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The story doesn’t end there.
Yohanan* stayed, thriving on the small kindnesses of the extended family, while Lukachen’s* wife cursed him every time she lay eyes on him – and treated him like a slave…
There he lived another ten years far from the land of his mother’s ancestors (Tamil Nadu) and even further from the land of his birth (Burma (Myanmar)), until Lukachen drew his last breath. The treatment he got from Lukachen’s widow only worsened until Lukachen’s youngest brother, who worked in Bombay (Mumbai) intervened. He arranged a job for Yohanan in the same city.
Yohanan, now a strapping young man, returned to our hometown every few years and his thoughts naturally turned to settling down. A young servant maid caught his eye, a fact not lost on the family. The wedding was arranged in due course and the couple moved to Bombay. After several years there, Yohanan landed a better-paid job in the UAE, where he lived and worked while his wife and three daughters stayed back in Mumbai, where they eventually bought a large, well-appointed apartment with his hard-earned money (something most Indians couldn’t even dream of in the 1970s and the 1980s).
Yohanan was well into his fifth decade when he was felled by a massive heart attack. His daughters, though, subsequently did very well for themselves and the last I heard were well settled in the United States…
Footnote: I am not sure how Appachen’s brother who went to Singapore fared during WW2. I know, though, that he decided to settle there and his family flourished in the years that followed. One of his grand-daughters married a Singaporean Chinese, and another, a Swiss guy. Other cousins of mine from the same side of the family (the “house name” is Ikareth) have married, variously, a Swede, an Iranian, and Americans of Indian and Pakistani origin. Thus our generation is truly an international melange.
*Name changed to protect the privacy of the individual concerned.
© Sosha Srinivasan
I spent quite a few summers at my maternal grandparents home in Kerala while growing up. Invariably there would be visitors – neighbors from across the hill or the next village dropping in for a leisurely chat and tea, and sometimes relatives on a round of visits during their vacation…
One such family was Yohanan’s* – only we didn’t know for sure whether we were blood relatives – or did we?
Once Yohanan and his family had left, Ammachy, my grandmother, filled me in on the history – and my jaw dropped and stayed that way for a long time – I’m not exaggerating.
It’s a story that is truly stranger than fiction – one of those amazing tales of not just adventure, but unimaginable hardship and heartbreak…
It all began in the 1930s when one of Appachen’s (my grandfather’s) dozen brothers (let’s call him Lukachen*) took off to seek his fortune in what was then colonial Burma (now Myanmar). He was followed closely by another brother who decided to try his luck in Singapore…
The Japanese conquest of Burma
But elation turned to consternation for, what was this? He had a young dark-skinned boy, not older than five, in tow!
Lukachen explained that he had traveled overland into Assam as part of a huge exodus of half a million strong Indians fleeing the Japanese invasion. The refugees died in their thousands of malaria, typhoid, dengue, infections, starvation, and gastrointestinal causes… It had taken him over a year to travel mostly on foot, down from Burma to our home state of Kerala in the deep south of peninsular India. He had joined a group of Tamil laborers traveling south when they were all stricken with cholera. Already weakened, the group, including the mother of the toddler, was decimated by the epidemic. Before she succumbed she had asked Lukachen, who had recovered from the diarrheal illness, to take responsibility for the child…
The only problem was that Lukachen’s wife – he had married shortly before leaving for Burma – wasn’t buying the story! It wasn’t helped by the fact that Lukachen refused to give up the child and put him in an orphanage… His wife then accused him of fathering the child… and our Kerala village buzzed with the scandal…
There was a family huddle and still Lukachen refused to back down. The child, by now named Yohanan*, stayed…
Did Lukachen actually father the child, or was it just that he took a promise made very seriously – or was it simply because he could not break a strong emotional bond he had formed with Yohanan on his long journey home? We never did find out…
*Name changed to protect the privacy of the individual concerned.
© Sosha Srinivasan
Several decades ago my mother recounted to me a short story she’d read in Malayalam, a language I do not read; though I understand Malayalam pretty well, I struggle to speak it.
Anyway, the story had quite an impact on me, stayed in my mind, and several years later I wrote down my version in English (of course). Please note this is not a translation by any stretch of the imagination. The social milieu and other details may be very different, but I trust the broad gist of the story is the same.
I don’t recall who the author was – it could be either Vaikom Muhammad Basheer or O.V. Vijayan – but I could be mistaken. If any of my readers could throw some light on this, they’re welcome, of course.
Here it is – morbid humor, psychological thriller? You decide:
OLD FRIENDS
- Dr. Jacob leaned back in his reclining chair. Only a week into his retirement from the Indian Railways, the feeling of time idle on his hands was all too new and he savored every moment – it was too soon yet for boredom to set in.
As usual, he fell to reminiscing, this time about his medical college days and it was only natural that his eyes were drawn to the photograph on the wall.
“How time flies,” he mused. “It seems like only yesterday I had posed for it with my batch mates and professors.”
Framed in sober black, the picture showed a group of young men, formally dressed in the style of the 1950s, standing in two rows behind five seated figures. The doctor recalled with a smile how his granddaughter, Anna always said that the many black and white prints, dulled by time, in almost every room, only served to lend their ancestral home a period flavor.
Suddenly the doctor’s face changed expression and a frown creased his forehead as he leaned forward. The photograph seemed to have an uneven dark patch on the top right corner, marring the face of one of the standing figures. He got up for a closer look. It wasn’t a trick of the light as he had first thought. Some insect had merrily made a meal of the corner of the picture.
The doctor frowned again, trying to recall whose image had been eaten away. wasn’t it T.N. Thomas – quiet unassuming Thomas – who had joined the Navy? He peered closer at the names printed below to make sure. Yes, he was right. he made a mental note of the damage, reminding himself to take the photograph to the studio in town, though he was doubtful if anything could be done.
The next morning his wife, Saramma, was scanning the newspaper over coffee, reading out aloud interesting bits, as was her habit. Finishing page four, she had just started on the obituaries. The doctor had always secretly thought this a morbid habit, enough to upset anyone’s digestion. It had hardly bothered him while he had been in service: he would be away at work while Saramma regaled the cat with the daily news. But he did realize that these classifieds were one way people living in the countryside kept in touch with friends and relatives in distant cities and towns.
His reverie was interrupted when he thought he heard the name “Thomas” mentioned.
“Thomas?” he asked his wife. “Can you read that again?”
She looked up at him briefly over her bifocals. then proceeded to read out the paragraph again.
“Dr. T. N. Thomas, Retd. Medical Officer – Indian Navy. A4 K C Towers, Palayam High Road, Trivandrum, expired 19th September 1989. Funeral today at 3:00 p.m. CSI Church.”
Saramma nearly fell out of her chair as he tore the newspaper from her hands. He scanned the entry once, twice, then lowered the paper, muttering to himself. The coincidence was almost too fantastic to be true.
He shook his head in disbelief, then slowly became aware of his wife hovering over him, a worried expression on her face.
“What’s wrong?” she asked. “What happened? Are you feeling alright?”
The doctor took a few deep breaths to calm down and then explained that Thomas had been at medical school with him. Saramma clucked in sympathy. He left out the bit about the photograph, knowing that Saramma would think he was growing superstitious and sentimental with age.
From that moment, the photograph became a near obsession with the doctor. He examined it almost every time he passed it in the hall. Three days passed, then six, when one morning he noticed that the dark shadow had spread, curling around the legs of another figure. He peered closer, then reeled back in shock.
“Mathai!” It came out in an agonized whisper. Tears sprang up in his eyes as the memories came flooding back. Mathai… his cousin, childhood friend and confidant… they had been like brothers… climbing trees, swimming in the river, picking fruit… and those youthful escapades in college, some that not another soul knew about…
“No!” exclaimed the doctor, shaking his head. “No, it won’t… It can’t be… “
As far as he knew, Mathai was in perfect health, walking a good two miles every morning. Retired from the Army Medical Corps, he had settled down in his hometown, Iroor, a twenty minute drive away. The doctor was just promising himself that he would motor down that very evening to check up on his old friend, when there was a loud rap on the front door.
The moment Dr. Jacob saw who it was, he knew something was very, very wrong. It was Mathai’s driver of many years – and the old man seemed most upset.
“What is it, man?” the doctor shouted, clutching his shoulder, fearing the worst.
“Saar… Mathai saar…” It was too much for the poor man and he broke down sobbing.
Saramma came bustling out of the kitchen and took in the scene at a glance. Two minutes later the man was seated on the wide verandah wall, drinking a glass of cold water, considerably calmer. They managed to piece together what had happened from the man’s broken account. Mathai had fallen to a first and fatal heart attack at 6:35 a.m. Telephone lines in Iroor were down due to a thunderstorm the previous night, so he had been sent across… Their presence was required immediately.
Dr. Jacob and his wife were seated at the dining table the following evening, picking at their food. The obsequies were over and the numbing shock had slowly turned into resignation. The troubled doctor decided to open the subject of the photograph.
I thought it was mere coincidence the first time,” said the doctor soberly at the end of his account. “But not now.”
“Nonsense!” scoffed his wife. “I refuse to believe it.”
“Then wait for the next time,” replied the doctor. “And we’ll know for sure.”
A fortnight later Dr. Jacob found part of yet another figure eaten away. It was Eapen, in private practice in Kottayam. His wife, Dolly, was distantly related to Saramma, as most Syrian Christians inevitably are. they kept in touch, getting together for many social occasions.
With fingers that trembled slightly, the doctor removed the frame from the wall, dusted it and carried it to Saramma in the kitchen.
“Pooh!” she laughed, dismissing him with a wave of a floury hand. “We’ll see!”
But Saramma’s face turned grim when the telegram arrived that afternoon. Eapen had been killed in a road accident.
A week later Saramma caught him scrutinizing the picture on the wall. It was too much for her and she burst into tears.
“Burn it, destroy it!” she wept. “It’s the work of the devil!”
The doctor managed to calm her down with considerable difficulty. After that he made sure Saramma was out or busy in another part of the house before examining the photograph.
One morning, a few days later, Dr. Jacob stole a look while Saramma was busy feeding the hens in the yard.
He looked – and froze in horror.
The dark fingers of death clutched at a figure in the photograph. There was no mistake – it was he himself.
As Dr. Jacob slid against the wall to the floor, the world whirling around him in an ever-darkening vortex, a line of verse he had once read seemed to echo in his mind.
” …death and I are old friends… “
© Sosha Srinivasan
Morten, my Norwegian friend in Iceland, e-mailed me telling me he had heard about “growing provincialism, focus on ethnicity and religion and clashes in various parts of India on BBC.”
We seem to be a pretty peaceloving, complacent lot down here in South India – we do have a few paroxysms of violence here too – but quite rare and usually in the boondocks someplace and quite self contained…
It’s the north that generally sees more aggression – perhaps it’s genetic – the warlike Aryans vs the placid Dravidians? Of course I really shouldn’t generalize… Here is an interesting thought and link though:
According to Ramachandra Guha “Of all the regions of India and the world, only we in the South have been exempt for so long from the horrors of war and civil strife.” In other words, no other part of India, or the world, has been free of war for 200 years.
So, is the southern part of India the most peaceful place on earth?
Sonny boy, all of seventeen, recently offered to buy me a cellular phone with his first salary a few years down the line. There was a wicked glint in his eye and he laughed as he promised… knowing full well how much I detest the telephone. I tell him in no uncertain terms that I’d probably smash it to bits (and grind it underfoot for good measure) on the very first day… or I’d end up a raving lunatic!
I can trace my aversion to the sound of the ringing telephone back to my days as a management trainee in a hotel. I was rotated on the 9-6 shift through the various departments, of which the front desk was one. The mornings would be just hunky dory. The trouble would invariably begin when my colleague on the 7-4 shift, as well as the manager, would disappear for their lunch breaks at 1 pm. The lady on the 2-8 shift wouldn’t have put in an appearance yet.
A typical scenario: All alone and the lobby looked so peaceful… Suddenly the calm is shattered by – you guessed it – the old fashioned rotary dial telephone shrilling loudly. I’d pick up – only to get a earful about another department’s deficient service from an irate guest. I’d be trying to get a word in edgeways when the second telephone right next to the first one would begin to ring insistently. Accomplishing the next-to-impossible task of putting Mr. Irate on hold, I’d answer #2, and go through the whole rigamarole again (this time: “Why do you people take so long to pick up…?!”). I’d suddenly become aware that a guest had materialized, seemingly out of thin air, and was tapping the counter impatiently. I recognize the guest, paste what I hope is a welcoming smile on my face, and lean over to try and retrieve his room keys from the slot. After a minute of acrobatic contortions that would put Houdini to shame, I notice the look of unalloyed shock on the guest’s face – as I almost lose my balance – and give up. I put down the receiver, do a strange sideways shuffle, retrieve and hand over the keys in record time. I take a step towards the two receivers – when the third one rings. Unfortunately, it’s at the other end of the counter, about 10 feet away from the first two… I’m able to deal with it in ten seconds flat and am hurrying back to #1 and #2 when yet another guest pops up. “Just my luck!” I groan inwardly while a polite smile stretches my orbicularis oris muscles. I know from experience that the chap, out of boredom or love (of his own voice) or whatever, just adores talking. He launches into one of his stories as I try to inch toward the telephones. He seems oblivious to my travails, so I excuse myself and pick up #1 – only to be lambasted once again… I juggle the receiver to my left ear and pick up #2. Just then #3 rings again… and a large group of guests walks through the lobby doors towards the counter…
So now you know why the sound of the ringing phone arouses the worst in me…
My son mesmerized, as is his entire generation, by mobile phone technology, has been pestering me and pleading with me – and when that failed – appealing to logic and reasoning to persuade me to buy one of those, those… thingummies! I certainly don’t fancy being on call 24/7, at the mercy of cellular phone service providers, insurance agents, banks and the like, invading my privacy and monopolizing large chunks of my time, both of which I value and treasure. Sonny tells me I can switch off the danged thing, but still… no thanks!
© Sosha Srinivasan
Morten mailed asking about the reference to Syrian Christians from Kerala in my second post, wondering if I was of Syrian descent.
We supposedly are. My dad once was mistaken for a Turk. I have variously been taken for an Armenian, an Arab and a Parsi – descendants of a group that migrated to India from Iran.
Legend has it that soon after the ascension of Christ, St Thomas or “Doubting” Thomas sailed to Kerala with a loyal band of disciples. There, he converted seven Brahmin families after performing a “miracle” and these families intermarried with his followers. Their descendants are known as the Syrian Christians. St Thomas then travelled overland to the city I now live in, Chennai (formerly Madras), where he was “martyred”.
I am definitely not recounting this in order to propagate notions of racial superiority of differences. Kerala is miniature melting pot with Arab, Jewish, Portuguese and even Armenian influences. As far as I’m concerned this is a 2 millenia-old legend with spotty proof at best. There is definitely nothing such as a “pure race”, though many racist groups would like us believe otherwise.
I made the reference in my post only because it was a fact. John and I do belong to the same “community” and our families met socially on a very regular basis.
When I married my husband, who happens to be a Tamil Brahmin, an uncle of mine remarked, “So you have gone back to the original fold, have you?” – a reference to the ostensible Brahmin conversion by St Thomas.
Look back even further to 4000 years ago when the Aryans migrated to India from Central Asia – the Hindu religion and the caste sytem (at the “top” of which sit the Brahmin or priest class) are direct offshoots of Aryan culture. It then follows that my hubby’s ancestors were from Central Asia and mine purportedly from neighboring West Asia.
A few years ago I followed the timeline back even further when I watched a rivetting program called “The Journey of Man” on National Geographic Channel hosted by Prof Spencer Wells.
In a nutshell, based on extensive genetic testing worldwide, it says humankind came out of Africa a mere 60,000 years ago. All of us on earth are descended from a small group of Bushmen. The different races evolved as a result of gradual physical adaptation to local climatic conditions in diverse geographic areas.
It makes so much sense. Our differences are, in truth, only skin deep and we are all members of the same family. Every reader of this post is is a distant cousin of mine – several thousand times removed, as the Brits put it! We are all siblings under the skin and there is only one “original fold”.
I strongly believe Dr Wells’ program should be translated into every language possible and screened globally for every “ethnic” group, village, or community as I feel it is a feeling of “otherness” that is at the root of most conflict world wide.
Genetic testing is still going on and you may get yourself tested if you wish to find out which route out your ancestors took!
Check it out at the Genographic Project page on the NatGeo site.
© Sosha Srinivasan
Conceived in Kashmir in the far north, born in Kerala in the deep south, raised in Bombay (Mumbai) on the west coast and further west (Dar). Will I give up the ghost if, by some unfortunate chance, I happen to visit Calcutta (Kolkata) in the east? I haven’t visited that fair city yet… but I now live in Chennai, so I guess I’m inching closer…? Sounds like something out of a corny fantasy novel, don’t it?
Dad was a short-service commissioned officer with the Indian Navy “on loan” to the Army in Ladakh, supervising the convoys between Leh (definitely) and Pahalgam (I think). Mom joined him at Srinagar and thus began the story of my life.
Dad left the armed forces in 1966 to do an MBA at IIM-Ahmedabad. After a brief spell in N. Delhi, we settled in Bombay for the next decade, first living in Santa Cruz, then Bandra, at Nirmala Colony at the foot of Mount Mary and finally at Khushnuma Apartments on Cumballa Hill (off Peddar Road).
All in all an irregular Bharat darshan… I’ve heard of Americans making it a point to visit, in their lifetimes, every one of the 50 states in their country. I wonder how many Indians are trying to do the same in their motherland – 28 states and 7 union territories. I’ve passed on this idea to my son and he’s pretty enthusiastic since he has hardly traveled around except to Kerala and Andhra Pradesh.
© Sosha Srinivasan
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