The Village Parties

On my way back home after the long road-trip, I stopped for breakfast at a tea-stall near the bus stand in a village called A. I took a seat at the long table and bench outside. The jolly tea-stall owner served a plate of hot puttu, kadala curry, pazham pori, vada and a glass of strong tea. Next to me sat a surly guy with bloodshot eyes and, despite being freshly bathed and shaven, made the morning air stale with the stink of old liquor in his breath and sweat. The surly guy read a newspaper aloud and his crony of forty years or so added his two-bits from within the shop.

‘The latest census is out…’ the surly guy noted and continued to mumble the details of which I caught the following, ‘The state’s average population density…1000 people per square kilometer…average death rate…seven per thousand…people 65 years and above…6%...’

The tea-stall owner laughed out loud and the surly guy smirked. That scene was interrupted by a boy on a cycle who stopped there, hurriedly pasted a notice to the electric post outside the shop and raced away to repeat his action ahead. A group of young men crowded around the notice.

The surly guy asked that crowd, ‘Where is it today?’

One of the young men replied, ‘At Rajan’s place, Mashe.’

‘Which Rajan…?’

‘The carpenter…’

‘His house is near the third milestone, right?’

‘Yes, that’s the one, Mashe.’

‘I walked past that place this morning. I didn’t see a white flag there.’

‘It’s being put up only now. Rajan got up late, it seems.’

‘Ah! He must have been at Lakshmi’s party last night…I am still recovering from that myself…’

‘What a bash! Excellent food and foreign liquor…’ the tea-stall owner agreed.

‘I hope Rajan too does it in style.’

I asked that genial crowd, ‘I saw a white flag on the way here…near the bridge…is that the place?’

The surly guy turned to me, ‘You from outside, right?’

‘Yes, driving through…’ I admitted.

‘The party near the bridge was on the night before yesterday.’

‘So, they forgot to take it down…?’ I asked.

‘No, the white flag stays for 14 days.’

‘Ah…’

‘Why don’t you stay for today’s party?’ One of the young men said to me.

‘Oh, thanks…but I have to leave soon…got to get home by evening...’ I said. Bemused, I asked, ‘Do you have a party every day?’

‘Nearly every day…’

‘And is it open for everyone?’

‘Of course…but not everyone comes. Usually, only those who can party well....try to stay…it starts at seven….’ The friendly young men left after extending that invitation.

I asked the surly guy, ‘Why…the white flag…for 14 days?’

‘Just a custom…’

The jovial tea-stall owner added to that, ‘The villages around raise a black flag. Here, we raise a white one.’

‘But…that’s for deaths, right?’

‘Yes. They mourn and party on the 14^th day after.’

They seemed reluctant to offer information without questions from my side. Though I was really curious by then, I felt awkward prying into their affairs and decided to probe in an indirect fashion, ‘This is a small village, right?’

‘Just 15 square kilometers,’ the surly guy replied.

I remembered the statistics. ‘So, a population of 15000 or so, right?’

‘Yes.’ From the way they looked at me, like patient teachers with a pesky student, they seemed to have guessed my line of enquiry.

‘And…if you assume 7 deaths per thousand…that gives only 100 deaths or so per year?’ I presented the finding, rather pleased with my calculation.

‘That’s in other places…we have thrice that many deaths…’

‘But, it looks like a nice healthy village.’ I noted.

‘Oh yes, it is that.’

‘Then…?’ I challenged the two men.

‘Do you remember the figure for the population over 65?’

‘About 5-7%...?’

‘Here, it is less than 1%.’

Thoroughly puzzled, I asked, ‘Is it some genetic problem?’

‘Why should it be that?’

‘Otherwise…?’ I tried to figure out other explanations. ‘So, today…is it this Rajan’s close relative?’

‘Rajan’s mother…’

‘Did she die 14 days back?’ I asked.

‘No, she will die 14 days from today.’

‘What?’ My incredulous cry seemed to amuse them.

‘Today is the first day of celebration…helps the family to accept the situation…before the death.’ The surly guy explained patiently. ‘What is the point in mourning after?’

‘But how do you know she will die 14 days from now?’

‘Oh…Rajan will kill her, of course…’ the surly guy stated as a matter of fact.

The merry tea-stall owner added, ‘Hope he hangs her or dumps her in a well…just for a change…the last two were by suffocation…’

I did not stay for the party.

Notes:

1.     Any resemblance to real events and places could be a coincidence.

2.     Puttu, kadala, pazham pori and vada – steamed ground rice, chickpeas, banana fritters and common fritter-type snack made of pulses.

3.     Mashe is a respectful, colloquial way of referring to a person as ‘Master’.

Legend of the Big Fish

I caught the big fish when I was twenty six. I would have liked to do it on my own but luck and fate conspired against me. I had to rely on others, to bait the trap and help me capture before it escaped.

He was thirty and in his prime. For the young, he was a role-model; for the old, his genes mattered; and, the public like doting parents loved him for doing all that they would have loved to do themselves.

When I expressed my desire to snare him, my folks’ response was, ‘You…?!’

But I, or whatever it took, managed to do so. He was undemanding but receptive in those negotiations.

Twenty odd years of education, from an abridged Lorna Doone to the E.L. James trilogy, made me anticipate an erotic and rather selfish romantic conquest of my senses and my body.

In those nervous days before the wedding, I also pictured him on his knees, holding my hands gently and with a sensitive voice telling me truthfully that I am his first and all that he wanted in his life, leaving nearly all of my dreams shattered with that facile victory. The pages of my diary were ready even for such a cruel twist in a wife’s tale.

Contrary to all expectations, reality just chugged along well-used tracks. I can read my future on a page from a discarded unused diary. The days are pleasant and on many a moonlit night, I lie next to my trophy with a bored snore. Some legends are such.

Recovering Memory

He looked tired - hands lying listless on the table, body inert and sagging. Except for his eyes where blankness gave way to amusement off and on, recollecting some whimsical memory probably.  I leaned forward, pushing the pack of cigarettes towards him. He looked at it, unsure, and then declined with a shake of his head.

‘I can’t even remember if I enjoyed smoking,’ he said, ‘maybe, I did.’

‘Don’t think too much about it,’ I said.

‘What I can think about does not seem to be the stuff I should think about.’

‘It will all come back.’

‘It… all…? It… wouldn’t be so frustrating if I forgot… all…’

He scratched his unshaven face, pressed his eyes with his thumbs, ‘I can’t sleep. Just before you came in, I was remembering the two American ladies we met on the train. The younger one looked a lot like that girl in ‘Grey’s Anatomy’, right?’

I shrugged.

‘Not exactly, I know, but her eyes or maybe the face, something feral, something similar.’ He paused before continuing, ‘I can remember that the older lady was the attractive one… and that I talked to her more… but I can’t remember her at all… how she looked or what we talked… total blank.’ He rested his head on the table. ‘It’s maddening.’

We talked for half an hour or so in that small dank room.  Yes, he remembered me as an old friend. Maybe, if I was important to him, he would have forgotten me as well. We even talked about our old school days. He remembered most of it.

Later, outside that room, I narrated our discussion to the man who had called me to the police station.

‘Inspector, he remembers a lot. Even our school days, the girls I used to chase around and such,’ I paused, ‘but he has no memory of stuff that really mattered to him, like his girlfriend in school, and those two were really close, unlike my time-pass flings.’

‘Not the same girl, I suppose…’ the Inspector asked, leaning against the wall, looking bored.

‘What?’

‘You two were not chasing the same girl, were you?’

‘Oh, no… his type was the silent serious one… too heavy for me… I just went for the popular…’ I laughed, realizing too late that I could be misconstrued, especially there with that crowd. The Inspector still looked bored. I knew that it was just a show. He looked the type who could stalk endlessly and tire out a suspect, waiting for the submission and the confession. Oh yes, he looked that kind.

‘So, your friend there can’t remember anything, huh?’ the Inspector asked.

‘Only the important parts seem to be missing… erased…’ I tried to explain.

‘How convenient…’ he muttered.

‘What do you mean?’

‘Well, he remembers his wife,’ the Inspector paused, ‘but he can’t recollect anything that happened yesterday. Nothing… not how he found his wife dead late evening, not where he was most of the day, not what she was up to that morning, not even who could have attacked her at this resort mid-afternoon … nothing…’

‘But there was some intruder, right? The newspapers mentioned some eye-witness…’

‘Ah! People always see lots of things…’ he seemed to dismiss that line of enquiry. He kept staring at me, thoughtful, and I felt uncomfortable with his close scrutiny.

I offered, ‘What do you want me to do?’

‘Try to make him remember…’

‘He is my friend… she was, too… don’t you think someone else would be suitable for that…?’ I asked.

‘Conflict of interests, huh?’ he kept staring.

‘Exactly...’

‘Well, if he is not a good suspect,’ he stressed on the ‘good’ making it sound real bad, ‘you might become our next best one.’

‘What…?’

‘You were at the resort with them… you, a single guy, and them, a nice couple, together - it sounds strange, doesn’t it?’

‘We are… were… good friends, that’s all… I suggested the trip and they came along. What’s so strange about that?’

‘You were a friend of hers, you say. And you go for the popular girls… other guys’ girls?’

‘Don’t twist my words.’

‘I might not… but the media might. Do you know how uncomfortable public scrutiny can be… guilty or innocent?’

‘That’s blackmail,’ I whined.

He shrugged.

‘Don’t you people have your ways… for such things…?’ I asked hopefully.

‘Oh yes, we have our ways… but, why don’t we start with your friendly ways? Just make him remember. If he is bluffing, his best friend might be the best one to catch him unawares. Your conflict of interests might be helpful in ferreting out the truth.’  

I could guess the part he left unsaid. Or, if he is not bluffing, he might think that I did it… and… he might try to catch me. It was apparent that the Inspector had set his sights on my friend… and me.

Spam

The first message came three weeks back, on a busy Monday. The subject was “URGENT”. The sender’s address seemed to be that of an old schoolteacher.  I could not be sure because I had not saved our e-mail correspondence.  The main message was, ‘…in Bangkok. Last night, I was attacked. I suffered minor injuries and lost my money, bag and other possessions. I urgently need fifty thousand rupees. Kindly help me by sending the money via bank transfer to…’ It sounded so believable. But, what was my old schoolteacher doing in Bangkok? And, he would have called me and not e-mailed. I have heard of spam where hackers adopt identities from e-mail correspondence.

I had nearly forgotten that message when I got the second nine days back, on a Saturday. The subject was the same. The sender’s name and address matched that of my ex-wife. Once again, ‘…raped… hostage… in Vancouver…’ The give-away was the last line, the same barring the account details. Anyway, she is in California, I think, not Canada. Who gets raped in Vancouver?

The third, I got last night. The gist was the same. The sender was an old girlfriend. It was weird getting an e-mail from her. I knew her when there were no e-mails. The last time we were together, I was drunk and had no business driving. I thought she was dead and I barely managed to escape from that crash site without being noticed.