YELLOW CONFESSIONS

He walked around a lot. He couldn't stay indoors anymore. Not after that conversation. How did they hide something this big? He was disgusted. Ashamed. Repelled by them. No! not her… never her. She was the only one who seemed sane in that house. The look his parents had when he confronted them was hideously comical. As if he had caught them stealing kid's toy... He couldn’t look back at her window anymore. He stormed out. She had always talked in lyrics . Of course she walked alone. When words would not come out, she hummed. And all the unspoken conversations she had or wished to have reminded her of him. She would have smiled but she won't, she decided. Some may applaud her daring plan of escaping the bars, the chains at her window, through which she spoke to her world outside. And she thought about all the conversations she heard. The ones outside her door, her parents'. Who spoke in hushed whispers or sometimes shouted. Of course it was always about her. About how much they cared for her. How much was too much? She looked right below her window. There was a laburnum tree. Too bright, like the rude awakening from an incomplete dream. A half heard familiar call. A child was sitting there. He was also talking to himself like she did. Why did they scold only her then? She closed her eyes, leaned back and wished with all her might for him to come back. She had a lot to tell him... Of the women at the neighbors' terrace. How normal their conversation was. How absurd! How lucky. Lucky that people don’t fidget around them. People don’t peep from the corner of their eyes to look at them when they speak… Of the boys at the house next to the fat uncle's place. How they sneaked around and scaled walls to drink something strange which made them fearless. And how they would shout and dance and curse and cry their way aback into the same house they had so carefully escaped from… How the fairies above the starts came into her room at night and taught her new songs. How lovely their voice was… where was he? Why didn't he come back sooner??? He walked until he could not take it. then he let himself feel the miracle of some tears. He looked back to the conversation that changed his life. This afternoon. Was it just hours earlier. Seems like days. His sister was not well they told her. After 15 years of having her! They couldn't have her anymore? So? she would be left at the orphanage. The arrangements were being made in secret before he returned from the city. It had to be done then, he had to be kept in the dark. He shouldn't know. He reached a day earlier than expected...That's when he caught them by surprise... Then he walked back to the shy laburnum and sat there calling out silently to god and cursing him for witnessing his shame. mocking his ignorance. That too was silent. His answer was waiting for words. This conversation was reserved for later. For now, he needed to answer his parents. Yes, he would take care of her. She was his sister. She was sane enough to wait for him. They were the ones insane enough to give her up to strangers...

OF GOD AND GOD'S MEN

"Unniyetta!!!"… He was preparing a paste out of colors that he would need later in the evening, when his brother Hari called him. His sight was gradually getting clouded with moss like blobs. He squinted to see what the matter was which made him look much older than the 45 years that had passed him by. "People from the newspaper have come to see you! They say when your story gets published you will be called to big cities," Hari said. Unnimaya his mother had named him strangely, after the village Goddess. The deity was to give him sustenance after all. Unni thinks about what his brother said, and as always surrenders his will to the divine plan. He finishes his preparation and goes out to the courtyard where two men were standing and talking. He asks them to sit on the sole piece of furniture available, the rope cot he sleeps in at night. They greet him and the smile he gives in return reveals his stained teeth. His expression still had something youthful about it, perhaps it was the eyes. They ask him about the trade he plies. He humbly narrates how his own father had been in the same line of profession before him, just like his father and grandfather. He was the member of one of the castes who had been given the right to perform Theyyam for the welfare of the people of his land by Lord Parsuram himself. They ask him how he feels playing "god". His smile flickers. He turns silent and after a while replies, “It’s not me playing god, it’s the gods that play through me. I am just the vehicle." They ask him about all the preparation that goes into his performance. He tells them… about the elaborate costume, the folk tales, and how for 4-6 months of the year he travels to places where people gather to see the deity that he transforms into. He tells them that the drawings on his face are made using red clay or stone called the “Chayillam,” his eyes lined with homemade kohl; other materials used in coloring include rice powder, turmeric, and limestone. The frame of his elaborate headgear is made using the wood of the drumstick tree. The costume is then decorated with tender buds of the coconut tree called “kuruthola.” He then uses beeswax to stick all the different components of the decorations onto the frame. Its hard work, and often he has no help. The guests are satisfied; they had traveled a long way down south in search for this man. Later, at night, along with the footage of his performance, they will take home to Delhi this interview, to show how the ancient art form of “Theyyam” is still alive and how culturally rich their native state, Kerala is. After they leave, Unni groans as he gets up from the floor. His knees aren’t what they used to be. Arthritis has set in. His brother’s two young boys are in the backyard learning the folk songs that they will sing along with their father in the evening. They look bored and the younger one is paying more attention to the football game going on in the field afar. His father stops and sighs. He exchanges a look with Unni before clipping the young one on his ear for his carelessness. He had been summoned to pick the coconuts from the tharavadu (ancestral household) and he was late. When he reaches there, the kaaryasthan (caretaker) sneers at him, “what is it that I hear; your brother wants to take you to Big Cities?? Isn’t the fame that you get here enough for you?” "It’s is nothing like that, emmaane, some people wanted to know about Theyyatom…” “Hmm... Sheri Sheri… do your work.” His modalali (employer), the owner of the house, didn’t know who picked his coconuts. He had no reason to. Nobody knew his name. They all called him ‘eda’ (roughly same as eh, you), or ‘vannan’ (by his caste name). ---------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------------- Evening is going to set in. With a bit of tobacco, and a swig of his usual, Unni walks to the kaavu (grove) along with the men in his family, where the unnimaya temple is. They occupy a shed behind the temple and start getting ready for the performance. His family has always been known to play the character of Chamundi, the goddess. The kaavu is not silent as usual now. It is the month of Dhanu (December), and the trees are whispering their secrets to the misty air. The temple deep in the grove is filled with people who have lit the lamps. He can hear the silent anticipation of the crowd beckoning. They are waiting for their Goddess. As he adjusts his headgear, he thinks about his life. He is a bit surprised at the unusual direction his thoughts have taken today. Perhaps it was because those people asked him about his dreams. He thinks about the three families had rejected to marry their daughters to him because his livelihood and health wasn’t hopeful or stable. When he sees his brother’s children, he thinks it is for the best. He would have never been able to give them a good life, free from oppression or the grinding poverty. Yet, he had dreams, of having someone to whom he could pass on his only mortal legacy. His identity and his capacity to tell the stories of god and then become the god himself... His brother disrupts his musing, and offers him a drink of water. He accepts it gratefully. He cannot consume anything until his twelve hour performance finishes late at night. That is, with the exception of the sacrificial blood of the chicken he would behead and the offering of the local toddy in little mud pots that the devotees would bring him. And in return, the deity would listen to all their problems and give what She thought were solutions to those. He thinks of all the mighty modalalis who break down and sob in front of the deity in supplication or devotional ecstasy. They would be mocking him the next day, unaware of his divine identity. It is dark now. His body is dependent on the alcohol. His back is already aching and his joints are stiff because of the way the costume has been tied. He is ready now, with the color of blood on his face, and eyes dark enough to frighten the devil itself, he swishes the dirt off his skirt made of palm fronds. The bells of ghungroo tied on his knees shudder quietly. A mirror is brought to him… he looks at it… and the deity has arrived...

THE LAND OF HIS SUN

He was sitting at the rocking chair in the courtyard of his ancestral house, pondering, nostalgic, and slightly feverish. There was a book on the table by someone called Kavish… The coffee was unusually hot n scalded his tongue and the skin of his teeth. He shivered, and then smiled a little. He found himself tugging the strands of his waning memory to recall the phrase that was used by his friend to refer to this jittery shivery feeling. Vikram was one of those people who lived in a world estranged by the present day mechanisms of their life and driven only by nostalgia. The phantoms from his past were haunting him again. Not openly, but hiding in the nooks and crannies of happy moments. He has a family who he loves beyond everything and he looks like any middle class family man from the outside. But our world is a world of stories where everyone’s story is a thread in the human fabric. If you look at the human fabric, you will find that the pattern that each thread weaves out of the victories and failures of life is a unique story. Vikram was retired and more tired from all the work he did not do anymore. Not that his work gave him much joy before. He was more of a people-person who thrived in conversations. Nowadays, hardly anybody approached him like before or even called. His wife had gone to work, his daughter was studying and his son married. His days now made him feel there wasn’t much to do except wait. He did not know for whom or why he was waiting but was intriguingly and painfully sure he had to. Of late Vikram had started thinking of his childhood and in his attempts, often lost track of reality… ``````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` It is morning around 6.30 a.m. Vikram wakes up at the call of Mahesh his cousin and both shoot to the pond nearby for their bath where all the boys of the family could be seen. Theirs was a matriarchal family where five women led their married lives in the ancestral home. Vikram’s mother was the eldest sister. In a uniquely and heartwarmingly simple set up, everyone ate together, cooked together, stayed together and for Vikram at the age of eleven, it meant everyone lived and played together. After school he would wait for Mahesh who was two years elder to him beneath the peepal in front of their school, sometimes joining in the cricket match going on in the field or sometimes talking to the other children in the market nearby. Life was simple at eleven eat with Mahesh, play, sleep, go to school (never study at home), and come back to play again. Time was not measured by anybody around him. One could stand under a tree and think aimlessly, not making any plans and doodle with a twig and nobody would worry your head off with alarming queries about the wastage of time. In summer there would be endless entertainment as the mango trees inside their compound wall would have to be defended against hordes of children from outside. In the lazy afternoons when only the children could sustain energy to resist a nap, they made statues and figurines of deities from the pleasantly pliable mud in their yard. In the rains, water would come up till the first step of his courtyard, while the rest of the village was under it. Then the light and speedy boats would be put out from the attic and used to acquire provisions and transport people who had to travel in emergencies. Basically the monsoons were to hear horror stories, scare each other and of course for boat racing competitions amongst the elder cousins, even girls. And in the autumn, as if the tangerine trees were tired of carrying the burden of green, shed their leaves all together. The skeleton branches of those trees were a favorite spot for Vikram and Mahesh for their bird spotting ventures. Winter meant 23 degrees max. Dew glistened on the small red and yellow blossoms in their garden and the morning mist would mark the beginnings of festivals of the winter. And spring, wasn’t it the most beautiful time of the year? The farmer’s New Year blessed with nature’s bounty, the festive cheer evident in the market where handmade crafts and utilities were exchanged in barter was a time when the two friends were never at home. School would have finished for the year by then and their world was limited to the market and the field nearby. The family deity’s festival coincided with the New Year and the celebrations lasted a full week. Both of them being avid followers of the percussionist performances, they would hang about in the temple threshold to listen and follow the rhythms of the drums… Meanwhile, the rhythm of their own hearts was taking them on separate journeys. It was books and more books for Mahesh while for Vikram it was cricket and music. But they had sworn a pact, to be together throughout life. How easily everything changed! It was just another simple day when responsibilities had only begun making an appearance in Mahesh and Vikram’s lives. They were at the temple grounds chatting; Mahesh told him that he was leaving home. Vikram was aghast at the news. Mahesh’s family had ostracized him because of his constant differences with them. He never listened to them in matters of education. He defended the servants; he fought with his uncles in the matters of his career. Matters had become unacceptable for his parents when he expressed his decision to marry someone from his college. So without much ado, Mahesh exited Vikram’s life as quietly as he had entered it. He never heard from him again and their parting was at a juncture where Vikram couldn’t fathom the reasons of Mahesh’s decisions or for that matter his family’s wrath about them. He was neutral in his opinion, young in age and genuinely very confused… so he didn’t speak. He didn’t dissuade him, neither did he support. He could see that Mahesh expected a response. But he couldn’t. So he kept his silence. How much he regretted it now… 10 years later, after he finished his graduation, his father died and Vikram’s world came crashing. Everyone he knew was grasping at whatever means to earn a living of their own. No longer was time left unmeasured, no longer did his homestead symbolize comfort. Everyone left at home was either old, or earning to support their own families. Their land had been redistributed and suddenly the leisure inherent in their lifestyle could no more be taken for granted. He worked hard as soon as he got a job, never looked back. He took care of his mother and his brothers and sisters. He travelled a lot, stepping out of the boundaries of his home for the first time to see the world in all its frailties and harshness. On one of his trips back home, he found himself married. His wife was a bright young woman who slipped into his life and understood his little quirks and habits as easily as if it was meant to be. They shared each others’ dreams, they built some together. Time sped past at a speed that shocked him sometimes when he saw himself in the mirror. Age had hidden the clever glimmer in his eyes. The grays made him appear wiser than he thought he was. He often thought of how easily silence at one point in time can make a difference throughout people’s lives. He always did take his promises too seriously and his silence was his only transgression. `````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````````` Something apart from the silence echoed in his heart still… drums? The knocking sound was not drums but somebody on the door. A graying man with crinkly eyes and round spectacles was standing there, wearing a forgotten smile that made his heart ache with the burden of its silence. They spoke less about the past and more about the present, Vikram being embarrassed of the mundane course his life had taken. They shared a smoke in their beloved courtyard. He furnished an apology for not being in contact with difficulty. Of course that wouldn’t ease the burden of guilt that ate at his heart all these years but it broke the silence he had been carrying… he broke down and cried like the child he felt he was. Vikram started and opened his eyes; he had been dreaming or was it the delirium of the fever??? Mahesh had smiled a little and pulled out something from his bag and put it on the table. It was a book. It was a memoir called the “the land of my sun”. The author was someone who went by the pseudonym Kavish. Vikram picked it up and looked at its second page. There was a short poem and a dedication: In my travels I might have been alone Only my body might have the battle scars borne But my spirit was in the land of my sun I am a child again, my journey just begun My friend, the sun had pledged his heart to me The rains watered my earth in perfect symphony I and my sun will meet someday To farm the dreams that we sowed yesterday Until then let the sun shine silently afar Neither distance nor time can keep us apart” “To the stealer of all my miseries… and my mangoes... My brother, my friend, my sun: Vikram”