An old love story

Mr. R is a gentle being; say the sweetest person you meet!

Ms D, a beautiful lady, grace personified.

They live in a gorgeous new house by the side of a hill overlooking the city. They met four decades back in the coastal town that has always been hailed as travellers’ haven.

The story is not that of Mr. R and Ms D but that of Mr. R’s family back in another coastal town of Kerala.

Mr. R belongs to an old traditional Hindu family. Having lost his father by the age of fifteen, he lived with his mother and siblings in an old tiled house with hoards of relatives and servants. His grandfather ran a business of tea and sugar and the house always teemed with people.

Once he completed graduation, he received a job offer in a faraway land, unheard by most in his hometown. Mr. R decided to take the job; it seemed like a welcome change. As fate would have it, there he met Ms D and his life changed forever.

Mr. R was always a very gentle and sweet person. He could not have married Ms D and lived happily ever after without the blessings and consent of his mother and younger siblings. So, on a quite vacation, after both his sisters were married and had borne kids, he broke the news of Ms D, a Catholic Christian, to his mother. Armed with a black and white photograph of Ms D in saree and her long hair tied in a bun, he could easily convince his mother, how pretty and respectable the woman of his choice was.

His mother, despite losing her husband at an early age - unlike most of the widows of that era – had lot of passion for life and enjoyed living every moment of it. Familiar with the ways of the world, she gave her consent almost immediately and announced she wanted to see her daughter-in-law in person, soon.

Mr. R went back to his job and Ms D happy while his family back home started making plans to visit the place and meet Ms D.

Mr. R’s brother managed to purchase a second hand blue Ambassador car, with the consent and support of his mom and arranged a driver too. Within no time, Mr. R’s family, that included his two sisters, their husbands and two kids along with his mother and brother embarked on the journey in the blue Ambassador driven by a sturdy driver. Cars those days could accommodate ‘n’ number of people unlike modern days and the question of how all of them fitted inside one single Ambassador is irrelevant.

It was a long journey. They encountered many hardships enroute, including a flat tyre and a freak accident. They had to cross a ferry on the way and while the driver parked the car waiting for the ferry, it rolled down and bumped into a Mercedes parked ahead. The driver had obviously parked the car in neutral gear and it accounted for the car moving on its own.  However, Mr. R’s mother would narrate the story to her neighbours back home for many years of how the car started rolling on its own and bumped into a ‘foreign car’ parked ahead and the owner of the foreign car came out and shouted at their ‘innocent’ driver.

Water melons were not common those days in the coastal town of Kerala.  So, when the group in the Ambassador car saw water melons, they purchased half a dozen without realizing they would not be able to cut and eat them inside the car without a knife. They arrived at Ms D’s house with those watermelons rolling out of the boot of the Ambassador, much to the embarrassment of Mr. R, who was keen to project a positive image of his kin in front of his future wife and her relatives.

Ms D lived with her mother, a cute and adorable woman, who welcomed Mr. R’s relatives with much love and pampered them with her freshly baked cakes and other delicacies. Mr. R’s sisters and mother were agape and amused at the cute little dress worn by Ms D’s mom.

Mr. R and Ms D took the family around the town on sightseeing and later to the house of Ms D’s best friend, Ms P.

Ms P was overwhelmed and received the family with smiles. She served them beer, as was usual in their place, in tall glass mugs. Mr. R’s mother and sisters were seeing beer for the first time but they gulped it down happily and whispered to each other that it was a shame that they could only serve tea in their houses.  

A small ‘ring exchange ceremony’ was organized at Ms D’s house soon. Mr. R looked smart in a three piece suit and Ms D graceful and pretty as ever in a silk saree to please her would-be in laws. It was agreed that the marriage would be solemnized as per Hindu customs at Mr. R’s hometown.  The group in the Ambassador car returned home thereafter, with plans already afoot for the big wedding.

The unique marriage is another story by itself…will return soon with it…

Slàinte Mhath! Cheers to the Angels and Scotch!

Slàinte Mhath!

Cheers to the Angels and Scotch!

Being a student of English literature is enough reason to be excited to see England but for Giri and I, we were eagerly waiting for the visit to Scotland.

The first ever whisky I tasted was Scotch and I realised what a fine drink it was. The golden colour and aroma adds to the heavenly feel of the drink. My tryst with Scotch whisky paved the way for a teetotaller in Giri to fall in love with the drink and subsequently become a connoisseur himself. That is a separate story by itself and can be told later.

In Edinburgh we visited ‘The Scotch Whisky Experience’. The young lady there with a strong Scottish accent, which irritated Giri as he was trying hard to follow but couldn't understand a thing, showed us how to drink Scotch. She poured us all a drink in the goblet and asked us to view it against the light to appreciate the colour, then swirl the goblet around to check the consistency, then smell it and thereafter to take a sip…. roll it in the mouth….and enjoy the feel and wait for the aftertaste. Whisky is a drink to be enjoyed and not to be gulped down (glug glug glug as we see in our movies!).

That night as we walked back in the biting cold, we encountered many Scottish men in jeans (and not kilts), merry, happy with their national drink.
The bus driver who took us to the Highlands of Scotland the next day, continuously narrated the history of Scotland. He was a proud Scotsman with fifteen years of experience in driving tourists around. He told us that approximately 20 million casks lie maturing in the 270 distilleries in Scotland at any given time.

We visited the Deanston distillery enroute where again another young Scottish lady was our guide. Thankfully she spoke clearly and Giri could clear his doubts!

She showed us the casks that were lying in wait to be filled with the whisky. The wood of the cask and the extent to which it was charred contributed to the flavour of the drink. She showed us how the malted barley is mixed with water from the nearby river and mashed. The mixture is then sent to large tanks where yeast is added and it turns to ale, which is similar to beer. The residue is used as farm feed. Nothing gets wasted. This is then sent for distillation. Distillation produces three types of alcohol - The Head, The Heart and The Tail. The Head is strong enough to make you blind if you drink it. The Tail will be too mild. Both head and tail will be sent back again for distillation with the next lot. The Heart is the one that is transferred to wooden casks and then stored for 3 years and one day to mature. One day is added to cater for any leap years in between. Scots are very meticulous about making their drink, you see!

The casks can be used thrice after which they transform into plant holders or wood for sought-after furniture.

The oldest cask in Deanston distillery is the one that was filled in 1974, that is one year younger to me. They are waiting for it to mature for 50 years.

The longer the maturing period, the more expensive the whisky would be. The young lady shared a secret with us, an expensive whisky that has matured in the cask for longer years, does not ensure a better quality whisky. A three year period is enough for the whisky to mature and once it gets transferred to the bottles, they do not mature anymore in taste. The flavour does not change much once it goes past the time period of three years.

Then why do men proudly display a bottle of whisky matured for 12 years or more? I saw 35 year old whisky in bottles with price tags that rattled the currency conversion machine in my head.

In Scotland, they believe that angels come at night to sip the whisky from the casks. They have to give 2 percent of the whisky to the angels every year. That is the deal. It is called the Angels’ share. If you keep them for more number of years, you will have to give them a higher share. If you keep it for 15 years, the Angels’ share would be 30 percent. Now you know, why the whisky that remains in the cask for a longer period is expensive.

The scientific explanation is that the casks, though watertight, are not air tight and so the whisky evaporates over a period of time. Two percent is the standard over a year. The Scots did try to mature the whisky in air tight casks but realized it wasn't tasting the same. It was fair enough to give the Angels their share, they decided.

The temperature in the warehouses of Scotland never goes higher than 15 even in summers. In India where they try to replicate the process of making Scotch whisky (?), the Angels’ share can go up to 15 percent a year due to the tropical climatic conditions. What a huge loss! I guess it is better to leave it to the Scots to distil the golden liquid in their pristine environs. The rest of the world can sit back and enjoy it!

Whisky is "very personal" as the Scots say. You can roll it around your tongue and choose the best for you!

Ready or Not ready??

I see a lot of anger and frustration on social media regarding the age old of custom of Sabarimala forbidding women in the age group of ten to fifty from entering the mountain shrine.

"Kaattilundu vanyamrugangal, Kaattanakal kaduva pulikal..
Koottamodu varunna neram, kootinaarundu ayyappa
Koode varoo ayyappa, njangalude koodevaroo ayyappaa.."
( An old devotional song, an invocation to the deity asking to protect the pilgrims from the wild animals on the trek.)

In my childhood, I lived next to an old temple, where they used to play devotional songs in the evening. It never used to be loud and glaring like in the temple festivals nowadays where they play film songs with a vengeance. In the evening twilight the melodious voice of Yesudas was always soothing and comforting. I have learnt by heart many old Ayyappa devotional songs as they used to be played regularly during the 41 day fast during Mandalakalam.

I have heard from my grandmother that in olden days, men had to walk many days through thick jungle before they reached Sabarimala. It used to take ten to fifteen days. Those days the forests were infested with many wild animals like Elephants Leopards and Tigers. Remember, according to the legend, this is the forest where Ayyappa went searching for Tigress’s milk. There was a sturdy, long bamboo stick in our house which was used to beat frogs and other nocturnal creatures that ventured into the house. It belonged to my great grandfather who used to carry it on his annual pilgrimage to Sabarimala. A stick in hand was handy to ward off wild animals.

Another unique practice of the devotees who climb the hills to Sabarimala is the Saranam vili. As they move in a group, one person would chant Ayyappa mantras loudly and the rest of the members would reiterate. Again, it is another attempt to get rid of fear and keep wild beasts away.

All women are not barred from going to the shrine. The women in the age group of ten to fifty; women who menstruate are forbidden to undertake the pilgrimage to Sabarimala. No other Ayyappa temple forbids the entry of women. A logical explanation can be found in the fact that the smell of blood can attract wild beasts. In a journey of ten to fifteen days or even more, a woman would know better that even with utmost strategy and planning, it is difficult to be sure of one’s oncoming menstrual cycle. So, our forefathers, with extreme care and consideration for the safety and protection of their women folk must have brought forth this ban. Of course, this is irrelevant now because the trek has become shorter and the forest has dwindled. It is not the devotees but the wild animals who are scared now and so an archaic practice is being questioned.

Customs and traditions were formulated by our ancestors keeping in mind the need of the day. We have been blindly following them. Over a period of time they become out dated and detrimental. Changes do not happen without resistance and so the commotion.

Sri Ayyappa is believed to be celibate. According to the story, he was the adopted son of the Pandala King. He went into the forest to get Tigress’s milk to cure his foster mother’s head ache. The queen who wanted her biological son to be the heir to the throne cleverly sent Ayyappa to the forest thinking that the beasts would kill him. But Ayyappa returned on a Tigress’s back. When he learned the truth about his mother’s feigned head ache, he readily renounced his heirship in favour of his brother and became a recluse in the forest. Isn’t it care, love and respect for his mother, who is also a woman, that made him go fearlessly into the Tiger’s abode? He gave up his rights to see her happy. That makes him someone who holds women in great veneration. He is not a god to be dragged into a controversy about repressing the rights of women.

Pavam Ayyappa Swami. He must be feeling sad watching all this from the top of the hill...

As I walked barefoot on the hills...my feet ached, I fell down and hurt my knees, my dad who held my hand whispered to me, “Makkalee Ayyappa saamiii rakshikkane ennu manasil vilicho...onnum pattoolla.”(Pray to Ayyappa swami in your mind. He will keep you safe.)

Velichapad

Why should one have passions?
Is it to live a happy life or to escape from life?
Either way it does seem enticing.
Does every human being have a passion in life?

Many of us are taught from childhood that we should aspire to get a job that would give us livelihood and then work till we retire. Most of us take our talents and abilities undisclosed to our grave.

Blessed are those who get to live life as it comes, one day at a time spending every moment the way they wish to be! Some are born to be so.

In the small village where I was born and brought up, there were many such souls. Krishnarpanam was one of them. I do not know why he was called Krishnarpanam. It must have been Krishna + Arpanam (offering) or Krishna+Panam(money). He was the Velichapad (oracle) of the local temple. For every festive occasion, he would be there in front of the procession, dressed in red silk tied over the white dhoti, saffron on his forehead, dancing in frenzy with the deity’s sword in hand. He made a formidable sight with his pan stained teeth, long hair that reached his shoulder and his round bulging eyes.

This was only during the festivals and for other important days in the temple. Rest of the year he was just Krishnarpanam, a tall thin and fair man in his sixties, who walked the street in a white shirt and dhoti, stubble face and well oiled hair combed backwards. He was a chronic bachelor who roamed about during the day and spent his nights on the veranda of his sister’s hut.

You will now have in your mind, the image of a poor pious old man, who lived a frugal life. Wait a minute; he was a Velichapad alright, pious he must have been, and a frugal life he lived indeed but I know him in my childhood from his association with my father. I would find him standing at our gate when I run to see who was banging the Iron Gate. The Velichapad would be standing there with a broad smile and  make believe veneration.

“Saar ille..” (Isn’t sir home?) I run back to tell my father that Velichapad was standing at the gate.  My father who would have been cutting his moustache or reading the newspaper will twist his face, look at me and say, “Ask him to get lost!”  I would stand quietly for a minute looking at my father in expectation that he would get up and go to the gate. My father would twist his face in anger again, give the stretched out newspaper in his hand a shake and say, “Huh!”

I do not know of whom I used to get scared at that particular moment. Was it the Velichapad who was standing outside with his scary face or my father who sat there with his eyes glued on to the paper? I would quietly tiptoe to the window of the front room and look from behind the curtains. The Velichapad would be standing there like a statue in anticipation. I would sneak back to my dad again and stand in front of him quietly till he looks up.

“Hmm?” he would ask when he sees me again.

“Velichapad standing...”I would stammer.

“Huh Huh stupid!” he would rustle the newspapers and scorn.

“Go and take a two rupee note from my pocket and give it to that fellow!”
I would jump and open his cupboard, climb on to the rack and put my hand in the pocket of his last worn white shirt, find a two rupee note and run back to the gate. The Velichapad would be waiting patiently. He will quickly pocket the currency note, turn and with lightning speed go down the lane that led to Pana.

Pana those days was the land of the Bashkirs to me. The coconut climbers and their families lived in the small thatched huts there. Green meadows, streams, ponds and coconut trees gave it a delightful charm. There were two ladies there; Naani and Chellamma. They were business rivals who sold toddy and arrack at their houses. The coconut climbers heading back from climbing trees all day would head to either of their houses to cool their heels and heads before they went to their own wives. So every married woman in Pana cursed Naani and Chellamma for the downfall of their husbands. Our house help was one of them and I would occasionally hear her speak of these two fallen angels of Pana who corrupted the men there. I never had the luck to see Naani or Chellamma. I imagined Naani to be a coy temptress as the name suggested and Chellamma a more mature and brisk business woman. There used to be a lot of drunken brawls at their place. The two women were adept at handling them all.

I don’t think Velichapad had any business to do with the coconut climbers. He owned no land and no coconut trees so where in Pana he headed is very apparent. I wonder who used to take the two rupee note from him...Naani or Chellamma?

Come twilight, and I would often hear a commotion in the lane behind our house. The Velichapad used to take bath at the public tap in the evenings. Those days, the elephants that were brought for the temple festival were also given bath at the public tap. The mahout would often ask for a bucket from our place to fill water for the elephant to fill his trunk from and then take bath. The Velichapad would bring his bucket to fill water. He would be quite inebriated by that time and would curse and scold everybody who passes by very loudly.

He would then take my father’s name from there and say,”Who do you think you are!!!”

My father who would be back from office by then would hear it and his face would twitch in anger, “Panna(dirty) Rascal!!” he would say. I would be hiding in my room feeling guilty of giving money to the drunkard.

Next week the ‘Panna Rascal’ would be back at the gate, like a gentle cat. The cycle would continue because the Velichapad forgets and my father forgives.

Krishnarpanam, the Velichapad died one evening after he had a fall chest down on the granite rock near the public tap while taking bath. Some said he had a heart attack, others said he lost balance in his drunken state and hit the rock which led to his death.

Life can be lived in many different ways. Vagabond rogue or a pious silent being; those who leave a mark are remembered.

Clean and Happy

Delhi is pleasant this time. The heat doesn’t annoy me as it used to two years before when I was here. The polluted hazy sky do not seem to allow the sun to hit directly so it is not excruciatingly hot as it should be at this time of the year.

The third day in Delhi and we were still house hunting. We had already seen three houses in three different societies and I had already made up my mind on one. Still, we were seeing some more, just to be sure.

It was May, and the heat was killing. I moved on to the shade of a tree on the road side when my husband was speaking to someone on the phone. He finished the call and turned to me. “There’s one more house. Let’s go and see it.” I didn’t want to see any more houses but the heat made me meek and I found it easier to comply than trying to reason.

It was a very well kept house. The white tiles gleamed and the curtains looked like they had just been washed and ironed. The kitchen shined and the glass we were offered water to drink sparkled. My husband who has a fetish for cleanliness beamed.

“Let’s take the house,” he said once we were in the escalator.

The rent was lower than the other houses we saw. There was a canteen and a Medical room below in the society which were added attractions.

I had felt uneasy when I was in the house and so was silent. Intrigued by my eerie silence and with the experience of two decades he asked, “What’s it?”

“I didn’t like the house! I felt sick.” I said.

“Why?!!  The lady has kept the house so clean! You should be happy to grab it!” He shook his head in disbelief.

“There!!! The house is too clean.

I myself was trying to decipher the feeling that crept on me when I was sitting in that clean and tidy drawing room. I felt sick. It was like sitting in a hospital room. I wouldn’t move in there. I might fall sick!”

The disbelief had given way to a helpless grin now. “Okay! Let’s go with your choice.”

Ridiculously nutty irk that I am, still he knows I would stand by my ‘intuition’.

I can count the number of houses that I have lived in the past nineteen years. It’s not always that we get to choose the house that we live in. We have lived in two room accommodations where we used to bump into each other all the time and also in huge mansions frequented by snakes, frogs and other wild life. However comfortable or uncomfortable a house is, I look for and find happy corners where I can sit and weave dreams and make memories...

Happiness matters and feelings too...Delhi is not unbearably hot this summer, and I am thankful.

Signing off from my happy corner in the balcony of the house that I got to CHOOSE this time. J

Food for thought

“ Your children are not your children.
They are the sons and daughters of Life's longing for itself.

They come through you but not from you,
And though they are with you yet they belong not to you.

You may give them your love but not your thoughts,
For they have their own thoughts.
You may house their bodies but not their souls,
For their souls dwell in the house of tomorrow,
which you cannot visit, not even in your dreams.
You may strive to be like them,
but seek not to make them like you.
For life goes not backward nor tarries with yesterday.”

Having a child studying in eleventh standard should be a matter of pride or tension for the parents?

Being a happy go lucky, never so much serious in life type of person, I was surprised and pricked by guilt when I went into a house of two teenage girls; one in twelfth and the other in tenth class. The parents had disconnected cable connection at home so that their daughters can concentrate on their studies. The mother and father looked stiff with a perennially constipated look on their faces.

Not a fan of TV programmes, it was not the absence of the idiot box cacophony that bothered me. I was hit by an overwrought energy in that house which made my heart race in an unknown fear.  The parents looked like passengers in an airplane about to make an emergency landing.

I have nothing but reverence for those two individuals, who being hard working middle class government servants struggled to maintain an atmosphere for their children to devote themselves to studies 24X7 so that they can have a secure future.

The guilt I felt that day was due to my inability to provide a solemn environment akin to what I saw in that house for my own child. This guilt increased every time I spoke with some other friends who had children of the same age.

As part of my penitence I tried playing the strict, no nonsense mother many times, only to be met with bewildered but dismissive glances as if I was having one of my ‘mood swings’.

 To this remorseful, blameworthy mother, a friend recently narrated an incident that happened to her daughter’s classmate. The child, who though hardworking and intelligent, could not take the pressure of exams and parent’s expectation and started getting migraines. She innocently swallowed three or four tablets to contain one of her severe headaches and had to be carried to the hospital by her terrified classmates.

I realise now why I should not coerce my sons likewise. If I try to become very strict at home with my sons, seize them by their necks to make them study then I will suffer from migraines, muscle aches, palpitations and will have to pop in one pill after the other. So, in the interest of my health and happiness, I leave them alone.

Men are born cool! Boys or grownups…all the same.

Whenever I feel feverish, sick or lonely, I have the habit of getting into the kitchen and making kanji and payar. It kind of soothes me by taking me back to my roots; an old house, the scent of jasmine, the light of a brass lamp…I belong there.

To my sons I would say, their amma can provide them with ‘kanji payar’ as long as she is alive. Let their own aspirations lead them to places that would satiate their further appetites.

കാത്തിരിപ്പ്‌

സൂര്യൻ അസ്തമിക്കും മുൻപേ ഇരുട്ട് പരക്കാൻ തുടങ്ങിയിരിക്കുന്നു. ദിസെംബെർ അവസാനം ആകുന്നതോട് കൂടി ശൈത്യം അതിന്റെ പാരമ്യത്തിൽ എത്തും .

വഴിയോരത്ത് പിച്ചതെന്ടാൻ സ്ഥിരമായി കാണാറുള്ള വൃദ്ധ അന്നും ഹാജരായിരുന്നു. ആരോ വൃത്തിയായി വിരിച്ചിട്ട പഴയ ഷീറ്റിൽ എടുത്തു ഇരുത്തിയിടത്തു കൂനി കൂടി വിറച്ചു വിറച്ചു അവർ ഇരുന്നു. തലയിലൂടെ മൂടിയ സാരിക്ക് പുറത്തു കൂടെ പിഞ്ഞി കീറിയ ഷാൾ .  എന്നെത്തെയും പോലെ നിർവികാരം ആയിരുന്നു അവരുടെ മുഖം.  മുന്പിലെ അലുമിനിയം പാത്രത്തിൽ നാണയങ്ങൾ അന്ന് കമ്മിയായിരുന്നു. വാച്ചിലേക്ക് ഒന്ന് കൂടി നോക്കി. സമയം  അഞ്ചു മുപ്പത്തിയഞ്ചു.  വരാമെന്ന് പറഞ്ഞ സമയം കഴിഞ്ഞിരിക്കുന്നു.

വാട്സാപ് കൂടി  നോക്കി. ലാസ്റ്റ് സീൻ  അഞ്ചു  ഇരുപത് . പെട്ടന്ന് ഔൻലൈൻ ആയി.

'വിൽ റീച് ഇന് ഫൈവ് മിനുട്സ്'

ഓ കെ ടൈപ് ചെയ്തു പുറത്തേക്കു നോക്കി.

തിരക്കേറിയ നഗരത്തിലെ താരതമേന്യ  ഒഴിഞ്ഞ കഫൈ കോഫീ ദേ ഔറ്റ്ലെറ്റ്. ഒരു മൂലയ്ക്ക് മൂന്നു ചെറുപ്പക്കാർ ഉറക്കെ പൊട്ടിച്ചിരിച്ചു സംസാരിച്ചിരുന്നു.

മുൻപിൽ ഇരുന്ന കപ്പുചിനോവിൽ ഒരു പാകെറ്റ് പഞ്ചസാര പൊളിച്ചിട്ട്‌ പതുക്കെ  ഇളക്കി. ഫ്ലാറ്റിൽ നിന്നും  സൈക്കിൾ റിക്ഷയിൽ കയറി ഇങ്ങോട്ട് വരുമ്പോൾ മനസ് ശൂന്യമായിരുന്നു. ചിന്തകള്ക്ക് കുറച്ചു കാലമായി വിരാമമിട്ടിരിക്കുകയായിരുന്നു .

ചില്ലു വാതിൽ തള്ളിത്തുറന്നു അവൾ അകത്തേക്ക് വന്നു. പതിനേഴു വർഷങ്ങൾക്കു മുൻപ് അവൾ ഇതിനെക്കാൾ സുന്ദരി ആയിരുന്നിരിക്കണം. അവളുടെ ഫോട്ടോ ആദ്യമായി കണ്ടപ്പോൾ തന്നെ ഉള്ളിൽ ചെറുതായി ഞെട്ടിയിരുന്നു. കാരണം അവൾക്കു എന്റെ തന്നെ മുഖഛയായ  ആയിരുന്നു. അതെ ഞെട്ടൽ  നേരിൽ കണ്ടപ്പോളും ഉള്ളിലൂടെ  പാഞ്ഞു.

 
ഒരു  ക്ഷെമാപനത്തോടെ കസേര വലിച്ചിട്ടു എന്റെ മുന്പിലേക്കു അവൾ ഇരുന്നു. ചുരുണ്ട തോളറ്റം വരെ ഉള്ള മുടിയെ ചുറ്റി ഒരു ചുവന്ന മഫ്ലർ. കറുത്തഫ്രൈമുള്ള   കണ്ണടക്കുള്ളിൽ  വിടർന്ന  കരിയെഴുതിയ മിഴികൾ. ചുണ്ടിൽ  സ്ട്രോബെര്രി  നിറത്തിലെ ലിപ്സ്റ്റിക്,  കമ്പിളി കോട്ടിന്റെ സ്ലീവ് അല്പം കയറ്റി വച്ച വലതു കൈത്തണ്ടയിൽ   ഒരു   വെളുത്ത  ദയലുള്ള ഡി കെ എൻ വയ് വാച്ച്. ഒറ്റ നോട്ടത്തിൽ ആര്ക്കും ഇഷ്ടം തോന്നും.  

അളകനന്ദയുടെ  കണ്ണുകൾക്ക്‌ മുന്നിൽ  എന്റെ രൂപത്തെ വിചാരണക്ക് വിട്ടു കൊടുത്തു ഞാനിരുന്നു.  ആദ്യം അവൾ തന്നെ സംസാരിച്ചു ഒരു ചെറുപുഞ്ചിരിയോടെ

"കേണൽ പാർതിപന്റെ ഭാര്യയെ ഒരു അതിസുന്ദരി ആയി ആണ്  ഞാൻ സങ്കല്പിച്ചത്.."

ഉറക്കെ ചിരിക്കണം എന്ന് തോന്നി പക്ഷെ തിരിച്ചു ശാന്തമായി ചോദിച്ചു, 'എന്തെ അളകനന്ദ  എനിക്ക് സൌന്ദര്യം ഇല്ലേ?'

ഇമവെട്ടാത്ത  കണ്ണുകളോടെ അവൾ പറഞ്ഞു, 'നിങ്ങൾ തീര്ച്ചയായും സുന്ദരിയാണ്. പക്ഷെ ഞാൻ പ്രതീക്ഷിച്ചത് ഒരു അതി സുന്ദരിയായ യെക്ഷിയെയാണ്...'

അവൾ ഉറക്കെ ചിരിച്ചു. ഞാനും.

എത്രെ കരുത്തുള്ള സ്ത്രീയും  പ്രണയത്തിനു മുൻപിൽ വെറും സാധാരണ പെണ്ണായി പോകും എന്ന തിരിച്ചറിവ് എന്നിൽ വന്നു.

'ഹൌ ഈസ് ഹീ? പാർതിപൻ ?' അവൾ ചോദിച്ചു.

'പഴയത് പോലെ തന്നെ സന്തോഷവാനാണ്." അത് കേട്ട്   അവൾ വീണ്ടും പുഞ്ചിരിച്ചു.

ഒരാഴ്ച മുൻപ് ഫൈസ്ബുക്കിൽ നിന്നും അവളെ കണ്ടുപിടിചെടുത്തു ചാറ്റ് ചെയ്തപ്പോൾ പാർതിപന്റെ പഴയ ഒരു ഡയറിയിൽ നിന്നും അവളെ കുറിച്ച് അറിഞ്ഞത്  വിശദമായി പറഞ്ഞിരുന്നു.  ഒരു നിമിഷത്തെ നിശബ്ദതക്കു ശേഷം അളകനന്ദയുടെ കണ്ണുകൾ വീണ്ടും എന്നെ ഉഴിഞ്ഞു.

'സൗമിനീ  നിങ്ങൾ എന്തിനാണ് ഇപ്പോൾ എന്നെ തേടിപിടിച്ചത്?'

പുറത്തു ഇരുട്ടിനു കട്ടിപിടിച്ച് തുടങ്ങിയിരുന്നു. ദൂരെയുള്ള മേട്രോലൈനിൽ ഓരോ രണ്ടു നിമിഷത്തിലും ഒരു വണ്ടി ഒഴുകിയോടുന്നത് കാണാമായിരുന്നു. 

ഒഴിഞ്ഞ എന്റെ കപ്പുച്ചിനോ കപ്പിൽ നോക്കി ഞാൻ പറഞ്ഞു 'അളകനന്ദ നമുക്കൊരു ചൂട് കാപ്പി കൂടി  കുടിക്കാം.'

അളകനന്ദ എന്നെ തന്നെ ശ്രദ്ധിച്ചിരുന്നു. രണ്ടാമത്തെ കപ്പു കാപ്പിയും കുടിച്ചു തീരും വരെ.

പുറത്തു നന്നേ ഇരുട്ടിയിരുന്നു. എതിരെ ഉള്ള ഫാസ്റ്റ് ഫുഡ് കടയിൽ നല്ല തിരക്ക്. കൈമുട്ട് വരെ ചുവപ്പും വെളുപ്പും നിറത്തിലെ വളകൾ ഇട്ട ഒരു നവവധു ജിലേബി  നുണഞ്ഞു നില്പുണ്ട് ചെറുപ്പം എങ്കിലും അവളുടെ കുടവയറനായ  ഭര്ത്താവ് എന്തോ  വല്യ ദാനകര്മം ചെയ്യുന്ന പോലെ അരികത്തുണ്ട്.

അളകനന്ദ യുടെ ചുണ്ടിൽ ഒരു ചെറിയ പുഞ്ചിരി തങ്ങി നിന്നു . അവളെ തന്നെ നോക്കി ശാന്തമായി ചോദിച്ചു'" അളകനന്ദാ എനിക്ക് പാര്തിപനെ  വെറുക്കണം. നിനക്കതിനു എന്നെ സഹായിക്കാൻ പറ്റുമോ?"

അവൾ ഒരൂ കൊച്ചു കുട്ടിയെ എന്ന പോലെ അൽപ സമയം എന്നെ തന്നെ നോക്കിയിരുന്നു. പിന്നെ പതുക്കെ പറഞ്ഞു.
"ഞാൻ അയാളെ ഒരിക്കലും വെറുത്തില്ല.  എന്തിനാണ്  സൗമിനീ..?'
ആ നിമിഷം എനിക്ക് അവളോട്‌ കടുത്ത  ദേഷ്യം തോന്നി.  
സ്നേഹിച്ചു വഞ്ചിച്ച പുരുഷനെ വെറുക്കാതെ ഇരിക്കാൻ അയാൾ അത്ര ദിവ്യനാണോ?



പുറത്തു തണുപ്പിലൂടെ തിരിച്ചു ഫ്ലാറ്റിലെക്കു നടക്കുമ്പോൾ അന്ന് ആദ്യമായി വൃദ്ധയുടെ അലുമിനിയം പാത്രത്തിലേക്ക് ഒരു നാണയം കുനിഞ്ഞിട്ടു. 



രാത്രിയിൽ പുറത്തു വീശിയടിക്കുന്ന കാറ്റിന്റെ ഒച്ച കേട്ട് കിടന്നു.
അമ്മയെ വിളിക്കുവാൻ തോന്നിയില്ല. കിടപ്പിലായ അച്ഛനെ ശുശ്രുഷിച്ചു തളര്ന്നു കിടന്നു കാണും പാവം. മുട്ടുവേദന കൂടുതൽ ആണെന്ന് പറഞ്ഞിരുന്നു. ആലോചിച്ചപ്പോൾ എന്നേക്കാൾ കഷ്ടമല്ലേ അമ്മയുടെ കാര്യം എന്ന് ഓര്ത് പോയി. അച്ഛന്റെ കള്ളുകുടിയും ശകാരവും അമ്മയുടെ  പുഞ്ചിരി പണ്ടേ മായ്ച്ചു കളഞ്ഞിരുന്നു. ഏട്ടന്റെ പെട്ടന്നുള്ള മരണം ശേഷിച്ചിരുന്ന പ്രസാദവും ആ മുഖത്ത് നഷ്ടപെടുത്തി. 

 
 വിശപ്പ്‌ തോന്നിയപ്പോൾ എണീറ്റ്  ചൂട് വെള്ളത്തിൽ ഹോർലിക്സ് കലക്കി കുടിച്ചു. കുട്ടിക്കാലത്തെ ശീലം ആയിരുന്നു അത്. ഇപ്പോൾ ഒരു സാന്ത്വനവും.  ഇനിയും എത്ര നാൾ  ഇങ്ങിനെ എന്ന് ഓര്ത് പോയി. ഇല്ല...  മനസിലെ ചിന്തകൾ കടലാസിൽ പേന കൊണ്ടെന്ന പോലെ പലതവണ വെട്ടി. 



കഴിഞ്ഞ ഒരു ആഴ്ച പാർതിപന്റെ ഭൂത കാലം ചികഞ്ഞു നടക്കുകയായിരുന്നു.



ഫയലുകൾക്കിടയിൽ നിന്നും കിട്ടിയ ഒരു ഓ ബി സീ സര്ടിഫിക്കെറ്റ് ഒരു പുതിയ അറിവായിരുന്നു. പതിനേഴു വര്ഷങ്ങള്ക് മുൻപ്  അയ്യാളെ പ്രണയിച്ചപ്പോൾ ജാതി ചോദിച്ചിരുന്നില്ല.   ഒന്നിച്ചുള്ള ജീവിതം  ഒരു ദിനചര്യ മാത്രമായപ്പോലും ജാതിയോ മതമോ ഒരിക്കലും ഇടയിൽ  വന്നില്ല. 



പിന്നീട് അന്ന് വരെ തുറന്നുനോക്കിയിട്ടില്ലാത്ത  ഡയറി കുറിപ്പുകളിൽ നിന്നും അളകനന്ദയും അമ്മയുടെ മരണവും. അമ്മയ്ക്ക് ഭ്രാന്ത് ആയിരുന്നെന്നും വര്ഷങ്ങളോളം  ചികിത്സിച്ചിരുന്നു  എന്നും വായിച്ചറിഞ്ഞപ്പോൾ നെഞ്ചിൽ ആരോ അമര്ത്തി ചവുട്ടിയ പോലെ തോന്നി.



തലേന്ന് പാല് വാങ്ങാൻ മറന്ന കൊണ്ട് രാവിലെ കട്ടൻ കാപ്പിയിട്ട് കുടിച്ചു . വിശപ്പില്ലെങ്കിലും രണ്ടു കഷണം റൊട്ടിയും. മിലിട്ടറി ആശുപത്രിയിൽ കൂട്ടിരുപ്പുകാരുടെ ആവശ്യം ഇല്ല. ഐ സി യു വിൽ  ആയതു കൊണ്ട് രാവിലെ അവിടുത്തെ വിസിറ്റെർസ് റൂമിൽ ചെന്ന് ഇരിപ്പാണ്   പതിവ്. നിറയെ മരങ്ങൾ ഉള്ള ശാന്തമായ ഒരു ആശുപത്രി. നീണ്ട പതിമൂന്നു  പകലുകൾ അവിടെ കാത്തിരിക്കുകയായിരുന്നു. മരണത്തിനോ ജീവിതത്തിനോ  എന്ന് അറിയാതെ.  



മരിക്കുമ്പോൾ കൂടെ മരിക്കാൻ നിഴൽ  ഒന്നും അല്ലല്ലോ. 
മരവിപ്പും നിർവികാരതയും വിരസതയായി തുടങ്ങിയപ്പോളാണ് വൈകുന്നേരങ്ങളും രാത്രികളും പാര്തിപനെ വെറുക്കുവാൻ കാരണങ്ങൾ അന്വേഷിക്കുവാൻ തുടങ്ങിയത്.    



സ്നേഹിക്കുന്നവരെയേ വെറുക്കാൻ പറ്റൂ  എന്ന് പതിയെ മനസിലായി. അയാളെ വെറുക്കുന്നില്ല എന്ന് അളകനന്ദ പറഞ്ഞത് സത്യമാണ് എന്നും.



കൂടെയുള്ള ജുനിയരോട്  എന്തോ  തമാശ പറഞ്ഞു ഐ സി യു വിന്റെ വാതില തുറന്നു ഇറങ്ങി വന്ന  മധ്യവയസ്കനായ ഡോക്ടർ  അടുത്തേക്ക് വന്നു. 
'ഇരുന്നോളൂ എണീക്കണ്ട...കണ്ടീഷൻ അത് പോലെ തന്നെയാണ് മേം. ലൈഫ് സപ്പോർട്ട് കൊടുക്കാനെ ഞങ്ങള്ക്ക് പറ്റൂ. മരണം സംഭവിക്കാതെ ഞങ്ങള്ക് അത് മാറ്റുവാൻ  അധികാരം ഇല്ല...'



എന്റെ നിശബ്ദത ശീലമായ ഡോക്ടർ ഒരു മറുപടിക്ക് കാത്തുനിന്നില്ല .



ആ പതിനാലാമത്തെ  ദിവസം  ആകാശം ഇരുണ്ടു മേഘാവൃതമായിരുന്നു. 
ശൈത്യത്തിൽ പെയ്യുന്ന മഴ തണുപ്പിന്റെ കാഠിന്യം കൂട്ടും.
ഇന്ന് മഴ പെയ്യും... മനസിലെ വേഴാമ്പൽ മന്ത്രിച്ചു...