose. In my magnificent loneliness, I wandered from one room to another in an endless cycle of vacant thoughts.

It was when I was celebrating my seventy-second birthday, in desolate and solitary splendour, that Uncle Kaka had visited me.

Episode 7: A Man with a Plan

With a loud flutter of wings Uncle Kaka lifted his fat black body from the branch of the tree outside the verandah and flew away. In the sudden silence that ensued, Manjooran was left floundering with his scattered thoughts. For a few moments he wondered if he had been dreaming through a late afternoon slumber. Or was it the birthday cake, heavy in his stomach, sketching phantasmagorical images, driven by the sugar rush it had sent to his head.

Of course, dinner was now out of the question. He needed to sit in silence and mull things over. After four decades of a steady married life, today, on his 72nd birthday, some tired old ghosts had curiously raised their heads. They stared at him, glared at him, those three ghosts he had put to rest some forty years ago. He had buried them away in an unmarked grave, just before entering into his connubial life with Saroj. He had assumed he could seal them in their shrouds and put them to rest forever. In the years since, whenever idle thoughts concerning Achan, Parvathy or Chedathy had stirred alive from time to time, either in idle conversation or in the contemplation of the whisky in his glass, he had stamped it underfoot, preferring to side-step his conscience with nimble feet, rather than face it squarely.

"What temerity, Uncle Kaka," he grumbled to himself, "to niggle my conscience when I had interred them away so long ago." He was furious with himself. For having succumbed to the mocking jibes of a black-hearted crow. For having prised him out of his complacency. Yet, through his exasperation, a quiet voice within murmured softly: 'But the black-feathered bastard speaks the truth, doesn't he?' All these years now, he had steadfastly prevented the memory of his old crimes from surfacing. And won his peace with much assiduity. Indeed, he had tried hard for himself, and for Saroj. But, in the course of a few short moments, his serenity lay shattered on the floor like pieces of a broken mirror. The three old ghosts from the past had, without warning, jumped on him, knocked him down and laid him low with the bludgeon of old memories. Uncle Kaka's raucous cawing was still in his ears, ricocheting within his head. And suddenly, his mind was exploding with their images, the sounds of their names, the look of disappointment on their faces. He could not divert his mind, did not know how to. The humming within his temples whispered sibilantly and endlessly: Achan, Parvathy, Chedathy. And what was that ultimatum Uncle Kaka had thrown his way? something about coming back a year hence? He had been given a year to mend his wrongs, or else... Or else what? that he will go on another journey? To where? He shivered a little: he had an inkling of where that destination could be.

He needed to lie down, his head was throbbing. There was a dull aching pain behind eyes. In his bedroom, he dimmed the lights and lay down. He was suddenly filled with an exhaustion that leached down into his bones. The fan overhead squeaked relentlessly. He lay tossing and turning for most of the night. Sleep would not come. He knew it comes only when one's thoughts are serene. How could it possibly come now? When he was seething inside with pain and fury and regret. For a moment the felt waves of nausea sweep over him; he thought he would vomit. It was the cost of his endless suppression of guilt, of refusing to confront the truth.

Sometime towards the early hours of the morning, when it was clear that sleep had completely abandoned him, he arose. It was just 4.00 am. He lit the gas stove and made himself a cup of coffee. He had to act, for to sit idle was to simmer in a stew of old guilty memories. He had to ponder. To plan. There is a time for every purpose, and this was the time for him. The first step, he knew, was the most challenging: to acknowledge the crimes he had committed on those closest to him. He had to pare away the years of self-justification, cut through the scar tissue of self-defence sprouting over the decades. To expose the delicate skin below. Expiation will only come after one asks for forgiveness. Wrongs can be set right when wrongs are admitted.

As a young adult, the first mantra he had learnt, after being beaten to the ground by events beyond his control, was simply 'don't make plans.' God is contemptuous of them. Almost fifty years ago, when he had risen from his own ashes, like an angry phoenix, he had vowed to keep his own plans secret. Even from God. His job, his rise in his career, his marriage to Saroj, his financial stability: all careful plans kept under the radar of God's omniscience. That they worked out well and he was successful, was something he owed only to himself. This time, however, he felt he would make Him a partner in his efforts. After all forgiveness is something only He can give, or so Saroj had often told him.

And thus Manjooran learned his second life-lesson; another mantra guaranteed to give him pause. It was, simply stated, that all actions have consequences. Whatever you say or do, they whirl away in widening circles, deceptive ripples that spread outwards. They hit some unknown shore far away, and return when least expected, years later, to kick you in your under belly. To leave you gasping for air.

The seeds of a plan of action had been sown in him. The long night of recriminations and internal conversations had helped. With pen and paper in hand he jotted down things from the top of his head, a to-do list. When the house-maid entered in the morning, she was nonplussed to see Manjooran at the table, head bent down, working away on scattered pieces of paper. By the time she had finished her household chores, he was almost done. He gathered the sheaves together, tapped them on the table to align the edges, stapled them in the corner, and sat back with some measure of satisfaction. There was more work to do, much more, but he was now holding in his hands, a blue print for the future. At the moment it was flimsy, assembled with matchsticks, adhesive and string. But soon it would sprout leaves and branches and grow into his Tree of Redemption.

All his working life he had been an industrious drone bee. After his retirement, he had turned into a indolent sloth. Now he was the wise owl, looking at the world with big round eyes. He was learning what should have been learnt long ago. He needed to go away, back to his green, river-fed village, where some 14 billion years after the Big Bang, the universe had conspired to morph fine star-dust into who he was. And is. After a life spent in alien lands, Mumbai (rechristened now) and Bangalore, it was time to flee to his origins. To arrive where he 'had started and know the place for the first time.' He needed to smell the rain-sodden mud of his Kerala. All his first memories were there, though now grown over, layer by layer, with other memories and experiences. He needed to re-tally his profit and loss statement, re-write the script of the rest of his days.

In the evening, he spoke to his children, his son in Silicon Valley, and his daughter in Chandigarh. He explained to them, though they saw no logic in his decision, why he was proceeding on a long trip. He did not need to be stuck inside his flat. There was nothing or nobody forcing him to stay put at one place. And that he had decided to take a long break, to travel to Kerala and meet some old faces, to re-kindle sundry dead memories. With no one to care for, or depend on, he was free to do exactly what he desired. Their pleas, about his age and his health, fell on Manjooran's suddenly deaf ears. When their arguments met a stonewall, they both knew that his mind was made up. Not even their mother could have changed him when he was adamant. He said he may not be back for several months, that he would stay at their vacant homestead. He promised that he would not forget his medicines, that he would take good care of himself. Both his children knew that that there would now be no further discussion. Manjooran wondered whether his children really cared at all. After several years of a lazy retirement, after Saroj had moved on, he had lived life without any real purpose. He was fast becoming a decrepit, with nothing but food, sleep and television on his mind. Now for the first time, since shifting to Bangalore, he felt a new energy. He had set himself certain goals; he had to see them through. Before it was too late.

His adventure was emboldened by the substantial wealth that Achan had left behind. Not many months after he had passed away, Achan's vast estates were parcelled out and sold off. Amma was certainly not quite happy, but she saw no alternative after Manjooran had clearly explained to her that he was not interested in the management of Achan's plantations. Amma cried a few tears, but sadly realized there was no way out of it. Manjooran's fury, it seemed to her, had not been dispelled, even by Achan's death. Over the next year, the fabulous properties were all liquidated. A lot of money had come in. Even after the receipts from the sales were divided between Amma's two children, there was enough and more. But his reluctance to actually spend it, had ensured that it was earning interest in the bank. He was sitting on a pile of money he did not know what to do with. For many years it had lain in the banks, much to the delight of the bank managers, to whom he was a prized client. It gave him limitless freedom. Now, he was a man with a plan, it would grant him the wherewithal to do exactly what he wished to do. After Amma too had passed on, only her empty homestead remained, locked away under the management of Vijayan, the caretaker. Sosha, whenever she came down for the summer holidays, got it dusted and cleaned out from time to time.

A fortnight thereafter, Manjooran was ready. He had paid off the housemaid with a substantial handout, advising her to sweep and clean the house at least every alternate week. When he returned, he assured her, he could send for her and re-employ her. The astonished care-taker of the homestead was informed of his imminent arrival. Never having had the lord and master visiting the home, he went into a tizzy, washing, sweeping, cleaning, trimming the hedges, picking off the fallen leaves, and stocking up the kitchen with essentials.

And thus it was that one early morning, Manjooran locked the flat door behind him, handed over the keys to the maid and, with air tickets and a stout suitcase in hand, stepped into the cab waiting to drive him to the airport. He had rarely prayed to his God over many years now; he had fulfilled his spiritual duties merely to keep Saroj contented. But this time, he mouthed a psalm to himself and settled down into the seat. The car sped forward to the airport.

Episode 8: Home Again

As the plane dipped below the clouds and banked to the right, from his window seat Manjooran could see the Kochi airport runway, etched like a dark thick line drawn by a giant, against the green and brown of the brilliant landscape. The coconut trees and the paddy fields were spectacular beyond description. Sunlight glinted and flashed from the water bodies below. It had been some years now since he and Saroj had come down from Mumbai. That was when Amma had passed away, alone and unhappy in the large homestead, much too large for just one person. At the end she had not suffered much; Sosha had come down to tend to her in the final week, just as she had had when Achan was fading away. Manjooran had not been there to bid them both his final farewells. His absence was noticed. He winced at the thought: how could he have been so busy, he wondered.

Amma's sad lonely life was one he did not care to think of. After the doctor had given the final verdict, Achan had lingered on for another six painful months. Amma later told him that Achan had prayed each day for a quick end. When it came, she had breathed a sigh of relief. It had grieved her no end to see the desperation in her husband's eyes. After Achan's passing, Amma had been stunned by the stubbornness of her son to have nothing to do with his father's estates. He simply refused to manage all those vast properties. With no alternative in sight, she agreed to his diktats. One by one, she had signed on the twelve sale deeds by which the large estate, broken into small parcels, were sold off to eager buyers, greedy to harvest the rich bounty from the fertile land. When the last deed was signed, sealed and delivered, she withdrew into a solitary life of prayer and meditation, spending most of the day counting the beads of a rosary, or quietly chanting hymns from prayer books. The homestead was large and sprawling. The reduced staff found it was impossible to keep it neat and clean. With time, Amma's living space shrunk into the living room, a couple of bed rooms and the kitchen. There was a musty smell of old linen, mildew and dust in the rest of the house, which was now locked away, with their furniture and other stuff covered with large sheets and tarpaulin.

It took too long for both him and Sosha to see that Amma was in the grip of a dark melancholia, which soon turned to unhappiness and depression. For a couple of years, both Manjooran and Sosha had pleaded with her to come live with them. But she refused with a quiet shake of her head. That she spent a decade in this manner did indeed surprise her children, each of whom cared for her in one's own particular fashion. Sosha would often come down with the children during their summers holidays. The presence of her two boys and the sad-faced little girl, revived a bit of colour in Amma's cheeks. The girl, sickly and frail, clung tightly to her grandmother, in whom she felt a kindred spirit. But when they left, Amma was back to the crushing routine of endless days and sleepless nights.

Manjooran's visits were rarer; he would hardly spend more than three or four days whenever he did come down with Saroj. He couldn't get away from work for longer than that, he explained to Amma. Amma, without expression, always nodded in acquiescence. She and Saroj did not have much to say to each other, though the latter would often urge Manjooran to spend more time with his mother. But he being Manjooran did what he pleased; not for want of love for his mother, but because he considered his work to be more important.

Outside the airport, Vijayan was waiting with the car, an old sturdy Tata Sumo with quite a few miles on its odometer, but still roadworthy. From the airport, it would take a good three hours to get to the homestead. He got into the rear seats, with the driver and Vijayan in the front. As the car moved forward, Manjooran wondered whether they knew about his story, the scandal he had created some five decades ago. Vijayan would not have been born then. But it was certain that the legends of Manjooran would have been sung about and whistled in the street corners, or circulated in cheap pamphlets. Now, all those years later, would they still be talking behind his back? or sniggering into their kerchiefs?

To hell with it all, he muttered. After some small talk with Vijayan, he lay back in his seat and closed his eyes. He had woken up too early in the morning and needed a shut-eye. The drone of the car engine and the cool air whipping in through the windows soon drew him into a light slumber. Some three hours later, Vijayan woke him up as the car entered the gates of the old homestead. It still looked grand and imposing, despite its dull, bleached facade. As he stepped out and climbed up the stairs to his old room, he was filled with a sense of dread. He wondered whether Achan's ghost was still around, waiting for a victim. There could be none of greater worth than his only son. This was the first time he was here, after Amma had passed on. After Saroj had passed on. And a sudden wave of melancholy spread through his body, weighing him down as he climbed up the stairs. He sat down on the bed and took a deep breath. And prayed for equanimity. He was beginning a journey that he hoped would take him down the path of a long needed salvation to his Tree of Redemption. After a light dinner, he went back to bed. He took an hour falling asleep, and when he did, it was untroubled and serene. The sunrise on the new day promised great things.

His campaign to save himself began the next morning, when the car drove him into the grand church situated just two kilometres away. Fr. Anton had been quite amazed when he received Manjooran's call in the morning. As the new priest at the church, he was a stranger to the history and legends of the parish. He had joined just about two months earlier. He was about fifty years old, and had come to know about Estate Paulose and his kith and kin only through hearsay. Yet, what he had heard said was interesting enough to tickle his curiosity. Old parishioners had fleshed out the details with much embellishment and added spice, though none was necessary. Some of the poorer folk in the area, associated with the peasant movement for decades, remembered the events of Manjooran's elopement, of course from the viewpoint of the poor girl in question. So it was with some trepidation that he received his guest at the door.

Manjooran requested Fr. Anton to accompany him to the cemetery and to Achan's grave. At first sight it appeared it could do with a paint job, for the rain and the summer humidity had washed out most the paint and the polish. The engravings on the marble stone looked faded. Amma used to come whenever she could rouse herself from her despondency. But that too had ended a few years before her passing. Now she lay next to him, their resting places like two identical beds of marble and stone. Thus it was that for the first time in almost half a century, Manjooran stood in silence near Achan's tomb and bowed his head in contemplation. He worried whether he could genuinely pray for that long departed soul. His inward glance was more at his own suddenly quailing heart, than at the bones of the man that lay within the narrow bed of cement and marble.

"Let's go to your room, Father," he said abruptly, breaking the solemnity of the moment. "I have some things to tell you." In the office room attached to the church, Fr. Anton poured out two cups of tea, handed over the plate of biscuits, and waited for Manjooran to begin. As briefly as he could, he narrated the nature of his flammable relationship with Achan, barely mentioning in passing the disagreement between father and son on the subject of his marriage. He regretted that about fifty years had passed since then; he now he wished to do what he could, what he must, to make reparations. He was now a lonely widower and did not know how much time he had left. He was in a hurry, he said, and did not intend to wait long for his plan to be executed. Indeed, he was older and more thoughtful, but he was still the same Manjooran. Yet, he sincerely wished to be more mellow than he really was. He rolled out his plans, not in full, but in summary. The nub of his blue print. Fr. Anton listened and saw in him not only a sense of urgency but a palpable sincerity as well. Here was a unique opportunity, he thought, and nodded in appreciation and approval. If he was played carefully, he mused, Manjooran may yet prove to be an asset to the parish.

Aided by the indefatigable Fr Anton, it took him a full four months before things began to move. His days were filled with meetings, with the President of the nearby Panchayat, the Chairman of the Municipal Board, the Chief Medical Officer of the district, as well as the reputed surgeons and physicians of the hospitals in the neighbourhood. It was clear that what he was about to undertake had something to do with the health and well-being of the people. When and what the announcement would be, was the talk of the town. Advised by senior and respected citizens, he did into omit calling on the Member of the Legislative Assembly to seek his approval for what he had planned. Within a short time, he had galvanised the people of the area, who looked forward to a formal announcement of his pet project. Like a patient weaver bird, he was knitting and purling the strands of his plans. He knew only too well, as his first mantra had taught him, that it was foolish to do so. Yet, this time, he was cautiously hopeful. It seemed that he was now in a world so different from the corporate echelons he had straddled for most of his life. Now, here he was, rubbing shoulders with the wealthy and the impoverished, the urban elite and simple rural folks, doctors and engineers, elected public representatives and senior men and women with wisdom and common sense.

Within a short time, he had worked upon a sizeable section of the people who mattered in the district. He soon realized he could not manage his work all alone and was forced to appoint a young management graduate as his assistant to help him in his paper work and to arrange his appointments. On Fr. Anton's recommendation, he selected the ever affable Ravi, who was inordinately proud to be in close quarters with Manjooran. He could be seen following him closely with a note book in hand. He hung on Manjooran's words, noting down directions, making phone calls and arranging appointments. He was an invaluable asset and Manjooran came to rely heavily on the young lad.

Every evening, when he reached back home, he found himself completely exhausted and, as soon as dinner was done, he fell into a deep slumber. It was the sleep of the satisfied, of a day well spent, of re-stoking his energies for the next day. The years he had spent after retirement, now seemed to have been a sheer waste of time. In Bangalore, he was forever lying prone in front of the television, watching tepid serials and re-runs of old favourites. Saroj used to fuss about in the background. After she had left, the structure of the day was lost, turning itself into an endless loop of hours and minutes and seconds. But now, his world was simply transformed. He found himself humming like a turbine, his face glowing, his mind focused, his gaze, like Arjuna's, fixed on the eye of the fish.

Through all that hectic planning and activity, Manjooran was arguing with himself about some serious issues of principle. So many years ago, he had, in the heat of his anger, sworn he would never use his father's wealth for personal use. Almost five decades after the event, that anger remained, though muted. On the other hand, he realised the foolishness of simply allowing his children to enjoy that inheritance after his days were over. Over the years of mulling on the subject he had, by slow fits and starts, evolved his guiding principle: no personal gain for himself and no easy money for his children. The manner in which they were treating him these past few years, especially after Saroj had left, sometimes irritated him no end. Not that they did not love him as children love a father. But they had never shown the special love he had wanted them to demonstrate. But then, he wryly, conceded, he had not demonstrated the need for a reciprocal averment of love. His children were there, and should be around when he needed them: that's all he demanded. He was never one to display his heart on his sleeve.

So when Uncle Kaka had prompted him to once again take stock of his life, he found that the best use of unspent money was to spend it, not on himself, as he had vowed so many years ago, but on better things. He would stick to his vow and yet not allow it to slip through his fingers to his children, who, he argued to himself, had not earned it. And yes, by dint of his present plans, he would, to boot, gain some applause for himself. It was a typical Manjooran decision. In the troubled context of his life, and his relationship with Achan, this was the best bang for the buck.

When he was about done with his planning and not far from the making of an announcement of his intentions, he had two more tasks to perform. He wrote to his old colleagues at his Mumbai office for a personal favour: could they, he wondered, obtain the coordinates of the Kurien Textile Marketing Company, which had been in business for some six decades now. He was seeking the indulgence of the present Managing Director for an appointment. It was something he had to do. He had to confront the second of the wraiths who had knocked at his conscience, the soul of Chedathy Ammayi.

And one other thing. He called over Ravi his assistant, one evening, for dinner at the homestead. He needed him to help slay the last of his ghosts. Swearing him to secrecy, he assigned the delicate task to him. Simply stated, it was to explore the east end of the town, beyond the railway line, and discover the small house where an elderly lady by the name of Parvathy, the daughter of one Unni and his wife Uma, lived. She was alive, he hoped. Was she married and contented with husband and children? That he didn't know. Of course, by now her parents would have moved on, he thought wryly, perhaps to some Utopia where Marx and Lenin lived and the worship of deities were permitted ! Where ever they were, he wished them well. He prayed that they forgive him for the crime he committed on their daughter, though the crime was beyond the boundaries of forgiveness. He cautioned Ravi, "under no circumstances should the lady in question know of my enquires about her. Do this for me, Ravi," he said. "It is a delicate matter that I would have none else know about."

And thus the stage was set. That obnoxious black bird with the raucous caw would be proud of me, he thought. Perhaps the sly fellow is watching me from somewhere.

Episode 9: More mantras

Mumbai was as sultry as he had known it to be. The afternoon flight from Kochi got him there by late evening. It was a decade since he had left the metropolis behind, urged on by Saroj and her need for change and rest. And his need too. In Bangalore Saroj had been happy. She had friends and relatives there and her days were spent in long telephone chats or meeting old classmates. As for him, he sometimes wondered if it were the right decision. In that new city, he often felt the ground wobble a little under his feet. There was a strange unease he sensed, especially in the early mornings, or at dusk, in the in-between hours. Voices within his cochlea whispered: Manjoo, you have yet to complete the tasks allotted to you when you landed on Planet Earth, some seventy odd years ago.

Santa Cruz airport now looked glitzier, cleaner, more international. The taxi took him to his hotel, reserved by Ravi, his Man Friday. En route he found delight in spotting and identifying old, well-known landmarks. The street lights were coming on, and the glittering windows of the skyscrapers, the breeze from the sea, the bustle of a city getting ready for the night, all seemed so familiar. The Arabian Sea was restless and threatening today. He remembered how Saroj and he would walk down Marine Drive some evenings, watching the waves crash on the rocks strewn below. Maximum city, part slum, part skyscraper, the dustbin of broken Bollywood dreams, the launching pad for astounding wealth. Along its western edge, the salt, salt sea was everywhere, nourishing and drowning, reviving and rusting, converging and estranging.

The taxi waited interminably at the red lights; stop and go, stop and go, on and on. As he shut his eyes, other images came too, unbidden and uninvited, aeons before all this, before the children, before Saroj. In the past he would have simply swatted them away, faithful to the wedding vows made to his wife. But this time around, he let them float in. In the space within his head, on a flickering screen behind his eyes, the images played themselves out like an old celluloid movie. He saw her pale, distraught face again, she who had, in the hidden caverns of his dreams, haunted him for years. He saw the foolish star-crossed lovers strolling the by lanes of the city, thriving on peanuts and biscuits and tea, reflecting on the bright future that surely awaited them. Of how incredible it was that they had found each other. They would ride easily over their challenges, of that they were certain. For lovers, the future is always bright, ever brilliant. Their fears are banished from the circle of light that always surrounded them. Here on earth, just around the corner, the perfect seventh heaven awaited them. Yet, how it all had changed, how violent the fall from bliss. Paradise lost. The improbable cloud-and-cuckoo land they had resided in for three short months, had mutated into a blasted heath swept by harsh winds and struck at by bolts of lightning.

From her utter love for him to her utter fury, all within ten minutes. It had hurt him beyond the power of words to tell, that Parvathy would not, could not, be content to stay on with him. Despite his sworn oath that he would stand by her through hell or high water. It hurt him that she would desert the heaven he had promised, and flee to be with the battered Unni and the terrified Uma. He shivered in the grip of those memories. Fifty years ago it was, but when he let the memories come, they appeared fresh and recent, seeping as a wound that refused to heal. Somewhere, in the four decades intervening, he understood the nature of that unthinkable effort he had expended, to keep the memories from hurting. He winced to think what Paru too must have gone through, in the endless years of so many dusks and dawns. Yes, he understood now the how and the why of her contempt for him.

Then his mind turned to Chedathy Ammayi, the gentle, loving aunt who had given them shelter, with no questions asked, a haven to take refuge in. Who had fed them and cared for them with unending love and generosity. How his affection for her had turned to contempt, because she had, in her ignorance, in an idle moment, wondered, if the Parvathy who had deserted him, was the right partner for him. For her casual and careless enquiry, he had banished her to some unknown nether land, where he would offer neither forgiveness nor compassion. Her great heart was a harbour in the storm; yet, he had continued to abuse her love for him. Until the day he got himself a job. All the assurances he had offered, to manage her business, to keep her accounts in order, all snuffed out like so many candles when electric lights are restored. When he was secure in his new found job. He had walked out with no word of thanks, no smile of gratitude, no embrace, no kiss for her unquestioning love and care. And in the hardness on his heart, he had not visited her through the four decades Saroj and he had stayed on at Mumbai. At his marriage, some months after Achan had passed away, Chedathy had not come down for the marriage festivities. She was embarrassed and awkward and sought Amma's permission to stay away. She was in terror that he would condemn her again. In the world outside, for far graver sins are lesser punishments prescribed. Yet, his punishment of her had been extreme.

He awoke from his reveries when the taxi stopped at the foyer of the hotel. In his room, he sipped at his tea and composed his mind. His musings had scoured up images that disturbed his peace. He needed a quick bath and a short nap to restore his serenity. The night passed slowly. There were things to do the next day that surely would not be easy. When morning finally dawned, he was as ready as he would ever be. He had a light breakfast and called for the taxi. His first port of call was his old office, where there were many new faces he did not recognise. In senior positions of responsibility, however, there were well-known colleagues who had climbed up the ladder and had done well for themselves. There was much backslapping and broad smiles, followed by enquiries after his health and his children. They knew Saroj had moved on, and commiserated with him on her passing. The information he had wanted, about the Kurien Textile Marketing Company was available, scribbled on a piece of paper, and with that in hand, he stepped once again into his taxi.

At the office, a new building so much swankier than the one he had known, Manjooran was ushered into the chamber of the Managing Director. It was clear that the company was doing well. It surprised him that the shy little eight-year old he had once known, was hardly recognisable in the figure of the handsome well-built man standing before him. The name board read Aditya Kurien. There was a look of puzzlement on his face, for he had no clue who his visitor was.

The introduction he made of himself was painful. It was clear that Chedathy had perhaps not mentioned to her son the sad and sorry tale of Manjooran and his elopement. In a way, he was grateful for that small mercy. In his explanation, he now did not need to mention Parvathy. With halting words and much hesitation, he explained how their two mothers, Amma and Chedathy Ammayi, were sisters, of how the good lady had cared for him, given him a roof over his head and helped him start his career. He stumbled over his explanation of why he had not reciprocated her love with respect and affection. He spoke of failing to keep his promise to help her in her business. He had used her as a shelter in the gale, only to discard her when his fortunes had improved. His desertion had been troubling his mind for some time now. That he was here today to seek expiation for his sins.

The man in the chair in front of him was rather clueless. He knew of his mother's younger sister, but confessed he could not remember her face. His roots were in Mumbai and he had never felt the need to travel to Kerala. Yes, he had gone there as a toddler, but retained no memory of those brief visits. He found it odd that first cousins needed introductions, and said so to his visitor. Yes, he had some faint memories of the couple who had stayed at their home for some time. He confessed he had never thought much about them. Manjooran mentioned the golden retriever to jog the young man's memory.

"I still have him," he replied. "His great-great grandson!"

"I wanted to say I was remiss in treating her the way I should have," Manjooran stuttered. It took him all his courage to say that, for apologising is not something the Manjoorans ever do. He felt the prickling of an unknown emotion stir him, and quickly turned away to sip at his coffee. Aditya was not moved.

"I am not aware of that," he replied. "Perhaps you should have said all that to my mother when she was around."

"I did not, and that omission has been disturbing me for some time now. I needed to say that to you at least."

Aditya simply waved it away. And turned to other subjects that would not disturb this stranger in front of him. When asked, Aditya spoke of his doctor wife and their two children. Within a few minutes they had run out of things to say. Manjooran now just wanted to leave.

He was disconcerted, and out of sorts, a lamb caught in the headlights of a car. His plans for creating a grand opportunity, where he asked for forgiveness, and forgiveness was extracted, had petered out. He picked himself up, mumbled his goodbyes and moved out of the room. Briefly he looked back. Aditya was already on the phone, getting on with his work. Manjooran had been but a brief interruption in the busy man's schedule.

Back in his hotel room, sobered up and wiser, he replayed his actions and words. That he was not of any significance at all to Aditya was clear now. It was also clear that Chedathy Ammayi had not mentioned the painful episode of Manjooran and his runaway woman. The hours spent in contemplation of his own guilt and the need to seek absolution from his gentle aunt, all seemed to have been a waste of time and effort. Briefly stated, Manjooran was simply irrelevant. Chedathy herself, it seemed, may have forgotten and forgiven that rude and arrogant nephew of hers long ago. In any case, she had kept it from her son. It was a dampener to his ego. He realised that in the long run, he did not matter. He repeated to himself, as if learning a lesson by rote: in the long run, I do not matter. It was another painful mantra that he would carry with him in the years to come.

One thing more: Aditya, almost twenty years younger, had got it perfectly when he had admonished him. He should have said he all he wanted to say, when he had the time to say it. To Chedathy Ammayi's face. Not years after she had passed on and Manjooran was an old man himself. That's another mantra, Manjooran wryly aid to himself; today they were coming thick and fast. In short: say what you have to say, now and not tomorrow; don't wait until it is too late.

Looking back he could not, for the life of him, find a plausible reason why he and Saroj had not called on Chedathy Ammayi during the long years they were there. His own aunt, who would have been a second mother to him, banished from his vicinity, for her innocent doubt about Parvathy's rightness to be a wife for him. His grievance should have given way when Saroj became his wife. But Manjooran was made of the hardest metal; nothing could melt it. For him, forgiveness is granted only when forgiveness is asked for. If not, it would remain a hard knot in his chest, impenetrable and refractory.

These and other reflections filled his thoughts on the flight back to Kochi the next day. It was a troubled journey for him. The aircraft, buffeted by strong headwinds of the approaching monsoons, seemed to mirror his disquiet. His trip to Mumbai was a waste, but for the lessons learnt late. He determined it was better to put all that behind him. There were things of greater import waiting.

Vijayan and the driver were at the airport with the car. He was glad to see them. At least he knew where he was with them. They too knew, he assumed, that he was their lord and master.

Episode 10: Once more with feeling.

The formal announcement of Manjooran's initiative was scheduled for the third week of the month, just a fortnight away. Amongst the local populace, there was high anticipation and great expectations. The authorities were being contacted for the final arrangements. An official ceremony would mark the occasion and people who matter would be present. Manjooran, however, remained anxious and unsettled. There was a matter of great weight that was still required to be addressed, that still remained undone.

It was time, time to confront his fears. A heavy sense of apprehension filled his mind. A day after his return from Kochi, Ravi turned up in the early morning, summoned by Manjooran for confidential discussions. The task given him had been completed. Ravi was eager to hand over his report to the boss. In a corner of the first floor verandah, Manjooran pulled up two chairs, called for a tray of tea and biscuits and then waited for Ravi to begin. Of course, the young lad had no clue whatsoever about the import of the message he was about to deliver. Two days earlier, he had taken a taxi to the far end of the town, crossed the railway line and made enquiries at the nearest tea-stall. His job was easy. Everybody in the locality knew Parvathy Chechi, only daughter of the late Comrade Unnikrishnan and his good wife, Uma. They had passed on several years ago, leaving their house to her, the suddenly lonely woman who had to fend for herself. She had shown some commendable initiative when she joined the local college and had, in the years intervening, made a name for herself as a teacher of political science to the undergraduates. In fact, so good a name, that the management asked her to continue even after her retirement. In her off-hours, she took classes for high school students who gathered at her home in the evenings. She was also known to contribute articles to the local left wing periodicals. They were read with interest, and widely appreciated, for the anti-capitalist stance she invariably adhered to. A matter of fact, no-nonsense lady, her students respected her for her learning and commitment. She had few friends, both at the college and in her neighbourhood. Still, there were many devotees who regarded her with affection and esteem. No, she was not married and had preferred to remain single after an unfortunate affaire de coeur with a spoilt son of a rich business man, who had deceived her, betrayed her and taken advantage of her. Ravi had not been able to gather more details on the incident, and had preferred not to enquire so as to not draw attention to himself.

Manjooran grimaced: that is an accurate enough description of me, he thought. And accurate enough for the unfortunate lady in question. He dismissed Ravi after thanking him for his discretion and went back to the bedroom to allow it all to sink in. The most difficult part of his journey was about to begin. Through the expectation of meeting her again, there was dread too. But wait, there was too a murmuring voice within him of a different kind altogether. He had to concede it raised in him a sense of guilt, just short of shame. Where should he place Saroj in this delicate equation, he wondered. He felt the need to re-state his loyalty, to strengthen the vows he had made to his Saroj: his partner, his soul-mate, the mother of his children, who - duty-bound, society-approved and church-sanctioned - had stood by his side for more than forty years. She was his woman, his meet, his wife, to have and to hold, for better, for worse, for richer, for poorer, in sickness and in health, to love and to cherish, till death us do part, according to God's holy law. Saroj, my love, my heart, the earth beneath my feet, no one can take your place in my mind. Yet, I need to set right the wrong I had once done, to one who had possessed my mind and body long ago, whom I had once harmed and betrayed and deserted. My salvation will remain unfulfilled, my story unfinished, if I do not do this. Forgive me, Saroj.

Two days later, at eight in the morning of a Sunday, Manjooran slipped out of the house, driving the car himself. He chose that day because it was an off for his driver. He did not want the fellow to spread the news of where his master had been. More importantly, Parvathy was more likely to be at home. It troubled him that he had to be secretive in his intentions. But, what needs to be done, must be done. He cut eastward across the sprawling town to its farthest end; traffic was light and he made good speed. He parked his car at the corner of the municipal park and walked across the railway track. He knew exactly where the house was located. He still remembered, a life ago, his headlong flight from Achan and the homestead he had lived in all his life, to her modest home. He had called out to her from the iron gate outside. That she did not hesitate, was sure sign of her faith in him, just as her departure some three months since was proof enough of how much she despised and distrusted him. Of how much he had failed her. He shook his head as if to wipe away old memories. What he hoped to achieve in this meeting, fifty years after the event, he clearly did not know. To apologise? to win respect back? The uncertainty of how she would respond to his overture terrified him no end.

Outside the house, he paused for a moment to catch his breath and steady himself. He felt a little sick in the stomach, his hands trembled, his mouth was dry. He smiled wryly. He reminded himself he was a septuagenarian, not a teenager. He pushed open the iron gate. A small grey cat, napping in the sunlight, skittered away on seeing him. He strode a few feet to the wooden door. He took a deep breath and raised his hand to press the doorbell. For a second he wondered if he were doing the right thing. Or making a terrible mistake he would regret until the day he died. Should he turn around and flee? He clenched his jaws and told himself again: nothing ventured, nothing gained. With his trembling finger, he pressed down on the call bell. Inside the house the bell rang shrilly, intruding harshly on the quiet of the morning. A voice called out, "who's there?"

For a moment, he was struck silent. Then he replied, "an old friend." Surely, that was not how she would have defined him. A moment's pause and then the bolt slid back and the door turned on its hinges. In the half-opened panel of the door she stood. For the first time, some five decades since she had left his side, he looked once more into her eyes. Her hair was more salt than pepper, there were worry lines on her forehead, her hands were worn and wrinkled. Yet, through the accretions and the debris of fifty years, through the bludgeoning of a perverse fate and the dire trap of circumstances, he could, without a shadow of doubt, see his old Parvathy, his one-time love non-pareil, the shining angel who had, for too short a time, possessed his mind and his body, who had ruled over his passions, the woman incomparable for whom he had sacrificed family and fortune. In whose company his skin had dissolved, his otherness had sloughed off, and he had been one with her.

For a long moment of incomprehension, she stood looking at him. When recognition dawned, she fell back, her hand to her mouth, as if someone had kicked her in the stomach. Her heart was pounding within her and a wave of dizziness overpowered her. She feared she would fall to the floor.

"Manjoo," she whispered hoarsely. "What in God's name are you doing here. You have appeared half a century late."

Seeing her sway on her feet, Manjooran pushed open the door and entered. He thought he should break her fall were she to faint. But she drew in a long breath, steadied herself and moved away, pointing to the sofa where he should sit. She sat heavily on her chair, covered her face with her hands, and willed her beating heart to slow down. It took her several moments to regain the semblance of an imperfect equanimity.

In suddenly appearing from nowhere, Manjooran had done her great wrong. He had forced her out of her present serenity and pushed her into a troubled past. His act of wilful audacity was more than she could bear. As for Manjooran, his own ragged breath threatened to burst his lungs. For several minutes they stared at each other, with no words, and a thousand images and memories flooding their minds.

"Paru," he started; but she waved at him to be silent. "No, I must speak," he went on, "what I should have spoken long ago. That I gave you much pain and yet did nothing to seek your forgiveness." She did not encourage him to speak, but showed no disinclination either. But Manjooran spoke anyway. Indeed, he had been marshalling his thoughts for some weeks now and thought he had it all pat in his mind. He spoke with revived anger about his father and the inequity he had committed on the body and soul of Comrade Unnikrishnan. That he could never have known how and when Estate Paulose had planned vengeance on the good man. That he had failed to see the evil thereof budding within his father's twisted mind. That, try as he might, he knew he could not obtain forgiveness for the deed that crippled her father. That he had planned a thousand times to speak to her, but his courage had failed each time. That he knew her fury was unbounded and how she hated him for not protecting her family. That when she had fled from him and their temporary heaven so long ago, she was right and he was wrong.

He spoke too of how, in a deadly pique, he had spurned his family and home for five and a half years, until Achan had died a painful death. And how his neglect of Parvathy's need for consolation, to help her wipe away the acid of her wrath, was then too big a task for his broken spirit and never ending shame. Of how he had thought to reach out to her after Achan had gone, but had been terrified of her certain rejection and contempt. By then, he had lost all faith in the common human enterprise of making plans for happiness. Of how, in the wisdom that came late, he had steeled his mind to come to her one day and seek her pardon. But then, Life and its appurtenances had caught up with him. With time, there came his marriage to Saroj. Too, with time, he had felt joy and love and domestic bliss, the gift of children, the love of a big-hearted woman and the contentment of family. His years with Saroj were fulfilling and just what he had wished for. The carousel of life had taken him in a different direction altogether. There was safety in the known, the humdrum, commonplace pattern of life. He was terrified to step out of the four straight lines defining his box. And thus, even without willing it, the broken-hearted lover he had left behind, had slowly moved from centre stage to an ill-lit corner of his mind.

That part of his life had now run its course. In his aloneness, in an anonymous flat at Bangalore, his old errors, his acts of commission and omission, had come around visiting again. With no home or wife or children to deter him, and fifty years since she had left his side, he felt the urge to set wrong things right. And here he was. "I seek nothing from you, Paru, just forgiveness and the chance to wipe away the bitterness in you." His head lowered, unable to look into her eyes, he muttered half audibly, "Don't visit the sins of the father upon the son".

And then, in an act which later baffled him, one which he could never define as genuine contrition or high drama, he rose, walked up to her, touched her feet and sought pardon. He had forgotten that to touch her was now forbidden. He realised that when Parvathy withdrew her feet sharply and muttered with annoyance, "what are you doing, Manjoo? Go sit. Let me think." In the silence that ensued, they were both lost in their own worlds of reveries. Briefly she raised her head and said, "you have come to my house, I must at least offer you tea." She rose, moved to the kitchen and disappeared from view for some time. When she next appeared, she was more composed. A faint wan smile was all she gave him and he, anxious and hopeful, read more into it than what it may have meant. She offered the tray and he took his cup gingerly. There is hope, he thought to himself. Can he dare to wish for at least a shadow of what he had given up forever. God, he prayed, I ask for neither love nor passion; just to be worthy of her notice, her acknowledgement.

After Manjooran's confession, she slowly opened up. It was too late now to hurl him out of the door. Maybe she should have locked the door on him when he suddenly appeared without warning. But then again, perhaps it would do her good to let it all come out, imprisoned feelings, festering thoughts, whirling and churning inside her head all this time. She paused, looked at him once and let her own words stammer out and cleanse herself.

She had never ever thought she would see him again; why should she? He had left her broken and beaten, discarded and forgotten. At home, she was the daughter of a crippled father and a terrified mother. She had spent the next decade in utter loyalty to them, caring for their every need, tightly holding their hands as the sky turned increasingly dark and brooding above their heads. Through their illness and decrepitude, she had stayed loving and faithful, a rock to steady the heaving boat on an troubled ocean. Old friends had helped. The party had collected generous funds for their dear comrade. Life was hard but bearable, with generous benefactors and good neighbours. When she started teaching in college, things became better. Her reputation spread, her extra classes brought in money, her articles in magazines and periodicals established her as a leftist ideologue of some repute. She genuinely thought all men, if not born equal, should be rendered equal through state action. It was an ideal worth fighting for.

When Unni and Uma had passed on, she said, she was utterly alone, no friend to confide in, no shoulder to cry on. No warm body on rainy nights to cling to. To keep her fears away. Some had approached her, but she had brushed them off, with abrupt words, trying not to give offence. She wore an armour that kept others away. Her work, her students, her writings all brought healing. It was not as if she had forgiven the crime committed on her. Time has a way of soothing and smoothening. Yet, she knew the scar tissues would remain. That the future offered no guarantees of joy. When Estate Paulose had died she had spent many a night in fear, in an awful dread, that Manjooran would come to her again. Had he attempted to do that, she would have jettisoned him out of the door. Her heart was then still bitter and adamantine. There was no place for forgiveness there. Now, decades later, it all seemed irrelevant and unnecessary. With each passing day, the need to nourish a hate with no hope of release, seemed increasingly pointless to her. It is in the nature of time, she understood, to let things blur and dissolve. And finally leach the poison away into the all-forgiving earth.

In the hours that followed, with only rice gruel and biscuits to interrupt them, some measure of equanimity returned. For both there was a lightening of the weight of the years, the burden of guilt and anger. It was more than Manjooran had hoped for. More than Parvathy had ever thought possible. The hours spent together had made conversation possible. Some meeting ground had been forged out of nothing. By then the evening light was fading. How time had flown, they both thought. Manjooran rose to leave.

"I need to do something to expiate myself," he told her. "Would you let me do that? To wash away Estate Paulose's crimes. To acknowledge the evil done to Comrade Unnikrishnan. To seek forgiveness for my sins. I will not let old wounds seep blood any longer. It is time to set things right."

Two weeks hence his project was to be inaugurated. Would she come, he asked. She said she would think about it. If you are there, there would be some closure, he urged again. She repeated, she would think about it. That was all he would eke out of her today. He left with a quick backward glance. She was lost in thought.

Episode 11: In the fullness of time.

The drive back home in the twilight from Parvathy's was slow; there was more traffic and Manjooran was in a brown study. A settling of his thoughts, as when a carton is shaken and its assorted contents fall into an ordered pattern of accommodation, each piece fitting against the other. Somehow he knew he had done the right thing, by him and by her. Too late by fifty years, but still in time. Before it became too late for either of them. By speaking to Paru of Saroj, he had done right by his wife as well. All his complexities were now laid open, no concealment, no subterfuge. A long slow exhalation of breath; that's how tranquil it felt.

At home, Vijayan was anxiously waiting for him. Manjooran's phone had been switched off all this while. He had wanted that nobody should disturb him this day. Dinner was ready, Vijayan said, whenever he wanted it. Give me half an hour, he answered. In the bath, he stripped and stood naked in the warm shower for a long while. He felt his sweat, his guilt, his shame, his unfocused anger of half a century, all washing away down the drainpipe. He smiled to himself. If only he had done this some decades ago! But then, perhaps not; we need to grow into the years allotted to each one of us. In the estates of the sons of men there is a linear order to one's actions. There is a time to every purpose under heaven; a time to keep silence, a time to speak, a time to heal. After his dinner, he climbed the stairs up to his bedroom. He bowed his head and sat in deep contemplation. Then he lay down, switched off the bedside lamp, and slowly slid into a dreamless sleep.

In the days that followed, everything came together. As if a divine plan blessed by the Creator was, in the fullness of time, being pieced together, stone by stone, brick by brick. The programme details were worked out, the foundation stone ordered for and made ready, the land cleared and levelled. He arranged for the tomb stones of Achan and Amma to be cleaned and re-painted. It was long pending for many years now, because he had had other 'important things to do', Manjooran thought wryly. Fr. Anton advised him on the propriety of things to be executed, people to be invited and the order of the speakers in the ceremony. Ravi scrambled about at his master's bidding, full of importance and pride. Truth be told, he was an invaluable asset to Manjooran. He distributed the invitation cards, personally conveying to each invitee a request to be present. Ravi thought to himself, here was something he could include in his cv. It would help him in his career in the days ahead.

One card especially went to the same Parvathy, who had been the object of his investigations a fortnight earlier. Ravi puzzled over it but could make neither head nor tail of the conundrum. The envelope was sealed and carried a personal message from Manjooran. He delivered it to her at her home and repeated the words he had been told to utter. "Manjooran sir would be very happy if you would attend," he said. He had done what he had been asked to, but he received no confirmation from her.

Manjooran rang up his children and told them of his plans. As briefly as possible. They were puzzled, without a clue as to why he was doing what he was doing; but they did not demur. Why this sudden splurge of philanthropy, they wondered. Considerable amounts of money were involved. It was only right that Manjooran was informing them before the deed was done. Their inheritance would be lesser to that extent, he mused. It was a thought that suddenly pleased him. To Sosha he said he did not wish to keep Achan's money idle in the banks, but to put it to work for a better purpose. To her credit, she promised some of her share of their father's wealth for the same purpose. After all, between the both of them, they had inherited Achan's vast fortune.

When the appointed day finally dawned, people started gathering. The empty block of land within the campus of the medical college, once overgrown and filled with garbage, now looked spruced up and spick and span. The pandal had been set up the previous night. The chairs were laid out in neat rows beneath the white canopy. The stage was brightly lit with flowers and a backdrop of white linen.

Will she come, he wondered. As the guests were filing in, he waited with bated breath, scanning each face, just to be sure. Her presence would be the validation he sought, that he had done the right thing. It would lift his distracted mind and fill him with joy. Yet he wondered, had he scared her away with his insistence? The letter he had enclosed with the invitation, sent by hand through Ravi, had explained the meaning of what he was planning today. He had received no last minute objection. If she were not in favour, would she not have admonished him? But her complete silence was difficult to interpret. Did it mean her contempt for his plans, that he merited no response at all? As the clock ticked closer to the appointed time, Manjooran felt a wave of dejection wash over him. If she did not come, then what?

By then, the chief guest, the local Member of Parliament had arrived. The master of ceremonies announced the start of the function. The dignitaries moved to the stage. With a prayer song and a welcome speech, the programme began. From his chair where he sat, his eyes swept over the audience, searching, searching. When his name was called out, he abandoned the effort. His heart was heavy, but he had to get on with it. In his slow and deliberate address to the gathered guests, Manjooran spoke of his early years at the homestead, and the memories of green foliage and abundant water that he still carried in a peaceful corner of his mind. His childhood was cheerful, filled with the taste of spicy fish curry and tapioca and the mooing of cows, the sound of wind rushing through the coconut fronds. He mentioned, but did not elaborate, the feud he had had with his father, and how he had left home for a job in Mumbai. His long stay there, his satisfying career, memories of his departed wife, and the lives their children were now leading; all this touched the hearts of his enthralled audience. And how, so late in his life, he needed to find his roots once more and make penance for his long absence from the earth he had grown up in. The wealth he had inherited from his father would not lie in fixed deposits, but would be ploughed back into making a better life for those not as fortunate as he was. He mentioned in passing that he was also paying a debt he owed to someone who had suffered because of Manjooran's actions and that he was remembering him too today. These were the adjuncts to his decision, his raison d'être to build the Saroj Oncology Research and Treatment clinic, as an extension to the existing medical college. The foundation stone of this facility was being laid today. And that when the centre was up and running, it would cater to all patients, rich and poor, with the best treatment that medical science could provide. If things worked out well and he received the support of the good people of the town, he would plan for free treatment for the poor.

And then the moment came. The chief guest unveiled the foundation stone to a long round of applause. The cameras clicked, flashes going off like small bolts of lightning. Everyone noticed the last line on the stone: it read 'In the memory of Comrade Unnikrishnan'. Perhaps there would have been a few, the older men and women, who would understand the reference. Most merely noted it and wondered who the comrade was. The chief guest made his remarks, bland platitudes as expected from a politician, and very soon the programme was over. Tea and refreshments followed. A curious media person asked him about Unnikrishnan. He replied, "somebody who needed to be remembered."

Shortly thereafter, the guests started trailing out. After Manjooran had seen them off, he sat for a while with Ravi and thanked him for the labours that made the programme successful. Though the day was brilliant, there was unease in his mind. Slowly he got up to leave. One quick glance around, he thought. It was then that he noticed, at the rear of the pandal, sitting in the last row, a slim lone figure, who had probably come in late and had not drawn attention to herself. Manjooran's heart leaped within his chest. It was her. She had come. He stumbled forward, almost tripping over his feet. As he neared her chair, he folded his hands in a formal namaste and smiled.

She raised her head and smiled back at him.

Coda

You know, this narrative could go on for a few episodes more. I could tell you how Manjoo and Paru forgot the reasons that had kept them apart for half a century. That they learned to respect and trust each other again. I could tell you of their visits to each other's homes and the conversations they had. I can almost see you conjuring up the possibility of their coming together again. And living together as a couple, stoking again the fires of their love for each other, finding bliss in this, the last phase of their lives.

But that did not happen. That version would have been one for the story books, for the celluloid edition of their histories. In fact, they lived separate lives, though with an increasingly better understanding of each other's circumstances, their separate points of view, and the nature of the invincible fate that kept them apart. By now the acid was gone; there was a grudging respect they began to accord to each other. They maintained a comfortable level of bonhomie; the occasional phone calls, the even rarer meetings. But they were content, relieved that the events of the decades had finally led them to where they now stood. The years had diluted the shame and guilt of Manjooran, and the wrath and contempt of Parvathy. They tried, and succeeded, in keeping between themselves, a fair, respectful and equal relationship. They both agreed it was a blessing beyond belief.

The magical mantras he had learnt, at great cost to himself, stayed with him and informed Manjooran's life in the allotted days that remained. He knew now that God is greatly amused by human plans, unless He approves them somewhere in the grand Design Book of the heavens. That was the first of them. He now knew too - in the quotidian beating of his heart - that all actions and words have consequences; they come back some day and slap you in the face when you least expect it, and lay you low to the floor. So when you do and say what you do and say, let it be in the certain knowledge that it will, after its circular journey around the planet, come back to you. Like bad pennies or Newton's third law. That was the second. And the third? In the long run, you don't matter; in fact nothing matters, when held up against the starlight of the night sky. So whatever truth there is, it is in the here and in the now. Hence, carpe diem and live it full-bloodedly. Going on, fourthly, make wrong things right as soon as you can, not half a century late, because by then it may indeed be too late. And lastly, cast your bread on the wide waters. Give and give away. Let those who are not as fortunate as yourself find comfort in your generosity.

Manjooran knew that these mantras were clichés; tried, trusted and practised by wise men and women over the centuries. One contemplative day, he wrote them down in his diary and then re-read the lines to himself: over all, he found them trite and platitudinous. His mind was ready to mock their wisdom. Yet, his beating heart understood the truth behind the words, knowing the power that they had over him. All that wisdom had come after he turned seventy-two. Some four decades too late. In any case, he mused, when that sly old Uncle Kaka came cawing again, this time around they would have a more meaningful discussion.

As we come to the end of this narrative, as we leave Manjoo and Paru to their own devices, to do with their lives as they would wish to, there is this one thing more you must know. In the fullness of time, with no great deliberation or weighing of reasons, he made the choice to live out the rest of his days at the old homestead. Bangalore had no special claim on him. His children had their own lives to live. Here, with the chempakam blossoming outside his window, the parakeets chattering as they stormed the guava trees, and the smells and sounds of the Pamba river wafting in with every gust of wind, there was a rightness in the heft of his days and nights. The air was clearer, and he could see farther than ever before. When my work is done here, he mused, it would be a good place to rest. A desirable conclusion to look forward to.

The end.

About the author

C.K. Mathew IAS (Retd)

CK Mathew, is a retired IAS officer of the 1977 batch, who was Chief Secretary to the Government of Rajasthan. He has wide experience in governance and public policy, having held several important assignments such as District Collector, Commissioner, Commercial Taxes, as well as Secretary/ Principal Secretary of Departments including Mining, Energy, Irrigation, Education, Information Technology as well as a long association with the Finance Department in various capacities. He has also held the post of Principal Secretary to the Chief Minister. An author of four books and an avid blogger, he has been awarded the Ph. D in English Literature.

His books are

A: The Mustard Flower: A novel on a young woman's growth to independence and self-fulfillment.

B: The Best is Yet to Be: This is a novel describing the loneliness of old age.

C: Emily Dickinson and the Search for Meaning which explores symbolism in the works of the poet

D: The historical evolution of the District Officer which examines the unbroken line of the office of the District Collector (or Deputy Commissioner) from the days of the East India Company, the British Empire and the start of the Independence.

His blog at mathewspeak.wordpress.com features about 175 essays on diverse subjects, some personal recollections, some philosophical ramblings as well as reflections drawn from his personal experience on the Indian Administrative Service.

He has a diploma on creative writing from IGNOU

He has also been awarded the Ph. D for his doctoral thesis on the subject of "Circumference and Beyond: Symbolism in the Selected Poems of Emily Dickinson."

He is presently Visiting Professor in the Azim Premji University, Bangalore.