‘The October Country’ : A bundle of dreams awakened by Ray Bradbury.

Ray Bradbury was a master of horror and fantasy fiction and ‘The October Country’ is one of his most accomplished works. These were the things I knew about the author and the anthology before I had sat down to read the book. I was planning on getting scared,  and hoped I could wallow in copious make-believe depression. And I read the first story with full expectation-‘The Dwarf’. The story had a bizarre plot about a little person’s regular visit to a hall of mirrors at a carnival and a couple who spies on him. The tale was more of a psychological exploration with a twist than a horror story. There was not a hue of scare. Feeling disappointed, I plodded towards the remaining stories. None of them was scary. Nevertheless, I started to love them for  different reasons – Bradbury’s evocative language and his dreamy style. It is strange feeling to seek fear, but get enamored by beauty instead.

Bradbury’s stories unravel like flamboyant moths emerge from their chrysalises. His words convey a collage of human emotions, dreams, memories, hopes and tragedies, his denouements mostly open ended.

‘The Lake’ is the story of a boy on a beach who remembers a girl on whom he had a crush. She had drowned off the beach and her body was never discovered. The boy leaves the town and after many years comes back to the same beach with his wife. The story is about death and adolescence. I would describe it as an elegy to the loss of innocent love.

‘The Emissary’ is another story of love, this time between an invalid teenager and his dog. The boy is bedridden, but his dog roams around the town with a plaque dangling around his neck stating the condition of his master. After getting to know about the boy’s sad situation from the dog, the town dwellers visit the boy, including his young school teacher. The lady visits him often, talks to him, plays board games with him and eventually, we sense that they develop feelings for each other. The teacher dies in a car crash, leaving the boy grief-stricken. The dog starts to behave strangely and then, one day the animal doesn’t return from his daily circuit. Lying on his bed, the boy waits for his dog, listening to any vague sound straying into his room, hoping it’s the sign of his approaching pet.  When the dog comes back, a peculiar visitor accompanies it.  ‘The Emissary’ is a story that makes your throat crackle with sorrow, enabling us to feel the helplessness, yearning for love and anguish of the protagonist.

My favorite story of the collection is ‘The Jar’, a tale that opens out perfectly in the author’s dreamy style I had mentioned. At a local carnival, a man is fascinated by a glass jar containing some organic animal matter sloshing in a column of serum. He purchases the jar from the funfair boss and takes it home. The whole hamlet goes crazy about the jar, except for the man’s promiscuous wife and her supposed lover. The townspeople visits the man every evening and marvel at the jar, talking about the mysterious nature of the organic matter. Pertaining to the mini spectacle, each person has their own vivid interpretations connected to their spiritual and emotional lives. The wife and her paramour cannot tolerate the daily crowd huddling around the jar. They attempt to demystify the jar claiming that the floating matter is just debris and nothing else. The ending of the story is open to inference; my hunch is the man murdered his wife and dropped her brain into the jar to horrify her lover and for the whole town to wonder at.

More than Bradbury’s themes, I fell in love with his inventive use of the language, the way he conjures up expressions to create atmosphere,  evoke feelings and describe characters. Enjoy a passage from ‘The Lake’.

‘The wave shut me off from the world, from the birds in the sky, the children on the beach, my mother on the shore. There was a moment of green silence. Then the wave gave me back to the sky, the sand, the children yelling. I came out of the lake and the world was waiting for me, having hardly moved since I went away.’

Bradbury is engrossed by the idea of two opposing elements residing in a single person wrestling against each other to the point of utter destruction. In the story ‘ Skeleton’, a man’s skeleton is in combat with his body . In ‘The Small Assassin’, a newborn baby, right from the time he lives inside his mother’s womb, is hellbent on destroying her. The author blends science fiction, philosophical and supernatural elements in his stories to explore the macabre shades of life.’The Scythe’, ‘The Crowd’, and ‘The Man Upstairs’ are some of the other terrific stories in this collection.

‘The October Country’ was published in 1955.

The Day it Rained.

( a composition for the primary school)

The elephant and the rain are two of the most impressive sights in the world. Handsome and peaceful they were, until I watched an elephant on the rampage and experienced rain as a thunderstorm.

On the day, I was enjoying my holiday in my village, with my grandparents. Our house stood near a river. Every day at the village, we wake up to the giggling sound of the river. From the balcony on the first floor, we watch the slippery movement of the waters. In the morning, it started to rain. Initially, it was like any other rainy day. The sheets of water slanted into the house, wetting the rooms through the open windows. The rain was pleasing and smelled sweet. With my grandparents, I watched the water falling from the skies.

Towards noon, the downpour grew heavier. We heard thunder growling in the horizon. The current in the river became stronger and water spilled into the banks. A cloud of white light flashed through the house, blinding us. Somewhere close, an explosive sound crashed into the earth. The whole house shook and our dog scampered into the safety of the kennel. We helped the dog out of the kennel and brought him into the house. Grandpa unplugged all the cables, switched off the mains and locked all the doors and window.

In the river, the water level rose to dangerous levels. The fields and orchards adjacent to the overflowing water body were flooded. The accompanying wind pulled down branches and uprooted tree trunks. Our house was situated on a higher ground and we could see the neighboring plots getting submerged. The road that runs in front of our house turned into a waterway. The water that gushed through the road carried with it furniture, TVs, utensils and fallen branches.

Now we were sure- this is a real flood. The water breached the compound wall that enclosed our property. We fetched the important documents from the cupboard and   conveyed them to the lockers in the first floor. Grandma collected some snacks, cookies, rice and cans of water from the kitchen and carried the supplies upstairs. Grandpa tried moving the furniture up, but later abandoned the idea. Water swept through the gaps under the doors and poured into the rooms. It was an invasion by Mother Nature. The water flowed into our house like it was a tank. We, together with our dog, took refuge in the first floor and waited for help.

Outside, the situation was bleak and desperate. The rain did not show any signs of letting up. We huddled together in a corner until day break. The next day, we climbed on the roof and looked around. We were stranded in the middle of an overnight ocean. To our great relief, a navy helicopter hovered over our house. The aircraft came down and the soldiers helped us aboard. We were flown to the city where my Mom and Dad met us. We thanked Almighty for saving our lives.

The day of that rain is an unforgettable experience. I learned that we should live in peace with Mother Nature, or else, she would get even with us. Much like the elephants.

 

The Refuges of Boyhood

When Kuwait was liberated, Mom’s immediate priority was to get rid of the cartons of food she had stockpiled. Back then, we lived in Abu Dhabi. And for most of its residents, the Gulf war was a mere living room event. The next couple of months, Mom fed us cookies crusted with powdered milk, tinned beans cooked in a peppery sauce, and canned tuna fried with crushed tomatoes. The windows were still blacked out with duct tape because Dad never bothered to peel it off. He had other pressing concerns. Three months before Saddam Hussein attacked Kuwait, Dad had opened a car repair shop. But, the business floundered ; and he had to close it down.

” It’s the uncertainty of the war. Everybody lost money, not just me.”, said Dad as he pretended to gaze through the India Today magazine.

” Not that you can’t tell a spark plug from a jack screw. “, said Mom and she slammed the refrigerator door shut. ” The war is such a handy excuse. But you listen to me, I ain’t moving to India without you, if that’s what you are planning in that dumb head of yours.”

In a few weeks, Mom, I, and my kid sister flew back to Kerala, our home state in India.  Dad stayed back in Abu Dhabi to manage his office equipment business that continued to do well. At the airport, below the overhang that lead to the automatic door, Dad said, “This is a temporary phase. One year, and in the meanwhile we can save some cash. Then, I will bring you people back. And it will all be the same again “. He kissed my wailing sister on her cheek.

We started our new life with our grandparents in the tile-roofed ancestral house situated in the lush countryside. Granddad was an austere landowner who had angular features and a slightly hunched upper back. He worked his land with the assistance of a few farmhands. A confidante of Granddad named Azhchan supervised the farm workers. He often stayed at the barn that stood in the backyard. Under a pitched roof attached to the barn, they corralled the cows. At dinner time, the night breeze drifted into the house and bore the oppressive odor of dung. The smell troubled only the new residents ; the others bend over their bowls and partook of their supper.

I rode a bicycle to the new school. Those bike journeys were my first experiences of real liberty.  Brought from Abu Dhabi, the Japanese make bike had a comfortable saddle and a black sleeve pulled across the handlebar. I started on the rutted dirt road that ran along the frontage of our house. It was rife with narrow gullies bored by torrents of monsoon water. Up the road, foliage of flowering trees canopied the track, and suspended bouquets of scarlet blossoms swayed against the powder-blue skies. A mile from home, the dirt track merged into the asphalted main road. Our dog, Kittu, escorted me until that point and stood there and watched me disappear. The school was further up the main road. Expanses of rice fields loaded with grain extended on both sides of the paved road. As I pedaled the bike, I listened to the humming sound of tires rolling over asphalt.

At the new school, cackling crows intruded through the gap between the sloped roof and the upper edge of the wall. An occasional squirrel slunk across the rafters. During frequent power failures, the pupils pulled  out their slimmest texts in unison and triggered a mass fan movement. When I reached home in the afternoon, Kittu came springing towards me. Heartthrob of a dog, he was plump, donned a shiny white coat streaked with yellow strokes and had loyal brown eyes. When excited, he arched his torso and slumped against your knees, sometimes throwing you off your feet.

I grabbed a quick snack from Mom and dashed to the barn to watch the cows and their calves. Azhchan heaved troughs that brimmed with pasty mixtures of oil seed cakes and ground husk and lowered them into the mangers.  Immersing their snouts in the feed, the animals slurped from the trough. Azchan lit an unfiltered cigarette, sat cross legged beside the crossbar of the shed and blew smoke against the wind. Kittu lumbered towards the me, shook his bulk to dislodge a troublesome fly and plopped down near by feet.

Azhchan turned to me, “Child, watch out for this month of Karkadakom. Especially in the afternoon and after midnight. Stay away from the sacred groves. The creatures out there might play a trick or two on kids.”

He wore a white mundu that had turned cream from dirt and a rumpled T shirt that frayed at the sleeves and collars. His face was coppery and creased like a slab of sun dried tobacco, and oozed a rare genuineness.

“Who are they, Brother Azhchan?”, I said.

“Oh, they are mostly harmless. Crazy spirits loitering around, scaring people. Just looking to satisfy their egos and feel important.”

I squatted in front of Azhchan, looked into his deep eyes and smelled the pungent blend of sweat and tobacco smoke. His thinned out hair was the color of the cigarette ash he flicked.

“Brother Azhchan, have you ever see them?”

“On more occasions than an old timer like me can keep count of. When I was a boy of your age, or maybe a few years older, I was strolling over a ridge that bifurcated a vast stretch of paddy. It was the harvest season. The crops drooped under the weight of matured grain. but wobbled in the gentle breeze. The blazing heat licked through the paddy. Not too distant from me, out of the rustling stalks, a slender arm sprang up and waved at me. Just an arm sticking out from the depths of the field; smooth, feminine and adorned with a single silver hoop. The thing gave out a piercing squeal of a guffaw, to provoke me. Make me do something silly.”

Kittu rose to his feet, scanned the surroundings as if he suspected the presence of a trespasser and panted heavily. The cows dug their enormous tongues under the bent rims of the troughs to scrape out the residues that clung to the edges. Suggestive of impendent rainfall, the air grew heavier.

“You scurried away?”

“Nay, my Child. I stood my ground and defied it. I knew these things are harmless, like the carnival floats you get to see at village fairs. A charade. Nothing real. I prayed to Muthukattukara Appan, I prayed to all my ancestors. I looked it right in the eye, though it didn’t have one. Only a lone arm, raised aloft. But it had found its match. And the thing tamely vanished into the paddy, right from where it had come from. ”

The drizzle dug out the smell of earth from the soil. Claps of thunder roared in the firmament. Kittu took shelter under the eaves of the barn.

Before I sprinted home, I said, “Are all bizarre creatures harmless?”

Azhchan looked past me into the dusk, and said, “Some arrive to chase you when your time is up. And you can’t help it.”

For a whole week, the village was drenched in incessant rain. Water crashed down from the heavens and  inundated pools, streams and wells. Mom arranged a cab to transport me to the school and back. On the way back from school, I craned my neck out of the cab window to peer at the rice fields. There was no sign of anything funny. When the rain pattered on the roof, I closed my eyes and thought about the strange creatures Azhchan had alluded to. I imagined hideous beings that moved by lurching forward and laughed like screeching ravens.

The last Sunday before the Onam holidays, the sun ventured out and the weather turned warm and pleasant. Planning to hang around the Catholic church that stood by the canal that formed the boundary of our Panchayath, I headed south on the dirt track that led to the main road. Unusual for the day, Kittu didn’t accompany me. When I neared the stretch of the path that was lined with the flowering trees, I saw a crowded gathering. In a frenzy, people pushed and jostled and rebuked each other. I slowed down. From the branch of a colossal jackfruit tree invigorated by the life-sustaining monsoon, hung the corpse of a young man. A golden cross dangled from his disfigured neck. Clad in khaki outfits, policemen milled around, took notes, gave directions and intimidated the excited crowd. Distorted into a horrible grimace, the face of the dead man was infected with a light purple shade. The tongue remained jammed between the sets of teeth. The suspended body rotated leisurely in a semicircular arc.

I swung the bike around and rushed home. I pedaled hard into the wind that gusted with full force. Why had I felt that someone tailed me close ? I careened  into the front yard of the house and hurtled towards direction of the barn. I dismounted, put the bike on the kickstand and looked around for Azhchan. I found Granddad scattering hay in the sun. He told me that since it was a Sunday, Azhchan had gone to the neighboring town to visit his daughter. Disappointed, I ambled home.

Kittu had taken ill. He refused to eat and spent the day lying in the shade, head down. I remained indoors and leafed through the comics. When I got tired of the funnies, I fought with my sister. She started to scream and outside, I heard the voice of Azhchan speaking to the cows. I darted out through the kitchen, leaped over the half wall that stood at the edge of the vegetable patch and landed in front of the cowshed. Azhchan looked exhausted. He patted the backbone of a huge pregnant cow that gobbled its share of hay.

Hyperventilating, I said, ” Brother Azhchan, did you hear about the man who hung himself from a tree, up the road.”

Azhchan seemed disinterested. He put his ear to the ballooned belly of the cow, listened and nodded to himself. He said, ” Folks talked at the market square. But I already knew last night that he had picked someone in this vicinity. I thought he will prey upon some old crone. Never expected him to get that young Nasrani lad ”

“He who?”

“The-One-Who-Shouldn’t-be-Named. When your destined moment approaches, he arrives twirling his noose, and then throws the loop around your neck, strangles you and carries you off to the netherworld. ”

“How did you know that he was wandering around the village ?”

“Child, you know these days, the needling pain in my left arm keeps me awake. Last night, I couldn’t sleep and kept rolling over. Barely an hour past midnight, Kittu went crazy. He howled like a wolf mother and ran wild. That’s when i sensed  The-One-Who-Shouldn’t-be-Named was heading south. And on the way, he bumped off that poor chap. The dogs are the only creatures on earth that are able to see him. And they can hear the muted squeals of his victims when he tightens the noose around their throats.”

Releasing the gloom of the twilight, the day diffused into the dusk. On the safe perches above, roosting birds congregated. As night fell, the cows became silent.

“Why does he do such terrible things?”

“It’s a part of nature. Someday, everyone has to go. Or else, the earth would just give out.”

Dad kept his promise. After a year, we were back in Abu Dhabi. The energy of the big city supplanted the tranquility of the countryside.

Amid the drone of the window air conditioner, I dreamed of Azhchan. In front of the shuffling cattle, he choked under a tautening noose that constricted and ruptured his windpipe. Convulsed, he roiled the dirt surface with his rattling feet and sent plumes of dust rising through the air. Kittu bolted around the barn; the befuddled animal barked, snarled and growled. In desperation, he whimpered. Azhchan uttered a guttural croak and became quiet. And still.

I jumped out of bed. A gripping coldness ran through my spine and raised the hackles at the back of my neck. The odor of sweat and tobacco smoke enveloped the room. The next evening, for dinner, Mom cooked pulaav rice flavored with clove and cinnamon. At the table, Dad divulged something  I already knew.

“Father telephoned me. There is an unfortunate news. Brother Azhchan passed way.”

“God. When?”, said mother

“Last night. He died in his sleep. A very peaceful demise. Father said that even in death, he looked so calm.”

I went back to the food. The steaming pulaav rice tasted good.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

The Evil ; Mine and Yours.

In the late 90s, when I lived with my friends in the campus dorm, we decided to watch the ‘scariest movie in the world’- ‘The Exorcist’. Back then, the closest web portal was  sheltered inside some internet cafe in Calicut city, forty kilometers away. To watch the film, my friends and I  rented out a television set, a VHS player and the videotape of the movie. Inside a room situated at the far end of the dorm, close to the common washrooms, we packed the chairs in theater seating style. Pregnant with anticipation,  we sat breath close. Owing to the hordes of swearing fans,  I was aware of the movie’s  archetypal scenes  – the head spin, the spider walk, the puking, the levitation . But, like the Grand Canyon, you haven’t seen it until you have seen it. The planned viewing was fraught with risks- the possibility of power outage, the danger that the tape might veer off the cogs and twist itself into a series of contortions and the peril of lightning setting fire to the TV.

Surmounting all the uncertainties, against a wall cluttered with posters of voluptuous Bollywood women, in the midst of billows of nicotine charged smoke, we watched ‘The Exorcist’. The film was frightening. When the tension grew unbearable, my classmate Mathew enshrouded his face in his hands to find solace in occasional breaks. Yet, he couldn’t resist himself from continuing . When the possessed girl blurted out a fusillade of blasphemies, he shrieked in distress. To take a breather, he pleaded with us to temporarily pause the movie. We ignored the appeal to his chagrin and resumed with the scarefest.

I loved the movie for its bizarre plot and drama but found the horror element unsatisfactory. The film neither disturbed me nor engaged me on a spiritual realm. I believed that the best of horror connected us to our inner self. My gold standard in horror was the Stephen King novel Pet Sematary. The novel concerned with the loss of pets, the death of loved ones and the trauma of loved ones turning into sinister and depraved beings.  The novel was so bleak that after reading it, I remained stuck in a virtual haze, with the world loomed up around me. The evil stayed close.  In ‘The Exorcist’, however, the evil manifested itself as an other-worldly phenomenon. A thing that transcended our temporal existence.

But, how could the same film evoke a flustered reaction in Mathew, but barely manage to trouble me? I surmised that the divergent responses were due to  the difference in cultural environs. For a devout Catholic like Mathew, the Devil is the epicenter of all the evil and the cause of all human degeneracy. For him, the Devil who possessed the girl in the film is as tangible as the air he respired. But not for me.

I come from a Hindu milieu where evil does not originate, it lives- behind the fragrant flowering shrubs, inside the dark corners of the grove, just below the surface of the pond. The evil is a slice of nature and is not induced by a specific supernatural entity like the Devil. Unnatural death- death by murder, suicide or drowning- is a common source of evil. At times, the evil takes the form of emotions and unfulfilled desires of spirits that stay back to torment the living. It can also be a curse or a rage invoked by a sorcerer or a wizard.  Like the good, the evil is immanent to human existence.

I observed that the Japanese idea of evil is similar to the Indian one.  The Japanese have a very old tradition of horror fiction. In Japanese art, the evil is often bound to a place or a thing- such as a well or a lock of hair. Joru Gomu is a Japanese monster who seduces men and later devours them for dinner. In some versions, at night the seductress lies in wait for her prey along isolated jungle pathways frequented by long distance travelers. She holds a baby close to her bosom. When the victim approaches, the monster implores him to help her hold the baby. When he receives the baby, he discovers that the infant is made of a teeming colony of spiderlings. That is when the monster reveals herself.

The myth of Joru Gomu reminds me of the Indian vampiress known as the Yakshi. She attracts wayfarers by requesting them to give her a lump of slaked lime to spice up her paan- a South Asian stimulant. But the smart traveler would smear the lime on the blade of his pocketknife and offer it to her. The vampiress would be repelled by the action since their tribe is allergic to metal. The Yakshi would trap the naive traveler though, and siphon off his entire blood stock.

Many of the Western monsters like the vampires, witches and werewolves do not comply with the Catholic concept of evil. I presume that these myths are the remnants of the pagan past of Western European civilization. Like divinities, evil is culture specific. Over the differences in evil, however, humans don’t go to war. That’s the good thing about evil.

 

 

 

In Cold Blood : A Kansan Tale of Murder and Meaning.

Ever since I had watched the movie Capote a few years ago, I wanted to read the book In Cold Blood. The movie focused on the author Truman Capote’s experience of writing the book, his friendship with Harper Lee and his associations with the men who would later appear as characters in the ‘nonfiction’ novel. More interested in the life of the author, the movie glossed over the heart of the book- the gruesome killing of the Clutter family in the early hours of the 15th of November, 1959 and its aftermath.During the late sixties and seventies, In Cold Blood made Truman Capote a household name in the United States. Until his death eighteen years after the book was released, Capote could not come out with another novel. Undoubtedly his most successful work, the book was predicated on the mass murder of a family of four at a Kansan farm.

The victim, Herb Cuttler, personifies the American Dream of the prosperous fifties and sixties, an era that ignites the nostalgia of White America. The college educated Cuttler found success by espousing the Protestant ethics of hard work, integrity and discipline. A devout Christian who abstains from the consumption of any form of stimulants including the mild coffee, he owns an elegant house, heads a loving family and has a bright future ahead of him. With his wife Bonnie and two unmarried children, Cuttler occupies a two-story house in the middle of the family farm. On the fateful night, Perry Edward Smith and Richard Dick Hickock breaks into the house and pumps shotgun shells into all its residents, butchering the whole family. Through the whole of Midwest, the massacre was prime time news. For the next few weeks, the town of Holcomb was flooded with law enforcement officials, television and print journalists, and probing visitors.

The escapades of  Perry and Dick while on the lam give the reader a feeling of liberation. Awash in a smug invulnerability, they drive on empty highways that pass through grassy plains, rocky deserts and sleepy towns. The runaways cross over the international border into Mexico. Off the beach resort town of Acapulco, they go fishing deep into the Pacific. Perry sings the songs he had written and plays his guitar. Dick partys full throttle and beds lascivious women. Meanwhile, drunk with overconfidence, the pair takes one witless decision after another. They revel in their sins until luck and money runs out. The remaining pages of the book deal with the police investigation, arrest of the suspects and trial.

Capote scrutinized the family backgrounds, character traits and philosophies of the perpetrators. Perry comes from a broken family ; his father is a drifter and his mother was an alcoholic. Though he considers himself to be intellectual and artistic, he has delusional ideas about the world. He nurtures dreams of becoming a celebrity singer and fantasizes about  lost pirate treasures. Wherever he goes, along with his guitar, Perry stuffs charts of maps into his luggage . He assiduously pores over the sheets to identify the possible locations of the shipwrecks that might harbor the riches. Conversely, Dick comes from a functional but poor family. A very pragmatic man, Dick is a qualified mechanic. At school, he used to  be a fine athlete. He claims that he could have gone to college on a basketball scholarship. But he decided against it since he thought that taking up a job was a more practical thing to do. Inadvertently, the author delineated the differences between the value systems of the victims and that of their tormentors. The probity and piety of the Cuttlers against the unruliness and disbelief of Perry and Dick.

To divulge the core of the  story, Capote skillfully employed the traditional screenwriting technique -he utilized brevity to escalate tension. Before the assailants barge into the Clutters’ home, they stop at a nearby gas station.  Perry locks himself inside the lavatory for an unusually long time. Outside, Dick grows tired and worried. In the scene, the author created the urgency of a thriller motion picture.

The door to the men’s room was still bolted. He banged on it;                                                 “For Christsake, Perry!”
“In a minute.”
“What’s the matter? You sick?”
Perry gripped the edge of the washbasin and hauled himself to a standing position. His legs trembled; the pain in his knees made him perspire. He wiped his face with a
paper towel. He unlocked the door and said, “O.K. Let’s go.”

Towards the end, Capote made generous use of the epistolary style- reproduction of letters and diary entries for narration- to dig deep into the perpetrators’ character. But, the style slackened the pace of the story. Approaching the denouement, Capote dumped a vast amount of redundant information about Perry. When he collected the material for writing the book, Capote had grown very close to Perry. Close to the conclusion, I believe that the author’s particular interest in Perry damaged the quality of narration.

Though a crime novel in essence, In Cold Blood is a story of meaning- the philosophical meaning of life. The reader will be flabbergasted to discover the suspects’ bizarre motivation behind committing such a ghastly act. More baffling is the meager payoff the murderers gained from the atrocity. For a long time, the irony, meaninglessness and savagery of the crime will stay with the reader. I recommend this book for the gripping pleasure it provides the reader. At the end of it, most readers will behold the absurdity of the whole tale.

 

The Agricultural Rationale Behind World War II

A classic is sometimes defined as a work whose primary perusal is a rereading. You are aware of Shakespeare’s Hamlet before you read the text. Karna and Joshua are ensconced in your mind prior to your study of the Mahabharata and the Bible. I would dub the Mein Kampf an anti classic. All readers are knowledgeable about the infamous work before they take the plunge.

The book is part Adolf Hitler autobiography and part manifesto. The text forms the ideological bedrock of Nazism. The publication of the book is prohibited in many countries since its content is anti-Semitic and homophobic in nature. I would only advise mature readers to scrutinize the text. The book is full of lies, half-truths, pseudo science and gross generalizations. In the book, Hitler talks at length about proper reading techniques. He states that reading should be a means to an end and not an end in itself. He opines that a man should read to develop his practical abilities and not to amass a ‘useless’ wealth of knowledge. He shows his distaste for the intellectual who is unable to ‘organize’ the knowledge gained and put it into worldly use. Therefore, I was not surprised that the author lacked insight, and he displayed poor critical thinking skills. He proved an inadequate writer too. I describe the manifesto as an anti-classic because as opposed to a classic, Mein Kampf is a shoddy piece of work. Nevertheless, the Nazi manifesto remains as relevant to the twentieth century history as the Rosetta Stone to the ancient Egyptian history.

The ideas in the Mein Kampf are predicated upon two outdated theories that were considered mainstream in the late nineteenth century- Malthusian Theory of Population and the Theory of Scientific Racism. Hitler does not state the application of the theories in the text but the influence of these ideas is perceptible in his arguments. The Malthusian Theory states that population growth follows geometric progression and agricultural production follows arithmetic progression. Therefore, population will outstrip agricultural production and in the future, the world will plunge into famine and chaos. The Theory of Scientific Racism propounds that mankind is divided into different species called races. Further, the races are in competition with each other for scarce resources; as a result of the ensuing competition, the successful superior race will dominate the other races.

Why did Hitler invade Europe? The common perception is that Hitler marched into Eastern Europe because he was a homophobic warmonger, an overambitious conqueror and a hyper nationalist hell bent on avenging the defeat Germany had suffered at the hands of Britain and France in World War I. There might be kernels of historical truths behind these reasons. In Mein Kampf, Hitler clearly states his intentions behind German expansionism. Hitler feared that population growth and increase in living standards will eclipse food production and expose the German people to food shortages and famines. In the book, to counter the insecure national future prospect, Hitler suggests four remedies. He rejects the first three and approves the fourth one.

Firstly, the author puts forward population control. He rejects population control under the false assumption that the offspring produced by ‘artificial’ birth control will be inferior in make-up. He believed that only nature had the faculty to select the fittest individuals and any interference by man in this process would result in the generation of a ‘feeble’ population. The second remedy he suggests is to increase soil productivity. He rejects this method too under the absurd belief that the quality of the soil cannot be improved beyond a certain point.

Hitler explores the third option in detail- national economic development through trade and overseas colony acquisition. Hitler believes that this strategy is flawed as it gives more importance to the economy than to the state. According to him, the state is of paramount importance and the economy of the state comes second. He accuses the European Jewry of popularizing the notion that the state can be strengthened by strengthening the economy. In Mein Kampf, he states that the acquisition of overseas colonies is an expensive proposition. Germany has to go to war with Britain to acquire new colonies. Even if new overseas colonies can be attained, it is expensive in terms of money and time to develop these colonies to make it suitable for European settlers. According to the author, small European nations acquiring large foreign colonies are akin to pyramids standing on apexes. After scrupulous consideration, the author rejects the option.

Hitler presents the fourth option as the most effective solution. Expansion of German land area by colonizing East Europe. He points to history to buttress his theory. He says that the forefathers of Germany had expanded by conquering neighboring kingdoms. Hitler argues that a constant state of war brings out the best in people. An era of enduring peace makes the population indolent, weakening their will. He also states that a country of large land area is difficult to conquer. Further to it, the neighboring European countries are more suitable for settlement compared to faraway Asian and African lands. He maintains that more land area will create a bigger class of rural farmers. According to Hitler, farmers are more nationalistic than the cosmopolitan city dwellers.

Hitler wanted to create a Greater Germany that would have been as large as the United States. Hitler believed that the huge agricultural plains under American control were the source of its wealth. The United States was more stable when compared to the tiny European countries that had vast overseas colonies. In the Mein Kampf, Hitler planned to weld the wheat growing regions of Ukraine and Russia to Germany to create a boundless German empire.

Shanthamma

The scent came first and an instant later, came the whisper. That is how Vasantha remembered it. After lunch, Omanakuttan had made love to her. Vasantha, fair and curvy, sat under the tamarind tree. Her neck and chin were wet with sweat and some of it was his. From the coriander seeds scattered on the winnowing basket that rested on her lap, she shook chaffs off and picked pebbles out. The slant beams of the afternoon sun sifted through the leafage and made ringed patterns on the ground. The scent that came with the breeze was initially sweet, and it reminded her of oranges. But when the pungency hit her, she knew she was wrong- it was not that of an orange. She struggled to identify the smell.  A few days back, she had  got a whiff of the same scent. Then, Vasantha ignored it.At the meadow below the dirt slope, the heifer grazed. On the hibiscus shrub that leaned on the stonewalled well, a coucal clambered. Up the tree trunk that stood behind her, a chubby squirrel hurried.

A moment elapsed. The whisper came from behind her, and with ease, it drifted into her ears. A tingle rushed through her nape and she turned to stone.

Everything around came to a stop; the cow, the bird, and the rodent. Like the illustrations in a picture book, everything froze. But the earth eased into a spin. Anticlockwise. From three to twelve to nine.

“Vasantha…….”,  said the voice that was more calm than hoarse. Then it said something about the craft of winnowing coriander seeds. As though  played out from a chewed up cassette tape, the voice turned wonky. Vasantha was transfixed and blood stopped flowing to her brain. A muddle formed in her head.

In the evening, Vasantha learned that on a windy night six months back, Omanakuttan’s former wife had hanged herself to death from the same tree. The whole village had gone to attend the annual fair where giant bull effigies were wheeled around the shrine of Lord Mahadeva of Chirrakara,  Shanthamma tied the noose around her neck and flicked the stool off from under her feet.

Challenging the Necessary State of Violence

The Collier’s Encyclopedia was my first window to the real world. I realized that the world described by parents and elders was fraught with inaccuracies. The volumes were encased in a black hardbound cover etched with a vertical gold line. The high quality American paper smelled of fresh ink. I perused an entry on the trial of Sacco and Vanzetti to encounter an obscure political concept- Anarchism. In 1920, at Braintree, Massachusetts, these Italian born American anarchists were accused of armed robbery and murder of two payroll clerks of the Slater and Morrill Shoe Company.

Anarchism is a political idea that stands for the abolition of all forms of government; a weird idea. The word anarchy comes from a Greek word that can be translated as ‘without a leader’ or ‘without a ruler’. Anarchism brings to our mind a picture of unruliness, chaos and strife.  Studied by thinkers of the stature of Bertrand Russell and Noam Chomsky, modern anarchism is serious social philosophy. Today in Kerala, there is simmering discontent on the way the primary arm of the state, i.e., the police force functions. Are we ready to demand a political system that has rules without enforces? Anarchism is an idea that is missing from the aisles of the Indian political supermarket. Will an exploration of anarchist principles bring about a revolutionary change in the way we are governed in Kerala and India?

During its hunter gatherer phase, the human society was anarchist in nature; though not in a modern sense. The early men didn’t live under organized governments and violence was an everyday occurrence. Some thinkers argue that the purpose of civilization itself was to minimize violence. By convention, civilization requires an organized form of authority. We call it the state. This sovereign institution claims the monopoly on violence in the sphere of its control. Therefore, the state is a mechanism that uses violence to discourage violence. In her illuminating work ‘Fields of Blood’, the world renowned expert on comparative religion Karen Armstrong discusses how the Indian emperor Asoka struggled with the conundrum of the necessity of an armed state to promulgate his nonviolent Buddhist Dharma. In ancient China, Taoism had anarchist leanings. Tao is the way in which the universe is organized. The Tao is like water- fragile and powerful at the same time. Human life should be lived as though it is a flowing stream, devoid of any exertion. A sixth century Zoroastrian heretic named Mazdak proscribed private property and marriage. His followers lived in collectivistic communities where children did not know who their fathers were. Apart from these Asian spiritual teachings, many unorthodox Greek and Christian beliefs displayed anarchist tendencies. Until the late seventeenth century, majority of the world’s population resided in areas outside the control of organized states. Though anarchist thoughts have resonated in the ideas of spiritual masters of the ancient and medieval worlds, modern anarchist philosophy is the product of European Enlightenment.

The objective of anarchism is to create a ‘free society’ bereft of any ‘external control or form of government’. Anarchism has two broad streams of thought- Collectivistic (Leftist social anarchists) and Libertarian (Rightist individualists). The collectivistic anarchists champion a society based on mutual aid, co-operation and collective living. They hope to combine these tribal values with modern individualism and the power of the will. The libertarians stand for individual freedom, free enterprise and freedom of thought. The social anarchists fear that too much individualism might lead to destructive competition, and the libertarians fear that too much collectivism will lead to the tyranny of the group. Though the two streams have philosophical differences, they share many common grounds and work together against the established order.

The first great anarchist thinker, Joseph Proudhon came up with slogans like ‘Anarchy is Order’ and ‘Property is Theft’. The German thinker Max Stirner rejected both the government and the society. An extreme individualist, he proposed a ‘Union of Egoists’.  Russian intellectuals like Michael Bakunin and Peter Kropotkin were influential anarchist thinkers of the collectivistic stream. On the basis of scientific principles, they fine tuned anarchist philosophy. Once dubbed as the ‘most dangerous woman in the world’, the fiery American activist Emma Goldman gave a feminist interpretation to anarchist thoughts. Leo Tolstoy stood for pacifist anarchism based on the teachings of Christ. Mahatma Gandhi dreamed of a world composed of self sufficient village republics. A spiritual anarchist, he believed that the state is the source of all violence.

In the thirties, during the Spanish civil war, the most successful anarchist experiment was carried out. The Spanish country side was run by thousands of independent peasant collectives, and the industrial towns were managed by sovereign workers cooperatives. But the intervention of European fascists and Soviet communists dismantled the fledging anarchist movement. In the Russian revolution, anarchists formed independent communes in many parts of Ukraine until the Red Army under Leon Trotsky crushed them.

Is an anarchist movement feasible in a country like India where apart from the state, political parties, religious and caste groups and even feudal families maintain private armies? As an ideology, anarchism is against any form of coercive authority. How can a feudal society controlled by powerful religious and caste leaders visualize a political system that is essentially self managed? The poor in India sees the state as a bulwark against the power of extra constitutional forces. The Indian state is so weak that its writ is limited to the urban and semi-urban areas. A potent anarchist movement might destroy the already frail state structure, further pushing the poor into the merciless hands of feudal and religious authority. Without state support, what chance does the individual stand against organized might of political and feudal satraps?

The fundamental misgiving about anarchism is its attitude towards crime. Citing a lack of inmates, prisons in liberal Sweden and the Netherlands are being shut down. In many Scandinavian countries, prisons are true rehabilitation centers where inmates develop personal, business and artistic skills. The downside is that all these innovations are funded by very high taxes. High taxation is anathema to libertarian anarchists. Influx of refugees from Asia and Africa also upsets the delicate balance of these societies. For the most part of this century, Somalia was without a formal government. Researchers found that in Mogadishu, industries like beverages, airlines, utility, and banking thrived in the absence of government. Libertarians like Milton Friedman had always backed the idea. In fact, in Somalia the payment for electricity was so flexible that you only need to pay for the hours you had availed the service for.

Sacco and Vanzetti were put to death on an electrical chair in 1927, after a trial of seven years. On their behalf, massive protests were organized in every major North American and European cities; even as far as Tokyo and Johannesburg. At a time when there were no Facebook or WhatsApp.  On the fiftieth anniversary of the executions in 1977, then Massachusetts Governor Michael Dukakis proclaimed that the anarchists were unfairly tried and convicted, and ‘any disgrace should be forever removed from their names’.

Anarchism is dismissed by its opponents as infantile and ridiculous. Nevertheless, a dose of anarchism can act like a hot spring to the stagnating pool of Indian political ideas. The anarchist sensibility is embedded in the nature of man, and will remain a volcano of freedom and creativity. As the popular anarchist slogan goes- Be Realistic: Demand the Impossible.

Alive in the Depths- Shanku III

The slatted risers of the stairs threw barred shadow lines on Shanku. He looked at the nervous interaction between Kunjachan and the security guard. Shanku doubted Kunjachan’s confidence. He had claimed that neither guards nor cameras surveilled the building. Then, where did this guard come from? Kunjachan’s big talk now sounded plain trash.

Ayyappan propped up his bicycle on the kickstand and advanced towards Kunjachan, “You are Kunjachan, the guy who operated that toilet up the road, right? Pappi and I were thickest of chums.”

“Oh yeah Pappi. So you have been working here for a long time?”

“I am here with Josekutty for two years now. I used to be a regular customer at the toilet. Pappi permitted me at night to use the toilet to have a few shots”, Ayyappan winked, ” I used to gulp down brandy, squatting on the same toilet pan into which I shitted in the morning”, he said and  guffawed with partially shut eyes.

Kunjachan studied the diminutive man who shambled before him. Dark saggy circles hung under his bloodshot eyes.

“How is the security job”

“Tough job. And the pay is not anyway near enough.They have many properties here. I just have to ply around, kinda night patrolling. I don’t have to stick to a particular property.”

The bit of information was  great relief to Kunjachan. He now knew why he failed to notice the guard during his reconnaissances.

Shanku detested the building, and its gloom dragged him into a clammy pit of blind dejection. He struggled to find the source of his apprehension – the building or the pale face. The diseased grimace of the shape that lurked behind the leaves remained stuck in his mind. The clarity of the vision refused to fade out. Did the face portend dark days? A hellfire or a rapacious earthquake; some unfathomable catastrophe.

Ayyappan took the keys from Kunjachan, sat on his haunches near the padlock that secured the roller shutters, jerked the key into the lock, and twisted the key. The padlock clicked open. With a clank,  Kunjachan hauled the shutters overhead and revealed a hall daubed with scabby green paint. It stank of oppressive dampness. All the three men stepped into the wide room crammed with heaps of broken furniture, stacks of stained glass panes and sheaves of yellowy newspapers. A cave riddled termite hill infested with colonies of squirmy pale insects nestled at one corner. Behind the main hall, lay a kitchen lined with a continuous ceramic tiled counter buttressed by intermittent concrete columns. The bathroom that adjoined the kitchen had rusty faucets, cracked tile flooring, and was flanked by walls smeared with slimy black mold. Close to the warped door that opened into the backyard, a charcoal fired baking oven perched at the far end of the kitchen. Viscous soot covered the cavernous mouth of the brick lined oven.

“Two years back, a guy from Kottayam ran a bakery out of this place and died here.”

Shanku recoiled at the word, “Died?”

“Right here. His belly ballooned like it was pumped up with gas. The poor guy thought it was acidity, but tough luck, it was tumor. Stomach full of mushrooming tumor. He  dropped dead, puking blood on his vanilla Christmas cake. Vanilla sponge turned red velvet. And a nice cherry stuck under his nose”, Ayyappan doubled over and let out a shrieky laughter.

Muscles on Shanku’s back and arms twitched. He ground his teeth, and itched to grab the disgusting guard, ram him against the wall and smash his crooked jaws. Outside, as employees and customers arrived at the pawnshop, motor vehicles whirred and the staircase rattled.

Ayyappan said, ” I too have my own stomach issues. The herbalist says a mixture of country arrack, turmeric and dried ginger can cure it for good. Those prohibitionists  bastards shut all arrack outlets nearby. ” The guard kicked open the door that led to the backyard and white sunlight poured in. “What will a poor old guy like me do.  I can always take the help of friends like you to fetch some. Don’t think it’s proper though. Maybe like the baker, I will die of the damned stomach ache.”

Kunjachan smirked, trudged towards the guard and whispered. ” You are a lush son-of-a-bitch”

“And you sired the bitch, granddad”, said Ayyappan.

Kunjachan and the guard clung to each other and burst into uncontrolled peals of laughter.

Kunjachan said. “I will drown you and your bloody herbalist in arrack”

“Then better make it tonight. Can’t wait to die”. More booms of hysterics ensued. Kunjachan and Ayyappan sounded like long lost brothers. Through the glare in the backyard, Shanku looked at the wild jack tree. The hole on the trunk resembled a maw ready to devour.

The partners purchased supplies for their new accommodation. They bought mattresses, rice, flour, a tool kit of drills and wrenches, and soaps and detergents. Since they had one more week to go for the festival, they put off the procurement of the heavy equipment required for the main job.  Kunjachan said to Shanku, “I will handle that guard drunkard. Doesn’t seem to be a problem. Everything is in control. Good going”. The usual chest thumping, thought Shanku.

For the small party they had promised Ayyappan, they got two bottles of Hercules brand rum, a case of soda, fried veal and biriyani. Kunjachan’s plan was to gather information by getting Ayyappan to talk. At night, Shanku, Kunjachan and the guard congregated around the liquor bottle. Shutters were drawn. Over sheets of newspapers spread on the floor, under the dim lit kitchen lights, they sat cross legged. Through the faint shadows  cast by the lights, Shanku looked at the fissured ceiling. The humid weather compressed the air around them and forced streams of moisture to break out of their bodies. They smelled each other’s sweat.

Kunjachan took swigs from the rum bottle in quick succession. Into his stomach, undiluted liquor burned its way down. Ayyappan seemed even more enthusiastic. Like a dry sponge, he guzzled the rum.

He said, “Josekutty is a maggot who feeds on Lijo. ”

“Then why does he keep him”, said Kunjachan, slumped against the base of the oven.

“Oh. Lijo gets to f*** the bugger’s busty wife when he lands on vacation. Good deal.”

After they drained the bottle of rum, Kunjachan brought out a few homemade marijuana cigarettes. Outside, the wind screamed through the air and flung the backdoor open. The cold draft of wind gave them a slight relief from the weariness of the humidity. The smell of impending downpour dillydallied. The men savored the intoxicant and walloped in the sedative scent of the drug. They milled around the backyard; enjoyed the strange cold. Kunjachan took a few drags out of his cigarettes and settled under the hole of the wild jack. Shanku sat at the base of the metal staircase, and watched Kunjachan mired in the fog belched by the tree hole. Behind the branches of the wild jack, the moon struggled against the enclosing clouds. The drug flustered Shanku’s digestive track, and he threw up whatever he had consumed. The bitter taste of bile rinsed his mouth. While the wind hollered around him, Shanku spiraled into a confused sleep.

He opened his eyes : the pale womanish face grinned at him from the hollow of the wild jack tree.

Shanku woke up to the early morning chirps and stink of droppings. The taste of bile still remained stuck under his tongue. He reeked of vomit.  Kunjachan brushed his teeth with activated charcoal and rivulets of black spittoon streamed from the corners of his mouth. He washed himself, and sat on the third runner of the stairs, beside Shanku. By then, Ayyappan had left. Shanku’s head ached like it was about to splinter.

“We went slightly overboard last night. Dunno how my palate got scarred, it was bleeding when I woke up.” said Kunjachan

Shanku looked past Kunjachan at the hollow of the tree. The shape of the hollow had altered – appeared no longer oval but round. Did he imagine things? Or did he lose it altogether? The hollow might have been round in the first place. What now? The building might burgeon into a skyscraper and the flight of stairs might crawl up with it. Jack and the bloody beanstalk. Yes, things worked out this way in this cesspool . Shanku wanted to tell his partner about last night’s weed induced dream. What had transpired in his head or in the haze of the night. But he didn’t want to sound stupid prattling on about a bogeyman that hid behind leaves and inside tree holes. Or bogeywoman.

Before people frequented the pawnshop,the duo cleared up the backyard. For the last few days, with the intention to study its routine, Kunjachan kept an eye on the pawnshop. The number of customers that visited the shop, the number of employees and their activities. The backyard was spread with gravel- grayish white grits. Trees, shrubs and occasional clumps of thistles lined the edges of the property.

Shanku and Kunjachan set out to arrange the equipment they required for the operation. Marydasan, another cousin of Kunjachan had arranged everything with different people, all shady characters. In the midst of their cross country rides, Kunjachan said, “I have Ayyappan in my firm grips. No trouble from his end”. In silence, Shanku listened. What firm grips? Brother Kunjachan failed to find about the guard in advance. And now he talked about firm grips to keep his guilt under control.

On the way back, from a roadside eatery, they bought fried chicken sauted in onions, parathas and a packet of paan. Ayyappan waited on the stairs and dozed off. Dusk fell when the partners returned. Humidity gripped the atmosphere and the vapor laden air flopped on the men’s bodies. Ayyappan was disappointed to know that the duo didn’t buy booze. They pulled the shutters close and settled down to have dinner in the main hall. The floor they sat on was paved with grainy cement tiles. From the nearby highway, the desultory rumble of trucks blared.

With gusto, Ayyappan launched into the friend chicken, and cracked open the slender bones. The spicy flavor watered his eyes, and to assuage the hotness, he blew into his tongue. While he ate, he forced mucus out of his nostrils and flicked the nasal fluid off his fingers into the floor. Kunjachan sat against the wall on the far side and picked his teeth. Shanku applied pickling lime on the betel leaf in quick vertical strokes. He scattered powdered areca nut and chewing tobacco on top of the leaves, wrapped the combination into a roll and inserted it into the corner of his mouth. As he chewed, the paan juice dissolved into his brain; gave him a sweet kick.

Ayyappan looked at Kunjachan and said with a smug smile, “Is your tooth solid gold? The false one.”

Kunjachan scraped at the tooth and said. “Kind of gold. Mostly copper, coated with gold. Why?”

“Good. You wouldn’t have lost much if that guy had plucked it out and ran away with it”

Kunjachan sprang up and rushed at the guard, “What guy. What nonsense you talking about”

In the wake of the revelation, Shanku stirred out of the gentle intoxication of the paan. In his mind, visions of the previous night flickered. The womanish face in the hollow. He remembered Kunjachan lying at the base of the tree trunk. So he didn’t see it in a dream. It was real. As he remembered, the vision emerged out of the haze. When it grinned at him, the pale thing had stooped down over Kunjachan. From the fractured memory, Shanku traced the thing’s blood red lips. The image was so coherent that a cold shiver tickled his nape.

“Last night, some guy shoved his hands into your mouth. You were dead asleep. Like a stone. I thought he was gonna snap your gold teeth and pocket it”, said Ayyappan, and he continued to chew his food.

Around Shanku’s head, a buzz hovered. A slow dizziness attacked him. The thing had shoved its hideous hands into Kunjachan’s throat. That was when he sighted it and it stopped, confused.  Shanku doubted the veracity of the incident. But the repugnant guard had witnessed it.

“You reckless bastard. Why didn’t you wake me up”, Kunjachan towered over the diminutive guard who sat down and indulged in gastronomic delights.

“He understood that I caught him. He then simply disappeared into the darkness”, Ayyappan blew his nose and looked at Shanku. The despicable smile played on the guard’s lips.

“If I made a ruckus, he might have turned violent and slitted your throat. Who knows what these guys carry. Dagger, or a pistol. And Shanku was smiling at that guy. Like he was infatuated or something”

Shanku blew a fuse. He leaped towards the guard, held him down and jabbed him on his throat. In horror, Ayyappan shrieked.  Shanku clambered over him, and punched him on his jaws. Kunchajan interposed himself between the two men, and utilized his powerful leverage to pull his partner away. Ayyappan writhed free from Shanku’s grip, staggered on his feet, and ran into the kitchen.

Trapped within the firm grip of Kunjachan,  Shanku said, “Drunken codger. Kill you reekin f***er. How dare you say that”

Through the backdoor, Ayyappan rushed out the building.

“I don’t understand nothing. Who was that guy. Why is everything is so weird.” said Kunjachan and he kicked the pile of broken furniture heaped in the main hall. A plume of dust rose up into the air.

“Brother. All this is your plan.”

Kunjachan explored the interiors of his mouth. With uneasiness, he stared at the traces of blood that stained his fingers.

“I am calling it quits.”, said Shanku.

Through the open door, a draft of wind that stank of weeds gusted inside. Shanku felt good about the cold air. From beyond the grounds, the faint humming of an eerie tune drifted along with the wind. Shanku looked at the tree through the open door. Yet again, the hollow changed its shape to an inverted triangle.

*EXCERPTS FROM AN INCOMPLETE NOVEL

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

Alive in the Depths- Shanku II

The last time Shanku had trespassed upon the isolated riverbank under the cover of  darkness, he dumped a tanker truck full of raw sewage into the unblemished waters. Tonight, in the faint moonlight, the narrow river that ran deep looked forlorn. The smell of dewy grass and rotten reed lingered in the air. With his back turned towards the river, Kunjachan sat cross legged on the uneven floor. Under the fluorescent light of his mobile phone, he drew his plans on the ground with a broken twig and took frequent swigs of diluted rum.

“The pawnshop is on the first floor and the ground floor is vacant. We are going to hire the whole ground floor under the guise of opening a café. No security guards or CCTV there. I have done my survey. You got it? For Navarathri, the pawnshop will remain close for three consecutive days.”

Kunjachan’s bony frame sat slouched, and his limbs were long and firm. Grayish green veins twisted and branched off all around his steely forearms. The freckled skin on his forehead held tight below the thinning hairline.

He continued, “The night before the first holiday, we cut a man-size hole through the roof, right at the center of the strong room floor above. Crack open the big safe and take out the gold and run. When shop opens after three days, we are safe across state lines in Telangana. As smooth as a baby’s bottom.”

Shanku reclined on the grassy mat, leaning back on his arms, and he thrust his wide chest forward and looked past his partner to the river. Blades of herbs pricked him on the hamstrings.

“Something is not right Brother. Everything seems too easy.”

“It seems f***ing easy because I planned it that way. I have talked to Josekutty, the caretaker of the building about the lease. He is okay with it. Marydasan will arrange everything in Telangana, should give him a small cut though. All the equipment and money we need, its ready.”

Across the river, slender tree trunks popped up in the midst of a swarm of wild taro leaves. Dark boughs brushed against the thick blue of the night sky. The low whistling wind that fleeted through the air bent the taro leaves sideways in unison. A pale womanish face revealed from behind the taro stalks.

“What was that?”, Shanku jumped on his feet, knocked down the bottle of rum and charged towards the river. The flesh of his body crawled, and the hair on his back stood erect like spines. A rush of sweat squirted out of his armpits. Kunjachan , startled, sprang up and scanned the darkness around him and in a instant, turned sober. Shanku shuffled about the sandy bank, peered across the river, swaying his head from side to side. The disembodied head vanished without a trace. The face was puffed up and implanted with round opaque eyes that flashed around, and it had square jaws and a gray fiendish grin. Thick shiny hair that flowed down from both sides of the head gave it a feminine aura. Feminine but dead pale.

Kunjachan trudged towards his partner and shook him by his shoulders, Shanku was still baffled by the oddity.

“There was somebody over there spying on us. Hiding behind the leaves.”

“Some idiot taking a dump at night”

“No Brother. It didn’t look human”

“What. An animal spying on us? What you talking about.”

“No animal. It was woman like. But yellowish”

“Shanku. I know you are worried. Even I am worried under all this stress. People see things in these situations. It’s all normal. Happens to everybody”

Shanku, soaked in sweat, trembled like a cold jelly, and he surveyed the vegetation on the other side of the river. Was that some kind of omen. A signature from the heavens. Old timers used to say that gods showed you these scary things to caution you when you strayed too far.

The gurgling sound of flowing water, the smell of the muddy river and the stink of decayed plant material immanent to marshlands floated around. Everything prevailed as it should.

Kunjachan continued, “Things are going to get positive. That is the only assurance I can give you because I know it. Now, let’s get out of here. Cheer up. We are gonna start tomorrow. Okay”

“Brother. I can’t do this. Everything is so muddled up. It’s going wrong”, said Shanku.

Kunjachan hugged his partner, squeezed him and consoled, “Wrong is the past. The future is right.”

They picked up the glasses and the half full rum bottle and ambled along the riverbank, towards the motorcycle. They hopped on the bike and Kunjachan  kickstarted  the motor. When he released the clutch and jerked the vehicle forward, Shanku swung his head back to take a final look at the taro leaves. Apart from the leaves, there was nothing.

The two storey building shone in the new paint, but signs of wear and tear were visible underneath. The structure was situated a hundred meters from the state highway, in a secluded spot. When they had operated the public toilet up the highway, Shanku had been to the place a few times. But then  Kunjachan’s cousin Pappi managed the concern on a day to day basis, and he screwed it up big time. The owner of the building resided in Canada, and his cousin Josekutty managed it his behalf. Josekutty was a small man, wore a silky shirt and glittering white dhothi. His oily hair glistened under the sun and mustache was neatly trimmed. He negotiated with Kunjachan as Shanku wandered around the building and observed the surroundings. The frontage of the ground floor  was secured with a wide roller shutter. At the back there was a wooden door, warped due to the exposure to the sun’s radiation. A steel staircase, worn smooth by clambering customers, snaked up along the side  of the building to the grilled doors of the pawnshop on the first floor.

“He has seven brothers. Why Lijo chose me to manage all his properties? Specifically me?  He trusts me. A cousin should trust a cousin.”

Kunjachan said, “And a Malankara Nasrani should trust another Malankara Nasrani”, he smiled ear to ear at the manager.

“Exactly. That is what I wanted to hear from you. But a Malankara Nasrani knows where his money is. So make sure you pay on time every month.”, Josekutty handed the bunch of keys dangling on a tarnished chain to Kunjachan

“One hundred percent. Regular as the rising sun”.  Kunjachan received the keys and crossed himself. “Go to do some interior design works in here. Me and my partner will  stay here all day and night until the opening.”

“Fine with me as long as you don’t drill too much into the walls”

Behind the building, a few meters into the backyard, there stood a massive jungle jack tree of enormous girth, so wide that four grown men had to hold hands to reach all the way around. The trunk caved in at the height of a man’s chest to form an elliptical hollow.

When Josekutty was about to get into his shiny new Maruti Suzukhi, a bald man who wore khaki shirt and slacks, came in riding a rickety bicycle, and dismounted in front of the building. . An uneasy Kunjachan deduced from the attire that the man was a security guard. The man clasped his hands over his belly and bowed to Josekutty, who nodded in acknowledgement.

“This is Ayyappan. He is the security guard and you can take his help if you need anything.”,

“That is so helpful…Thanks… I never knew… we would be provided with such useful services.”,  said a stunned Kunjachan when Josekutty  hurried into the car and drove away without paying heed to his words of gratitude. He looked at Ayyappan who leaned on the rusty bicycle with a stupid smile on his round face.

On the outer wall of the building at the ground floor, behind the staircase that climbed up, there was a triangular vent. Shanku thrust himself into the gap between the stairs and the wall and peeped into the dark interior of the building.

*EXCERPTS FROM THE INCOMPLETE NOVEL