Old Friends

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

H. horribilis – Part 1

I spent a couple of years living in a student hostel in Thiruvananthapuram (formerly Trivandrum), the capital of my home state Kerala, while I completed my pre-degree course (11th and 12th grade). It was a mixed experience back in the 1980s. That the city was conservative would be an understatement, its inhabitants seemingly more equine than human, as most had blinkers on. Hopefully attitudes have changed in the interim, but I haven’t visited to find out. Hostel life was primitive but we had our share of escapades and fun.

Late one afternoon, I was walking back to the hostel alone, down a narrow, winding road behind the neighboring Government College for Women. I was lost in thought (unfamiliar territory, you know!) and barely noticed a man standing further on. When I glanced at him, he looked back with an expectant smirk. I frowned and then wondered at the sudden change in his expression to one of disappointment, but dismissed him completely from my mind as I passed him. Minutes later I reached the hostel gates and there was a sudden hubbub behind me – shrill screams and the sound of running footsteps. I wheeled about and thought it wisest to step aside as a crowd of girls I recognized from the hostel stampeded past, shrieking hysterically. One actually ran blindly past the gate, frantically chanting prayers to all the gods of the Hindu pantheon, and I had to gently redirect her in.

I finally caught up with the breathless gaggle, now assembled by the study hall. I was curious to find out what had provoked the flight of the flighty – a rabid dog, or a more exotic monitor lizard, perhaps? But I was taken aback when they began to throw a barrage of questions at me!

“Didn’t you see that?” demanded Suja.

“What?” I frowned.

“That man…” Annie piped up.

“Yeah, I did… so what?”

“No! No! Didn’t you see what he DID?” asked Uma, covering her mouth with a hand and rolling her eyes heavenward.

Some of the others giggled uncontrollably.

“He was just standing there… vayi noki-fying* I think!” I replied puzzled.

More hysterical laughter.

[*Vayi noki (Malayalam slang) - literally someone who "mouth looks" when you eat. In this context a guy drooling over a gal. (The English suffix "-fying" converts it into a verb!)]

“Gawd!” Suja slapped her forehead in disbelief. “You must be blind!”

I considered. True, I am a high myope, possibly legally blind too, but I can see perfectly well with my glasses on. But what was it – obviously larger than life to the others – that I had managed to so seriously overlook? To that innocent query, Suja dropped a bombshell – the guy had dropped his lungi (loincloth) and had been standing there in the buff – and I had walked past him without noticing. How -um- deflating it must have been for the chap’s -er- ego!

Ergo, the next question of course, directed at me, was – how the heck had I missed it? I think it’s because, when I look at someone, I tend to focus exclusively on his or her face – not the nether regions!

Unfortunately these girls had a clearer view by virtue of distance and then had had no choice but to run the gauntlet. It seemed that particular lane was the favorite haunt of several local flashers.

Of course, the last questions was – what would I have done had I noticed? To that I had to truthfully reply – I don’t know. I still don’t know because, though I’ve heard several women complain about it in Chennai too, I have never observed the phenomenon firsthand – thanks, I think, to my habit of drifting through life with my head in the clouds!

The week after my near miss there was a flutter of excitement. Another group of hostelites had been on their way out for a leisurely Saturday afternoon stroll through town when they were accosted by an exhibitionist at the selfsame spot.

What the fellow did not expect was the presence – and reaction – of Bobby, who had been raised in Kuwait and was much bolder than the rest. She was one of the first to notice and, before the others could react and run helter skelter like a flock of panicked goats, she snatched a large ‘appoopan koda’ (‘grandfather’s (straight) umbrella‘) from another girl and charged forward. She swung the brolly furiously at him, its long, pointed steel tip glinting dangerously in the sun.

The chap gathered up his lungi and fled, with Bobby hot on his heels shouting curses and threats. Though the perpetrator escaped with all body parts intact (much to our disappointment), Bobby was feted as the heroine of the hostel.

Unfortunately I missed a ringside view of the action. If I’d been there, I mused aloud, I would have helped bring the guy down and thrashed him…

“Huh! You!” snorted Suja. “You would have stood there blinking right through it all, and finally asked – ‘What happened?’”

It was only twenty years later that I learned that exhibitionism is a mental disorder, classified as part of the obsessive compulsive spectrum, and should be treated with psychotherapy and medication.

I did not, however, miss a dozen hostel girls ‘vayi noki-fying’ a gang of college boys, simply because I happened to be part of the former. We gathered accross the street from the guys’ street corner haunt, emboldened by our numbers. Up rode a dashing helmeted figure on an Enfield Fury (remember that bike?) and we let out a collective, appreciative “Ooooh!” We waited with bated breath as young Galahad eased off his armor – to reveal a callow youth with a pimply visage.

We girls, without exception, went “Yeeuurrgh!”. Disappointed we trooped off to look at something more pleasing at the ‘ladies’ fancy store‘ down MG Road.

© Sosha Srinivasan