I do not love you except…
…because I love you, she completed the line.
I go from loving to not loving you
From waiting to not waiting for you
My heart moves from cold to fire
Her lips moved silently as she mouthed the words along with the speaker. There was a reading going on at her favourite bookstore by an author of some repute, and he was quoting this poem in some context.
Ten years on, she could still quote Neruda with the same ease as she did at eighteen. Never mind that she hadn’t touched a tome of poetry for more than five years. Back then, it was the elusiveness of the meaning that fascinated her. As did the man’s ability to seemingly wrench out a plethora of emotions from the core of his being. The rhythm, the words, the endless contradictions woven together seamlessly…. She could never get enough of it.
A wry smile touched the corners of her mouth. A few years ago, the elusive meaning had finally presented itself…..only too clearly. The contradictions didn’t puzzle her any more. The wisdom that comes with age, she thought wryly. Only that she hadn’t bargained for that much pain to colour the process of understanding.
She rarely took out that box of sepia memories in her mind. Endless walks, endless conversations, discussing poetry, swapping favourite books, sharing ten minutes over a hurried coffee. She marvelled at how some recollections could still make her smile despite the searing hurt that would inevitably follow. How they stayed up talking the whole night beside a dying bonfire during the batch tour. The knowing smiles on her friends’ faces when she told them of that conversation. You only talked? Giggles had followed.
They would never understand. Never could. That just a smile, the way his hand held hers, the pleasing lilt of his voice…. They were enough to make her feel complete and loved like never before. That she had been accepted as she was, with no expectations. That the two of them had placed a meeting of minds above all else. They were an atypical teenage couple.
But they had split five years later in typical teenage fashion, despite pushing their mid twenties then. Pride, and a refusal to accept that each had wronged the other. A reluctance to apologize, an unwillingness to appear pliant. Accepting it now isn't going to help any.
A mental shoulder shrug.
She moved on to the next bookshelf, another bookworm on a late afternoon tryst with her best friends.
In this part of the story I’m the one who dies
The only one
And I will die of love because I love you
She was willing to bet that the Romance section didn’t have a story like hers. One without a happy ending.
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Purple dusk deepened to inky blackness as he watched from his apartment window. A sense of loneliness, his constant companion these days, hovered around all he did. Life didn't have to be like this, he reminded himself. Retrospection made it very easy to acknowledge his mistakes, and recall that he’d had a chance to remedy their rift.
Had.
He would live the rest of his life knowing that he was the biggest fool on earth to have turned away the one person who saw him exactly as he was. Accepted him that way. And loved him for it.
I can write the saddest poem of all tonight
To think I don’t have her. To feel I have lost her.
To hear the immense night, more immense without her.
And the poem falls to the soul as dew to grass.
Not bad. He could still recall the ‘Saddest Poem’ as Neruda called it. And he could still picture the rapture on her face when she heard it for the first time. From him.
He turned away from the window, a smile on his face. Hurt yet amused. Silently acknowledging that he would carry this burden everywhere. That at the end of it all, he’d have his own epic poem, and nobody to recite it to. That he did not really want to tell it to anybody but her.
Perhaps, he mused, the embers wouldn‘t come to life even if he ran into her again. They had half a decade, a couple of countries, and a distance like several oceans between their minds to contend with.
Perhaps.
I no longer love her, true, but perhaps I love her
Love is short and oblivion so long
The buzz of a suburban evening bored into his consciousness, as he settled into his couch for another routine evening of TV, newspapers and retrospection.
Perfectly worded, as always, he mused. Chances are, Neruda was once a bigger fool than I was
-------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fiction. Show all posts
Friday, March 27, 2009
Tuesday, June 3, 2008
Souls and Raindrops*
7:44 A.M.
The green electronic display flickered, blinked and changed as she watched.
7:45 A.M.
The wind kicked up a chocolate wrapper and a dirty scrap of newspaper into a slow pirouette around her feet. She caught the flyaway end of her dupatta and wrapped it around her handbag, clutching both closer to her body. A gingerly placed step to the left, a little hop to the front, and she was past the puddle of water. Her pace quickened against the wet stone platform worn smooth by decades of rushing feet. Soon, she was just another blur of movement in a teeming, seething mass of commuters, under a sloping, leaky station roof, under a fast-greying sky.
He crouched in a filth-ridden corner of the stairs leading to the second platform. The corrugated sheet of the roof didn’t reach far enough to shelter him completely. A slow trickle of water crept down the side of the stairway into a splash of Coke from somebody’s carelessly thrown plastic cup. The trickle swirled, widened and welled up, till it finally broke free into the grooves between the smooth stone slabs and meandered into a puddle at his feet. It didn’t seem to bother him.
A rusty can with traces of its once blue wrapper sat at his feet. A faint gleam inside it told of some earlier passer-by’s generosity. His gnarled, dirty hands stretched out and away from him in that timeless petition for help, sympathy and most of all, money. Tangled, matted locks of greasy grey hair hung down the sides of his face that bent abjectly over his hands. A dull pair of eyes with yellowed whites and age-clouded irises stared vacantly, resignedly, at the ground in front of him. A blur of feet of all sizes and shapes, covered and bare, clattered around him as the damp wind whipped at his ragged shirt, bringing his shrivelled frame into sharper relief.
She stole a quick glance at her watch. Two minutes left for the next train. She could catch it if she hurried down the stairs to Platform 2 fast enough. She nearly ran past the brown, ragged, smelly isle of stillness on the stairway. Oh, she’d seen him before. No words of supplication from this one. No invoking curses or abusing ancestors if you passed him by. Even if he did, who had the time to listen? A slight raise of his hands, a barely perceptible movement as he leaned forward…this was all the indication one had to realise that a fellow being was seeking charity.
Something made her stop and unzip her bag. Sympathy? Sorrow? Guilt? All three perhaps? She dug deep into the recesses of her purse while being rudely jostled aside and sworn at by other frazzled commuters. Never mind. She dropped a couple of coins into his outstretched palms and raced down the stairs, just as the train pulled onto the platform. A few seconds later she’d pushed, shoved and clawed her way into the heart of a bogey filled with sweaty, ill-tempered women.
A little raindrop left its home and made its way down to earth. Falling down, falling fast. Past other drop-laden clouds, and layers of dust and fumes. Down, further down, past thirty-storeyed buildings, past shabby tenements stacked on a wasteland slope, dodging the outstretched limbs of a thirsty tree. Whipped and tossed around by a steady wind, it finally lay down to rest in a star-shaped spatter atop a train that was slowly pulling out of a suburban station. Soon the raindrop was joined by millions of its brothers who’d decided to follow suit. Together they drummed in time to the rhythm of the train, of the people moving, of the vast metropolis, of life itself.
If she could’ve looked back at the stairs, she would’ve seen him sitting in his corner, a huddled mass of assorted rags. She hadn’t realized that alms, one meal a day and an occasional scrap of sympathy thrown his way were no longer the focus of this man’s existence.
She couldn’t have possibly known that for the past few hours, the man himself had ceased to exist.
*Note: The title has been borrowed from that of a poem by Sidney Lanier.
The green electronic display flickered, blinked and changed as she watched.
7:45 A.M.
The wind kicked up a chocolate wrapper and a dirty scrap of newspaper into a slow pirouette around her feet. She caught the flyaway end of her dupatta and wrapped it around her handbag, clutching both closer to her body. A gingerly placed step to the left, a little hop to the front, and she was past the puddle of water. Her pace quickened against the wet stone platform worn smooth by decades of rushing feet. Soon, she was just another blur of movement in a teeming, seething mass of commuters, under a sloping, leaky station roof, under a fast-greying sky.
He crouched in a filth-ridden corner of the stairs leading to the second platform. The corrugated sheet of the roof didn’t reach far enough to shelter him completely. A slow trickle of water crept down the side of the stairway into a splash of Coke from somebody’s carelessly thrown plastic cup. The trickle swirled, widened and welled up, till it finally broke free into the grooves between the smooth stone slabs and meandered into a puddle at his feet. It didn’t seem to bother him.
A rusty can with traces of its once blue wrapper sat at his feet. A faint gleam inside it told of some earlier passer-by’s generosity. His gnarled, dirty hands stretched out and away from him in that timeless petition for help, sympathy and most of all, money. Tangled, matted locks of greasy grey hair hung down the sides of his face that bent abjectly over his hands. A dull pair of eyes with yellowed whites and age-clouded irises stared vacantly, resignedly, at the ground in front of him. A blur of feet of all sizes and shapes, covered and bare, clattered around him as the damp wind whipped at his ragged shirt, bringing his shrivelled frame into sharper relief.
She stole a quick glance at her watch. Two minutes left for the next train. She could catch it if she hurried down the stairs to Platform 2 fast enough. She nearly ran past the brown, ragged, smelly isle of stillness on the stairway. Oh, she’d seen him before. No words of supplication from this one. No invoking curses or abusing ancestors if you passed him by. Even if he did, who had the time to listen? A slight raise of his hands, a barely perceptible movement as he leaned forward…this was all the indication one had to realise that a fellow being was seeking charity.
Something made her stop and unzip her bag. Sympathy? Sorrow? Guilt? All three perhaps? She dug deep into the recesses of her purse while being rudely jostled aside and sworn at by other frazzled commuters. Never mind. She dropped a couple of coins into his outstretched palms and raced down the stairs, just as the train pulled onto the platform. A few seconds later she’d pushed, shoved and clawed her way into the heart of a bogey filled with sweaty, ill-tempered women.
A little raindrop left its home and made its way down to earth. Falling down, falling fast. Past other drop-laden clouds, and layers of dust and fumes. Down, further down, past thirty-storeyed buildings, past shabby tenements stacked on a wasteland slope, dodging the outstretched limbs of a thirsty tree. Whipped and tossed around by a steady wind, it finally lay down to rest in a star-shaped spatter atop a train that was slowly pulling out of a suburban station. Soon the raindrop was joined by millions of its brothers who’d decided to follow suit. Together they drummed in time to the rhythm of the train, of the people moving, of the vast metropolis, of life itself.
If she could’ve looked back at the stairs, she would’ve seen him sitting in his corner, a huddled mass of assorted rags. She hadn’t realized that alms, one meal a day and an occasional scrap of sympathy thrown his way were no longer the focus of this man’s existence.
She couldn’t have possibly known that for the past few hours, the man himself had ceased to exist.
*Note: The title has been borrowed from that of a poem by Sidney Lanier.
Monday, April 28, 2008
Serendipity
One pack of orange juice. Coffee powder. Carton of milk.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
One box of cereal.
No, not this one. Wonder if they stock those chocolate frosted ones?
She turned to put back the box and check again. That’s when she saw.
Oh my God. Not him.
Not when she’d finally thought she’d moved on with her life. Not after a whole year of coming to terms and getting a grip on herself. On her life. Not after accusing him, herself, her friends, family and the whole damn world itself for her failed relationship.
It doesn’t matter. You know that. He made it clear that he didn’t need you. And you don’t need him to be happy.
Who’re you fooling? If you didn’t care for him any longer, you wouldn’t be fidgeting like a schoolgirl at the sight of him.
He was at the other end of the aisle. She gratefully noted that the aisle was fairly long, AND that he hadn’t seen her yet. Waitaminit, he’s turning this way. Her first instinct was to turn away and duck into the next aisle. But some inexplicable instinct made her think otherwise and kept her rooted to the spot. By the time she’d changed her mind again, it was two seconds too late.
He was coming her way. And he’d spotted her. It was too late for him to turn back or pretend he hadn’t seen her. So there he was, trying to look genuinely surprised and pleased at the sudden meeting.
"Hi. It’s good to see you again."
That rich voice again. That same easy charm. Please. No more of that. His charm was what she’d fallen for two years ago. And it was ridiculously easy to recall the heartache when the spell broke.
"Hi…. Good to see you too." Since common courtesy demands it.
"Quite a surprise y’know, running into you like this."
"Hmmm."
Of course it's a surprise. Folks don’t expect to see their trash again.
Strange. Did she really have that much venom left?
The curt reply seemed to unnerve him somewhat. He tried again.
"So…how’ve you been? Work and all that?"
"Fine. Work’s great."
He paused for a moment. She knew what he was thinking.
Is she single? Has she found someone? Why the hell won’t she talk? Does she know about my...??
"Ahhh....Haven’t been able to keep in touch with folks y’know. Been pretty busy. I got married last month. In fact, I’d sent you an invite, but didn’t see you there..."
The words came out in a rush, like he was trying to get something over with. And ended abruptly, when he finally raised his eyes to meet her steady, level gaze.
She replied softly, almost gently.
"I don’t see how I can receive invitations if they aren’t sent to me in the first place."
His face crumpled as it first registered surprise, then dismay at her reply. Funny. There was once a time when she’d have taken his hurt as her own. Now, she didn’t feel a thing. No, actually she did. Surprisingly, satisfaction was the word that best described the feeling.
"But…I…"
Squirm. Squirm all you want. You made sure I’d hear about it from ‘well-meaning’ people.
Her next statement surprised even her.
"Since you’re dying to know, I AM still single. But life’s been a lot happier than when I was with you. That’s saying something, don’t you think? I’ll get going now. Am pretty busy these days."
She made her way to the counter and got her stuff billed. She could swear he was still standing gape-mouthed where she’d left him.
She’d been lying of course. Busy? She only had a lonely apartment and sitcom shows to go back to. And that part about life being better was a lie too. Unless you counted the last ten minutes, when she’d felt far better than she had in a whole year.
She stepped out of the store. The breeze ruffled her hair, and a tiny raindrop landed squarely on her nose.
I’m free. And I’m in control.
Finally.
A ghost of a smile played across her face as she walked to her car.
Chance meetings weren’t too bad after all.
Tick. Tick. Tick.
One box of cereal.
No, not this one. Wonder if they stock those chocolate frosted ones?
She turned to put back the box and check again. That’s when she saw.
Oh my God. Not him.
Not when she’d finally thought she’d moved on with her life. Not after a whole year of coming to terms and getting a grip on herself. On her life. Not after accusing him, herself, her friends, family and the whole damn world itself for her failed relationship.
It doesn’t matter. You know that. He made it clear that he didn’t need you. And you don’t need him to be happy.
Who’re you fooling? If you didn’t care for him any longer, you wouldn’t be fidgeting like a schoolgirl at the sight of him.
He was at the other end of the aisle. She gratefully noted that the aisle was fairly long, AND that he hadn’t seen her yet. Waitaminit, he’s turning this way. Her first instinct was to turn away and duck into the next aisle. But some inexplicable instinct made her think otherwise and kept her rooted to the spot. By the time she’d changed her mind again, it was two seconds too late.
He was coming her way. And he’d spotted her. It was too late for him to turn back or pretend he hadn’t seen her. So there he was, trying to look genuinely surprised and pleased at the sudden meeting.
"Hi. It’s good to see you again."
That rich voice again. That same easy charm. Please. No more of that. His charm was what she’d fallen for two years ago. And it was ridiculously easy to recall the heartache when the spell broke.
"Hi…. Good to see you too." Since common courtesy demands it.
"Quite a surprise y’know, running into you like this."
"Hmmm."
Of course it's a surprise. Folks don’t expect to see their trash again.
Strange. Did she really have that much venom left?
The curt reply seemed to unnerve him somewhat. He tried again.
"So…how’ve you been? Work and all that?"
"Fine. Work’s great."
He paused for a moment. She knew what he was thinking.
Is she single? Has she found someone? Why the hell won’t she talk? Does she know about my...??
"Ahhh....Haven’t been able to keep in touch with folks y’know. Been pretty busy. I got married last month. In fact, I’d sent you an invite, but didn’t see you there..."
The words came out in a rush, like he was trying to get something over with. And ended abruptly, when he finally raised his eyes to meet her steady, level gaze.
She replied softly, almost gently.
"I don’t see how I can receive invitations if they aren’t sent to me in the first place."
His face crumpled as it first registered surprise, then dismay at her reply. Funny. There was once a time when she’d have taken his hurt as her own. Now, she didn’t feel a thing. No, actually she did. Surprisingly, satisfaction was the word that best described the feeling.
"But…I…"
Squirm. Squirm all you want. You made sure I’d hear about it from ‘well-meaning’ people.
Her next statement surprised even her.
"Since you’re dying to know, I AM still single. But life’s been a lot happier than when I was with you. That’s saying something, don’t you think? I’ll get going now. Am pretty busy these days."
She made her way to the counter and got her stuff billed. She could swear he was still standing gape-mouthed where she’d left him.
She’d been lying of course. Busy? She only had a lonely apartment and sitcom shows to go back to. And that part about life being better was a lie too. Unless you counted the last ten minutes, when she’d felt far better than she had in a whole year.
She stepped out of the store. The breeze ruffled her hair, and a tiny raindrop landed squarely on her nose.
I’m free. And I’m in control.
Finally.
A ghost of a smile played across her face as she walked to her car.
Chance meetings weren’t too bad after all.
Monday, April 21, 2008
Louw..sorry, Love in the time of coconuts
Cast:
Chacko - The hero of this story. Typical hotblooded, virile, daredevil Mallu achayan. Complete with curly mop of hair and Sathyan-style moustache. The type that Mammootty and his ilk modelled their later portrayals of the species on.
Rosakutty - The heroine. Typical doe-eyed, nubile Mallu beauty. Like yourstruly ;-P
Appachen - Rosakutty's father. Otherwise an upright, well-liked and respected member of society, but circumstances compel him to become the villain of this piece.
Ammachy - Rosakutty's mother. A placid, gentle lady who shows a violent side only if her Syrian Beef Fry is not devoured with appropriate relish and gusto. (Btw, the recipe is a family secret. Her vallyappachen decreed it so, after being bribed with three bottles of toddy by the then Health Minister of Kerala, who was also his son. The state's mortality rate fell the very next month.)
Assorted brothers of Rosakutty's, collectively referred to as the achayans.
*Translations and close approximations have been provided in italics alongside. Wherever it is not available, dear reader, thou shalt use thy imagination.
Scene One:
Chacko adjusted his crisp white mundu a tad nervously. The church compound was already empty. Mallu X’ians don’t waste time getting back to their appams and kozhi curries on a Sunday. He took a look at his Timex, a gift from Babu-chayan in Dubai. Just another ten minutes and the kapiyaar would be back to lock the church and the compound gates. Good thing that Chacko had decided to do his confession just before the kurbana. His confessions always left Achen slightly dazed and in need of a reviving tumbler of toddy post-church. Pro’lly counselling too. Which explained why the kapiyaar had vanished. But where was Rosakutty?
And then he saw her, dressed in pristine churchgoer white and demurely walking towards him. What a lovely sight. His Rosakutty. With the coconut trees swaying in the background, beneath an azure blue sky. Chackochan’s heart filled with a thousand exclamations of raw emotion……. Lal Salaam… no..... Inquilab Zindabad…errr, never mind. Firmly suppressing the raw emotion and exclamations, he walked towards her.
Chacko: Nee vannallo. (You've come!)I thought you’d finally given in to your Appachen.
Rosakutty: Illa achaya…..I couldn’t get rid of Sicily and her friends.
Chacko: Appo… paranjathupole….(W.r.t. our discussion of the 18th last...) We elope tonight!
(Another raw exclamation fought it’s way to the surface, but our hero stifled it just in time. You never know. Could also be the stale puttu-kadalacurry from last night)
Rosakutty: Pakshe achaya… enikku pediyaakunnu…(But... I'm scared)
Chacko: Don’t be afraid….njan ille nintekoode (Main hoon na!!Author’s note: Now you know where SRK maaroed that dialogue from!!)
Rosakutty: (Gulp…That’s what my Appachen’s scared of too) Njan varaam (I’ll come)
Chacko: Innu raathri (tonight)…. Sharp 9 p.m. (another look at the Timex). Ten hours from now!
They part ways.
Scene Two:
That night at Rosakutty’s house. 8:55 p.m. by Chackochan’s Timex as he lies in wait outside.
Appachen: Edeeee Rosakutteeeee……. Njaan arinjadi!!!(I've found out!!) You’re planning to run away tonight with that lowlife scoundrel Chacko!!!
(Note: Appachen’s voice here bears striking similarities to a wounded buffalo)
Chacko: (Hiding outside and under his breath) Aiiyyooo…..chathicho Daivame!! (Equivalent of “Dammitttt!!”)
Rosakutty: (Inside with a wide eyed and innocent look) Illa Appacha….. I never met Chacko even once after you forbade me.......
Appachen: (Bellows) KALLAMMMM!!!! (LIIIIESSSSS!!!)I have my sources. Varkey saw you two talking today…. And he found out that Chacko’s hired a taxi for Madras too!!
I’ll show him, the impudent young dog!! Eda Mathaiiii!!! Royyyyy!!! Vargheeeeeese!!! Daniii-YELLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!
(Four younger versions of Appachen come bounding out of different parts of the house. Of course, they’re better known as Baiju, Binju, Benny and Binu. But Mallu fathers insist on doing full justice to Christian names when they’re furious.)
Chacko: #@$%$)((#!!!! (Loosely translated as “Beeeeeeeepppp!”)
Appachen: (Reaches for the hunting rifles on the wall behind him and slings a couple of them to his sons) We won’t come back till one of our bullets find their way into him!! Vaa makkale!!!!
(Stomps out in a rage, followed by the achayans)
Rosakutty : (In tears) Appachaaaa!!! (Daddeeeee!!!)
Ammachy: (In tears) Ente karthaave!! (My Goddddd!!)
Chackochan’s exclamation in the previous line could have given the aforesaid wounded buffalo a run for its money. While playing the faithful lover waiting for Rosakutty, he ignored one of the fundamental rules of ancient Mallu guerrilla warfare:
Sec 27(6)(aa): Thou shalt hide from the enemy if thou hast to but not under a coconut tree. Especially not on a night of balmy breezes under a tree loaded with the stuff. And most certainly not after thou hast downed two pegs thyself.
The warfare code was found inscribed on the walls while excavating the ruins of an ancient kallu-shaap (liquor shop) from circa 300 B.C. The rules seem to have been addressed to an unidentified Mone Dinesha.
Ammachy: Idhiyaanodu njan paranjatha (I-told-him-so)…. We should’ve called Kuttappan to do something about those coconuts last week itself.
Appachen: (From outside) Pidiyada avane!!!! (Catch hiiiiiim!!!!)
The sound of running feet, rustling bushes and a stray gunshot. The yelp that follows the shot, unfortunately for Danielachayan, comes from the neighbour's doberman, Bruno.
Reader: (In a moment of raw emotion) Inquilab Zindabaaaaaaad!!!
Me: Amen. Lal Salaam.
;-D
Chacko - The hero of this story. Typical hotblooded, virile, daredevil Mallu achayan. Complete with curly mop of hair and Sathyan-style moustache. The type that Mammootty and his ilk modelled their later portrayals of the species on.
Rosakutty - The heroine. Typical doe-eyed, nubile Mallu beauty. Like yourstruly ;-P
Appachen - Rosakutty's father. Otherwise an upright, well-liked and respected member of society, but circumstances compel him to become the villain of this piece.
Ammachy - Rosakutty's mother. A placid, gentle lady who shows a violent side only if her Syrian Beef Fry is not devoured with appropriate relish and gusto. (Btw, the recipe is a family secret. Her vallyappachen decreed it so, after being bribed with three bottles of toddy by the then Health Minister of Kerala, who was also his son. The state's mortality rate fell the very next month.)
Assorted brothers of Rosakutty's, collectively referred to as the achayans.
*Translations and close approximations have been provided in italics alongside. Wherever it is not available, dear reader, thou shalt use thy imagination.
Scene One:
Chacko adjusted his crisp white mundu a tad nervously. The church compound was already empty. Mallu X’ians don’t waste time getting back to their appams and kozhi curries on a Sunday. He took a look at his Timex, a gift from Babu-chayan in Dubai. Just another ten minutes and the kapiyaar would be back to lock the church and the compound gates. Good thing that Chacko had decided to do his confession just before the kurbana. His confessions always left Achen slightly dazed and in need of a reviving tumbler of toddy post-church. Pro’lly counselling too. Which explained why the kapiyaar had vanished. But where was Rosakutty?
And then he saw her, dressed in pristine churchgoer white and demurely walking towards him. What a lovely sight. His Rosakutty. With the coconut trees swaying in the background, beneath an azure blue sky. Chackochan’s heart filled with a thousand exclamations of raw emotion……. Lal Salaam… no..... Inquilab Zindabad…errr, never mind. Firmly suppressing the raw emotion and exclamations, he walked towards her.
Chacko: Nee vannallo. (You've come!)I thought you’d finally given in to your Appachen.
Rosakutty: Illa achaya…..I couldn’t get rid of Sicily and her friends.
Chacko: Appo… paranjathupole….(W.r.t. our discussion of the 18th last...) We elope tonight!
(Another raw exclamation fought it’s way to the surface, but our hero stifled it just in time. You never know. Could also be the stale puttu-kadalacurry from last night)
Rosakutty: Pakshe achaya… enikku pediyaakunnu…(But... I'm scared)
Chacko: Don’t be afraid….njan ille nintekoode (Main hoon na!!Author’s note: Now you know where SRK maaroed that dialogue from!!)
Rosakutty: (Gulp…That’s what my Appachen’s scared of too) Njan varaam (I’ll come)
Chacko: Innu raathri (tonight)…. Sharp 9 p.m. (another look at the Timex). Ten hours from now!
They part ways.
Scene Two:
That night at Rosakutty’s house. 8:55 p.m. by Chackochan’s Timex as he lies in wait outside.
Appachen: Edeeee Rosakutteeeee……. Njaan arinjadi!!!(I've found out!!) You’re planning to run away tonight with that lowlife scoundrel Chacko!!!
(Note: Appachen’s voice here bears striking similarities to a wounded buffalo)
Chacko: (Hiding outside and under his breath) Aiiyyooo…..chathicho Daivame!! (Equivalent of “Dammitttt!!”)
Rosakutty: (Inside with a wide eyed and innocent look) Illa Appacha….. I never met Chacko even once after you forbade me.......
Appachen: (Bellows) KALLAMMMM!!!! (LIIIIESSSSS!!!)I have my sources. Varkey saw you two talking today…. And he found out that Chacko’s hired a taxi for Madras too!!
I’ll show him, the impudent young dog!! Eda Mathaiiii!!! Royyyyy!!! Vargheeeeeese!!! Daniii-YELLLLLLLLLL!!!!!!!!!
(Four younger versions of Appachen come bounding out of different parts of the house. Of course, they’re better known as Baiju, Binju, Benny and Binu. But Mallu fathers insist on doing full justice to Christian names when they’re furious.)
Chacko: #@$%$)((#!!!! (Loosely translated as “Beeeeeeeepppp!”)
Appachen: (Reaches for the hunting rifles on the wall behind him and slings a couple of them to his sons) We won’t come back till one of our bullets find their way into him!! Vaa makkale!!!!
(Stomps out in a rage, followed by the achayans)
Rosakutty : (In tears) Appachaaaa!!! (Daddeeeee!!!)
Ammachy: (In tears) Ente karthaave!! (My Goddddd!!)
A faint 'bonk' is heard outside.
Chacko: (In pain AND tears) ENTAMMACHEEEEEEEEE!!!!!!! (MUMMMEEEEEEE!!!!)
Chackochan’s exclamation in the previous line could have given the aforesaid wounded buffalo a run for its money. While playing the faithful lover waiting for Rosakutty, he ignored one of the fundamental rules of ancient Mallu guerrilla warfare:
Sec 27(6)(aa): Thou shalt hide from the enemy if thou hast to but not under a coconut tree. Especially not on a night of balmy breezes under a tree loaded with the stuff. And most certainly not after thou hast downed two pegs thyself.
The warfare code was found inscribed on the walls while excavating the ruins of an ancient kallu-shaap (liquor shop) from circa 300 B.C. The rules seem to have been addressed to an unidentified Mone Dinesha.
Ammachy: Idhiyaanodu njan paranjatha (I-told-him-so)…. We should’ve called Kuttappan to do something about those coconuts last week itself.
Appachen: (From outside) Pidiyada avane!!!! (Catch hiiiiiim!!!!)
The sound of running feet, rustling bushes and a stray gunshot. The yelp that follows the shot, unfortunately for Danielachayan, comes from the neighbour's doberman, Bruno.
Reader: (In a moment of raw emotion) Inquilab Zindabaaaaaaad!!!
Me: Amen. Lal Salaam.
;-D
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