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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
The north wind moaned softly in the birches as dusk stole over the chilly autumn evening. A tramp trudged up the path to the rambling house on the outskirts of the village. As fallen red-gold leaves crackled underfoot, a squirrel shot up an oak tree in alarm.
The man paused to peer into the kitchen window aglow with light. He then knocked on the rear door, which was flung open by a large woman in a huge apron. She looked at the man in the patched coat holding the battered hat in his hands.
“Sorry,” she said tersely. “We don’t have any left-overs.”
“Madame,” replied the tramp quietly. “I do not want any food, only a place by the fire to warm myself for a short while.”
“Well,” said the woman more gently, noting his courtesy and air of genteel poverty. “I suppose you could come in. But only for a bit, mind you. And don’t you try wheedling any food out of me ’cause there aint any for the likes of you. The master is having guests to dinner and even I have to wait for my supper till they’re done!”
Waving a plump arm at a low stool by the fire, she said, “Sit yourself down over there.”
The tramp settled down to warm his frozen hands before the blazing fire, while the woman pottered around the kitchen. She finally heaved herself into a wooden chair, which creaked loudly in protest.
“It will be two hours, maybe three, before the master finishes,” she muttered to herself.
“Madame,” broke in the tramp. “Perhaps I could make you some stone soup?”
“Eh?” the cook started, for she had forgotten that he was there. She looked at him bemused.
“What did you say? Stone soup? Never heard of it in all my life!”
From the recesses of his threadbare coat, the tramp took out a grey streaked white pebble the size of a hen’s egg. The grey flecks turned silver as they caught the firelight. By some strange reflection the expression on the tramp’s face too, seemed transformed.
“Soup from that rock there?” chuckled the cook. “Though I must say I’d appreciate hot soup on this cold evening.”
She paused, considering.
“Well, now… I suppose you’ll be needing a pot with some water to begin with.”
She struggled out of the chair, which promptly fell over. The tramp quickly got to his feet and righted it.
“Of course, madame,” he nodded with a smile.
The man placed the proferred pot on the fire and put the pebble into it. He turned to the cook.
“Madame,” he asked, “would you have any vegetable waste that you’re planning to throw away – carrot peel, onion and turnip tops, cabbage leaves, spinach stems…?”
“Here’s a whole pailful,” she replied, waddling over.
The tramp picked out an assortment of vegetable bits and tossed them into the water, which was now boiling merrily.
“A little salt please, madame,” he requested, and in it went. The tramp adjusted the firewood so that the contents of the pot simmered. He then looked enquiringly at the cook.
“Madame, may I ask what delicious fare you have prepared for your master?”
There seemed to be an imminent danger of an explosion as the woman swelled with pride.
“Hrrmph! Roast leg of lamb, chicken and ham pie, turned potatoes, baby carrots, fruit tart…” she rattled off, her face red with pleasure.
“Have the chicken bones and ham rind been discarded?” asked the tramp.
“Oh no! Not yet. I have them right here,” exclaimed the cook.
So in went the rind and the bones, along with a generous dash of pepper and a few bay leaves. The pot bubbled away, filling the room with a mouthwatering aroma.
At last the tramp ladled out the steaming amber liquid into two large bowls.
“Well madame, here we are,” said he, handing one to the cook with a small bow. “Stone soup.”
There was silence in the kitchen for a good while except for the fire crackling in the hearth and the sounds of two people thoroughly enjoying hot soup on a cold night.
Replete, the cook finally gave a sigh of contentment.
“I have had soups in my day, but never one so satisfying and delicious.”
She shook her head in disbelief.
The tramp only smiled as he gently polished the strange silver-flecked stone that he had retrieved from the pot.
NB: The European folk tale I have recounted above is still fresh in my mind though I first read it more than three decades ago as a child of seven. I hope you find in it the same joy and inspiration as I do. We have many lessons to learn from the story, the more important ones being how to take the initiative, create opportunities, innovate with whatever is available instead of hankering after what is not, and how to get around people.
© Sosha Srinivasan
Before she knew it, it was lunch time. Unfortunately the canteen was crowded and they had to share the table she and Surya usually occupied with two ward attendants. This lack of privacy prevented her from telling Surya about the morning’s incident. She would just have to wait until she got home that evening.
She felt nauseated at the very sight of the tiffin carrier and pushed the food around on her plate, looking miserable.
“What’s wrong?” asked Surya. “You’re not eating.”
“I’ve got a bad headache,” she dissembled. “Feeling sick…”
As usual, after lunch Surya picked up the carrier and the bag, exchanged a few words with Shoba about vegetables to be bought for dinner that evening, and left. It was only then that Shoba remembered that Surya would soak the navy blue bag in detergent solution when he got home, as he did every Sunday evening. Shoba would rinse it and hang it out to dry on Monday morning and it would be ready for use again on Tuesday. It was part of their weekly routine…
Shoba walked down the corridor lost in thought, only to find her way barred by the hospital gossip – a lady of considerably large proportions and an even larger repertoire of tales.
“Did you hear about the murder down the road, behind Bhagwandas Chambers?” she demanded breathlessly.
Stunned, Shoba could only shake her head.
“So my suspicions were right – the fellow is really dead,”she thought, desperately hoping that the guilt was not reflected on her face.
Oblivious, Ms. Information proceeded to regale her with the details of the crime – the victim’s name, profession and other particulars. The facts had been gleaned from his ID card and expanded by police enquiries.
Shoba produced gasps of surprise and interjections of “Oh really?” at the necessary intervals, hoping that she wasn’t overdoing her reactions. She gave a sigh of relief when the lady turned away to enlighten some other poor soul on the subject of crime in the big, bad city of Madras.
Now that the police had entered the picture (only to be expected, of course, in the circumstances) Shoba had to think again. She was wondering whether they would come around to question the hospital employees, when a sudden thought occurred to her. Could there have been any witnesses to the incident?
She sat back and considered. The alley wound its way between two office blocks and a shopping complex. She was sure that there were no apartments in any of the buildings immediately around the alley. It was highly improbable that anyone would have been in the offices overlooking the alley so early – and that too on a Sunday. And the spot where the incident took place was not visible either from Trinity Avenue or Mydents Road. she was certain. taking all this into account, Shoba thought she was safe. If, by any chance, the real story came out, she could always plead “self defence”. God knows it was true.
But her fears proved unfounded. the local police, assisted by the crime branch and forensic experts, could not establish any leads. Various motives were attributed to the crime but none proved for want of evidence and witnesses. It was recorded in police files as one of those unsolved crimes which crop up from time to time with unfailing regularity. Needless to say, the murder weapon was never found. Police officials were of the opinion that it lay somewhere in the murky depths of the River Cooum flowing nearby, never even remotely imagining that it sat on the kitchen shelf of a flat in Ashok Nagar.”
~~~~~~~~~~
I put down the Saturday supplement of the newspaper with a pleased look on my face. I had every reason to be proud of myself. The short story, Loaded Weapon, published in that issue had been written by me; my name was there in black and white for all to see!
The idea had come to me two months ago during the short walk to my office from the bus stop and I had thought, “Why not?” I had changed the names of the streets, organizations and characters involved, of course. It had been a long time since my campus days when I had used my talent for creative writing in the colelge magazine – as well as in the examinations!
I could imagine the reactions of my friends and colleagues when they saw the paper; some would be genuinely happy, awed or surprised, others envious, spiteful or just plain indifferent. But the negative reactions could not detract from my pride and satisfaction. That they would not miss it I was sure. Two of my colleagues avidly read every word of the supplement without fail. I was right about this and about the reactions that followed.
There was a sudden hubbub in the corner, followed by a few “Oooh!”s and “Aaah!”s, then a surfeit of hand shaking, demands for a “treat” as well as a couple of green eyed looks. After the initial back thumping and euphoria had died down, we all got down to work.
At around 11 o’clock I was summoned to the Director’s office. “Probably to congratulate you!” they exclaimed encouragingly.
I knocked on the door of the Director’s cabin and entered. I was startled to see a police officer in uniform sitting there. A faint feeling of unease started rowing in the pit of my stomach.
“Sonali, did you write this story?” asked the Director, waving the newspaper supplement in my direction.
“Yes,” I began uncertainly.
“Then please come with me.” It was the police officer who spoke. “There’s been a murder this morning – uncannily similar to the one you have described, and we would like to take you in for questioning.”
The ensuing police case, widely covered by the media, ensured that all the copies of that particular newspaper issue were snapped up and totally sold out. And I got more fame than I had ever bargained for.
© Sosha Srinivasan
Shoba neatly stepped off the bus before it had come to a complete stop, drawing a look of consternation from the conductor. It was half past seven on a pleasant Sunday morning, cooled by the unseasonal shower that had drenched Madras the previous night, and Shoba was feeling on top of the world.
She crossed the road, swinging the navy blue bag that held the lunch that she and her husband shared daily. It was heavy – a good three-quarters of a kilo – and encased in a three tiered steel “tiffin carrier”, but she hardly felt the weight, gripping it by the handle through the fabric of the enclosing bag. Her handbag swung from her left shoulder.
Shoba worked for a private hospital on Mydents Road as a dietician, and her husband Surya was a service engineer for a telecommunications firm next door. They usually shared the food they prepared early in the morning, as neither cared for the fare dished out by their respective canteens.
Surya was more often than not on the early shift from 7 a.m. to 3 p.m. and he cycled to work, only a fifteen-minute ride from home. Shoba commuted by bus, working between 8 a.m. and 5 p.m. They worked a six-day week, both managing to wangle their off days each Monday. It was the thought of the fast approaching morrow that partly contributed to Shoba’s high spirits. They had been planning to go shopping at T. Nagar where she had spotted some colorful prints in a store window. She had thought one of them would be the ideal foil for the plain white kurta she had in her wardrobe. Dining out would end the day perfectly. Shoba had it all chalked out in her mind as she walked down Trinity Avenue, humming a tune to herself.
The road was deserted except for a couple of elderly men out on their morning stroll and a handful of people at the bus stop. As usual, Shoba turned right, into an small alley that branched off the main road onto Mydents Road. As she approached the middle of the alley she suddenly became aware of quick footfalls behind her. A faint sensation of unease came over her but she shrugged it off and walked on to the bend where the alley curved to the left.
As she turned the corner she realized the person behind her was now running. Shoba swung around and saw at a glance who her pursuer was. It was the young man who had been staring at her in the bus that very morning. “Loud-checks” she had mentally christened him, courtesy the bright patterned shirt he had on.
He was now only a few paces away. Any illusion Shoba had, that the man was only hurrying on his way to an appointment, was dispelled when she caught sight of the look on his face. It was a mixture of sadism and lecherous glee and then he was upon her with upraised arms.
Shoba swung her right arm up in an instinctive gesture of self defence. There was a sickening crunch as the cloth-clad
steel connected with the man’s skull. The fellow stopped as if shot, his legs buckling under him, and he pitched forward without a murmur onto the cold cement.
Shoba backed away, choking back the scream rising in her throat. She was trembling, dazed by the assault and its aftermath. It was a terrible, silent nightmare she was being subjected to. and her mind refused to function. She wanted to sit down, close her eyes and shut out the horrible scene, but she knew she had to get away from this place – and quickly.
She staggered away, down the deserted lane which curved past an empty parking lot, still clutching her belongings. Looking back once, she saw that the man had not moved. The scene was surreal, like one out of a “spaghetti” western, awash with corpses and violent crime.
As she turned quickly onto Mydents Road, she suddenly became aware of birds chirping in the tree-line street, and once again there was sound and color in her world. Now her mind raced, picturing again and again the frozen tableau of the dead man crumpled on the ground.
“Dead man!” she shuddered as the thought struck her, then suddenly wondered if he was really dead or just injured. She hurried down the street at a loss as to what to do next.
By the time she had reached the hospital staff entrance, she had calmed down considerably. During the short walk down the street she had decided not to confide in anyone, except Surya – when they met for lunch. Thinking about lunch she automatically looked down at the weapon swinging from her hand. The thought that it might show traces of the crime suddenly struck her. She smiled absently at Bahadur, the security guard on duty who greeted her, her mind working rapidly all the while.
She quickly crossed the yard and walked to the staff locker room which was fortunately empty. Entering the small changing cubicle, she latched the door and sat down with a sigh of relief. Then she turned to examine the bag holding her lunch. Shoba scrutinized the dark fabric minutely and saw a small, coin sized blood stain near the base with a few short hairs adhering to it. Removing the carrier from the bag, she left the cubicle and placed it in her locker, while she took the bag to the wash basin and after carefuly brushing off the hairs, washed out the stained corner.
Shoba returned the bag to her locker, twisted the key in the lock and left the room. She walked slowly down the corridor and entered the section where she worked. She was the first one in, as usual. Her colleagues soon began trickling in one after another, and within minutes the place was humming with activity. The normalcy of the scene had a calming effect on her mind which was still in turmoil. Work helped her forget, at least temporarily, the terrible experience of the morning.
Ousep latched the swinging toilet door behind him, turned toward his seat and froze in midstep.
“Where in the blazes did he spring from?” he muttered angrily to himself, as he glared with distaste at the malodorous form huddled by the carriage door.
The beggar met his gaze with an unfathomable expression before a shuttered look fell across his eyes and he turned his head away to stare into the dark night.
Ousep surveyed the creature with barely disguised contempt, taking in the grubby, ragged clothes that now knew only the color of the earth in its many different hues. He couldn’t have been very old, judging from the sparse growth on his youthful visage, but one leg trailed uselessly behind him at an unnatural angle. He had obviously managed to evade the eagle eye of the TC (the ticket collector), though what he was doing on the train at this unearthly hour Ousep could only conjecture at.
“Must report the fellow when I see the TC next. Can’t have these good-for-nothing characters hanging around,” he thought as he turned away to stand by the open door at the opposite end, staring into the darkness as the train hurtled into the night.
It was one of those rare, hated overnight journeys he had been forced to take in order to attend an interview on the east coast. Unable to sleep, he was in an irritable mood, a mood that overtook him as often as the asthma attacks that plagued him.
Hopefully he’d be able to wangle the job and get away from that stupid social circle he had had to endure through college and his first job. It was bad enough being stuck with a name like Ousep – Ousep Chacko. Why his dad hadn’t stayed with good old “Joseph”was beyond him. He had been called Jack in school – the nickname he had picked. But in college they’d patched together the ‘ou’ from Ousep and the ‘ch’ from Chacko and came up with ‘Ouch!’ and a great deal of teasing had followed, filling him with an almost murderous rage – against his college mates, his dad – and the world in general.
Ouch forced his thoughts back to the present. He glanced back at the heap of rags but it didn’t seem to have moved. A wave of irrational anger rushed over him.
“Ought to be thrown off the train – like I did to that kid the other time,” Ouch muttered savagely to himself. It had been over five years ago but the memory came flooding back clearly, as though it had been only yesterday.
~~~~~~~~~~
The Trivandrum Mail had slowed imperceptibly as it had approached the station in the early hours. It had been enough to jerk Ouch awake. As it were, he had slept fitfully through the night, cursing the noise, the rolling motion of the locomotive, the hard seat and his chronic asthma which prevented him from lying down with any degree of comfort.
As the train had drawn into the station he had rested his elbow against the sill of the open window, his cheek against his palm, half awake. Not a soul stirred in the compartment. A few people with light luggage got out from the carriage next door and disappeared from view in the direction of the station exit.
A thin urchin of perhaps nine or ten, wrapped in a tattered blanket, went by looking into each window, almost all of which were shut againt the cold and wind. Ouch felt a small upsurge of annoyance.
“Damn beggar!” he thought. “Must be looking for pickings.”
To his amazement the beggar backtracked and bright black eyes darting around, sidled up to his window. Ouch didn’t move.
To the urchin it seemed as though the youth, one of those well dressed, Gulf-bred college students, was dozing. It was the bulky US Army surplus jacket on the hook that drew him like a magnet, an item he had already mentally categorized as having excellent resale value. Ouch, following his gaze from a corner of his half-closed eyes, could almost read the urchin’s mind.
It being a brief night halt, the guard blew his whistle just once. This was what the boy was waiting for, and as the train began to move with a small jerk, he put his arm inside. Walking alongside the slowly moving train, his fingers quickly tried to disengage the jacket from the hook.
In an instant Ouch had slammed his arm down across the beggar’s, effectively pinioning the boy’s wrist in a vice-like grip, so tight that it drew an involuntary gasp of pain. Then, as the boy realized what was happening, it changed to a cry of pure terror. The train was slowly picking up speed and the thought that he should let the boy go now flashed through Ouch’s mind. It was almost instantaneously overridden by a heady feeling of power that rushed through his veins.
Ignoring the terrified cries and pleading eyes of the urchin, Ouch waited another minute till the train cleared the station and the vegetation bordering the tracks was just a dark blur whooshing by in the night, and he let go.
The urchin did not see, in his mind’s eye, the familiar faces of his parents or his numerous siblings as he tumbled into space. Instead Ouch’s features, twisted in outrage and hatred, were indelibly printed on his mind as he fell into merciful oblivion.
~~~~~~~~~~
A small sound behind him interrupted Ouch’s reverie and he half turned, one hand resting lightly on the heavy door handle. The sight that confronted him sent a chill down his spine. The crippled beggar had traversed more than two thirds the width of the carriage and was still coming on straight toward him at what seemed like an incredible speed, propelled by his arms and one good leg, a look of concentration almost maniacal in its intensity on his face.
Ouch’s mind had only time to register the ironic similarity of the grotesque creature before him to that of a spider stalking its prey, before powerful arms struck his legs with all their might and he plunged into space.
Only then, with a sense of unquestionable certainty did he know that strange expression, flashing momentarily across the beggar’s face, to be recognition.
© Sosha Srinivasan
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