OLD Town BY THE SEA

 

Those days, I lived with my husband’s parents in their ancestral home in a tiny hamlet tucked a couple of kilometers from the sea—as the crow flies—dotted with coconut palms, jackfruit, cashew, and mango trees. It was an old town, a serene place by the sea. A 17th-century Portuguese church and a nearby Devi temple stood as symbols of social harmony. I often wondered why my husband’s parents chose to settle in a village with only half a dozen Muslim families. My father-in-law, a successful tradesman and highly respected man, was simply known as Kochukunju Musaliar to the villagers. No one cared that he always wore a skullcap and a well-groomed goatee or that he faithfully attended the ancient masjid for five daily namaz. Back then, people didn’t identify others by faith or attire—those were personal, inconspicuous matters. There were no muezzins blaring through loudspeakers; the six families took turns announcing the call to prayer.

The Gulf Boom brought migration and wealth, and today, neo-rich Muslims who bought land in the village flaunt their petro-dollar prosperity. With it came a new mosque, its gaudy ornamentation a stark contrast to the spartan, nondescript ancient masjid—an enduring symbol like the temple or the Gothic church. My father-in-law’s objection to using loudspeakers for the azan was ignored. He argued that loudspeakers were an anachronism in the Prophet’s time and, if purists insisted on strict adherence to the Quran and Hadith, electronic gadgets should be anathema. But Gulf money spoke louder, funding the new mosque.

That serves as an introduction to the old town by the sea.

As a dutiful daughter-in-law, I stayed with my husband’s parents while he worked in a city a hundred kilometers away, returning home on weekends. The village’s laid-back life captivated me: the perennially flowing river gleaming like silver in the midday sun, dragonflies and exquisite butterflies, colorful birds with musical notes, the oriole perched on the guava tree, street dogs wagging their tails and following me, the dense sacred grove near the temple—awesome to me, eerie to some—the gentle ringing of temple bells at dusk announcing deeparadhana, and the spirit of Christ I felt in the ancient church. All were too dear to abandon for city life. My love for my husband was no less than my love for this old town, though some found my choice peculiar. He was happy I cared for his parents, and I eagerly awaited his weekend visits, though we missed each other during the week.

I had a habit of walking at sunrise, a practice from my schooldays at the Jesuit school in Ooty. The gentle nip in the morning air was pleasant. I didn’t notice the man until he caught up with me, slightly out of breath, perhaps trying to match my brisk pace. I’d often seen him at the gate of a house near the post office, its façade reeking of Gulf wealth.

“Haa, young woman, I haven’t seen you around. Are you a visitor?” he asked.

I smiled as I would at an elderly acquaintance. “No, I live here.”

His avuncular expression was noticeable. “Oh, pardon this old man; I don’t recall seeing you. Which household, dear?”

“I’m Kochukunju Musaliar’s daughter-in-law.”

“Oh, I see. Pardon me, dear. I was living in my ancestral home in Ranni, but after the partition, my nephews threw me out—ungrateful scoundrels. They said, ‘Ouseph Velliappa, get out; you have no place here.’ Luckily, Clara, my son’s wife, is in Kuwait. She’s a nurse and bought fifteen cents of land to build this house for me and Josutty. We moved in a few years ago…. your husband didn’t join you this morning? I guess he’s lazing in bed, tired from last night’s acrobatics.” He chuckled and winked, halting my walk.

“My husband works in the city and comes home on weekends,” I said, feeling uneasy.

“Oh, goodness, Holy Mary, mother of God!” He looked skyward. “How unkind of him to leave a young woman alone!”

“I’m not alone. I live with my parents-in-law and take care of them.”

“No, dear, that’s unfair. A young woman has fantasies… goodness, goodness me! You can enjoy nuptial bliss only on weekends? How do you manage, dear?” He winked and chuckled again.

I grew guarded. “What?”

“You know what I mean. The acrobatics in bed happen only on weekends. That’s a pity, dear.”

I was incensed. Ignoring him, I walked faster, but he kept pace beside me.

“Dear, how do you tolerate this unkindness? If the female body is neglected for too long, it tightens up naturally.” He winked and chuckled.

I stopped, meeting his gaze. “Look, Ammava, I don’t know you, nor do I want to. What’s your problem to you? My life is my own. You shouldn’t concern yourself with it, let alone approach me with such outrageous questions and suggestions.”

“Dear, did I offend you? See it as the avuncular concern of this old man, Ouseph. I’m advising you out of my experience and care for you. Think how bored you must be, managing alone. A man has responsibilities to his wife.”

I was livid. “Do you know this is harassment? If I report you, you’ll face consequences. Stay away. I don’t need your attention.”

I strode off, furious. How dare he strike up such a conversation? Ouseph, he said! I passed the church, where worshippers were leaving after Mass. Glancing back; I turned toward the police station next to the government primary school. Panting with rage, I stepped inside.

The policeman at the entrance said the SI wasn’t in. Ignoring him, I entered. A constable, about fifty-two, was munching a vada and sipping tea. Another, with sleepy eyes, scribbled on paper. The older constable swallowed a bite, eyeing my sweat-drenched T-shirt curiously.

“I’m here to file a complaint. A man was harassing me. He lives near the post office,” I said in one breath.

The constable set his tea aside, took another bite, and stared as if I were an alien. The sleepy constable glanced up briefly before resuming his scribbling.

“Look, girl, such cases aren’t our priority today. Everyone’s at the panchayat office for the minister’s visit to open the new building.”

“But you can file my complaint. I can identify the man.”

“The SI must handle this. Besides… women your age and looks should ignore such comments. He didn’t touch you, did he? No? Then…”

“Sir, are you waiting for him to assault someone? If he can make such sick remarks to me, he might molest others.”

“Ayyo, dear, we’re still on night duty since yesterday evening. Come back tonight; the SI will handle it.”

Speechless, I glared in disgust and stormed out.

A cold shower did little to calm my nerves. I barely ate an idli before heading out again, ignoring my mother-in-law’s concerned glance. I marched to the church and interrupted a small parish meeting.

“I want to speak to the priest—Father,” I said breathlessly.

I hadn’t noticed I was addressing Ouseph himself. The dozen parishioners looked at me curiously. I repeated firmly, “Where is Father? I need to speak to him.”

“Oh, dear, what brings Kochukunju Musaliar’s daughter-in-law to our church?” a parishioner asked.

“I want to see the priest,” I insisted.

“Dear girl, Father has retired to his chambers after morning Mass. If we can help, tell us,” another said.

“Then call him back.” I sank into a vacant chair.

The more I thought of Ouseph’s morning smirk, the angrier I grew. A warm hand on my shoulder startled me. Mariamma Chettathi looked into my eyes, concerned.

“What is it, my girl? Fathima’s daughter-in-law is mine too. What troubles you?”

“But how can that be? She’s not a parishioner, and from another community. Her presence here is inappropriate,” said Sebastian Muthalali, who owned the village department store, recently returned from Qatar.

“Kochukunju Musaliar’s daughter-in-law need not be a parishioner. This church has benefited from his generosity for years,” an elderly man retorted, silencing Sebastian.

“Tell us, dear, what happened?” Mariamma Chettathi asked gently.

I recounted the morning’s events. By then, Ouseph had slipped away.

“I want Father here. I’ll wait, or I’ll go to the police.”

“Victor, fetch Atchan. Tell him to come now,” Mariamma Chettathi called to a scrawny lad by the priest’s chamber door.

Victor returned, shouting, “Atchan’s gone to town. He won’t be back till late.”

A scooter roared outside and sped away.

“That’s him, the priest. He must have slipped out after hearing this. When has Father ever faced an issue? It’s his creed to avoid them,” Mariamma Chettathi said candidly.

“Koche, don’t you know men often make lighthearted comments? If you take every word seriously, you’ll have no time for important matters,” someone in the group remarked.

“Mariamma Chettathi, will you come with me to that man’s house?” I asked.

After her persuasion, a small group reluctantly agreed to join me. Sebastian Muthalali excused himself, citing his store. “Girl, think twice before escalating this. It won’t do your family’s honour any good. It could become a communal issue, and you’ll bear the brunt.”

“Girls shouldn’t be so stubborn. This is arrogance. Let it pass,” another man said, avoiding my gaze.

The motley group hurried toward Ouseph’s house. Along the way, the muezzin, who calls for prayer at the mosque, inquired about our hasty march. One member of our group called out, “Mullakka, come join us! This concerns one of your people.” Slightly perplexed, Mullakka joined us, but not before casting a derisive glance my way, scrutinising me from head to toe—clearly disapproving of my T-shirt and jeans.

We walked to Ouseph’s house. He was reclining on the verandah, reading a newspaper. A man of about forty-five emerged, smiling. “Welcome! Is the parish committee collecting funds early today?”

“No, it’s about Appachan, your father,” Mariamma Chettathi said.

I stepped on to the verandah. “Ammava, please come out for a moment.”

Ouseph averted his eyes, muttering, “What, dear girl? What can I do for you?”

“Ammava, why don’t you tell these people what you said to me this morning?”

“I’m as old as your grandfather,” he whispered, barely audible.

“Yes, Ammava. That’s what stopped me from slapping you—your age.”

“Hey, what’s this woman ranting about? She can’t barge in and insult my father!” the son said angrily.

“Ouseph, is it true? You know why we’re here. What you said was gross. You should’ve considered the holy sacrament before being so offensive to a girl young enough to be your grandchild. Shameful!” Mariamma Chettathi said sharply.

“Yes, Appachan makes sleazy comments to me daily. I told my husband, but he says to ignore it,” a woman of about forty five said, glancing at her husband and teenage daughter watching from the neighbouring house.

“That’s what emboldens men like Appachan. Your husband should be ashamed. Don’t you have a growing daughter? Would he say the same if someone targeted her?” I said. The man’s head dipped, and his daughter’s face remained expressionless.

“Ouseph, answer yes or no. Is what she says true?” the group’s senior asked.

Ouseph sat silently, palms supporting his head, eyes downcast, unable to meet ours. His pitiful state softened my anger; I felt a pang of pity for this cornered old man. I turned to his son. “Chetta, who else lives with your Appachan besides you?”

“What’s that got to do with this drama?”

“Old age and loneliness, Chetta. You have friends and entertainment, but what about the elderly? No one to talk to, to share feelings or have fun with.”

“Koche, are you saying I don’t care for my father?”

“Did I say that, Chetta?”

“Clara sends a bank draft every month in his name—she doesn’t trust me with money, that foolish woman. He gets sumptuous meals three or four times a day—mutton, beef, fish. He has brandy twice a month, television, cable, air conditioning, Yardley soap, perfume. What more should I provide? Judge for yourselves—I care well for my father. Don’t expect me to massage his feet all day. Now, off with you.”

“Chetta, your Appachan’s silence speaks for itself—what he said this morning, how he spends his days. Chechi has a story too. Who knows how many others do? He’s your parent. It’s kindness to understand their loneliness and insecurity, which food and brandy can’t cure. I’ve said enough.” I turned and walked away.

He shouted after me, “Koche, men crack jokes. Women should laugh it off.”

“Wonderful, son!” Mariamma Chettathi hollered in anguish.

He continued, “You’re slandering my father. When some mad woman spins a false tale, the parish follows. You forgot Appachan’s donations. How do you know she didn’t make passes at him? Her kind of woman could enchant even an old grandfather lying in his grave.”                                                                               Another voice raised from the group—it was Mullakka, his tone dripping with sanctimonious judgment. “You are right, my boy,” he said. “Dressing contrary to what is prescribed, and with the intent to lure men. Satan’s work! A woman should not dare to be like this. Look at her clothes.”

I stopped and turned, meeting Mullakka’s gaze before dismissing him with a look. Then I approached Joseutty, glaring at him. “Call me a slut—it’s the easiest defense, isn’t it? The police warned me that pursuing this could tarnish my reputation and hurt my family. So be it. Chetta, your wife works in the Gulf, sending money for this bungalow and your carefree life. Did your Appachan ever tell you that if she doesn’t have regular sex, her vagina might sew itself .

I walked away, leaving a stunned son and a thrilled Mariamma Chettathi, as her expression told. The group likely stood staring at my receding figure.

 

House of Dark Shadows

Every child growing up is fed eerie tales of the supernatural and the shadows of the dark. So it was with me. I remember a few elderly relatives and a gaggle of cousins, during those vacation sojourns in Ambalapuzha, regaling me with blood-curdling tales of yakshis, witches, and spirits.

Walking the narrow, deserted pathways at night was utterly horrifying, even with adults for company. The pale glow of incandescent bulbs atop streetlight poles seemed to cast more shadow than light. Passing by the sacred groves at night, a chilling sense of foreboding gripped every muscle. Often, we would sprint, muttering holy names. Dark, lonely rooms in the house were another domain where one might encounter the ghost of an old grand-uncle or a hunchbacked great-aunt. Chairs and beds by the windows were carefully avoided after dark. In those village days, toilets were either outside the house, or one had to relieve oneself in the open under a moonlit sky—or, often, a starless, pitch-black one. The choice was between nudging awake elder cousins familiar with the place to escort me to the mango tree—a thankless task, as they merely curled deeper under their sheets—or holding a full, almost bursting bladder, counting the minutes of the night, glancing about for moving shadows, and lying terrified until streaks of daylight filtered through the mullioned windows. My elder cousins, relishing the vicarious pleasure of my utter consternation, scared me, a city-born lad, with their eerie tales. The occasional hoot of an owl, the bark of a dog, or the fanciful dance of shadows would set my heart pounding so loudly that even a lurking ghost might hear it. Urine would lose direction and force, wetting my undergarments, and in my haste to return to the comparative safety of indoors, drops would trickle down my inner thighs. The yakshi was surely prowling outside! Was it the ghost of the departed grand-uncle, watching with amber-like eyes from the sacred grove? Or perhaps the spirit of the woman from the neighbourhood who died of a snakebite? The occasional shrieks and gibberish yells from the lunatic Namboothiri in the nearby illam, where he lived with his octogenarian mother, wafted through the still night, offering no comfort.

Growing up, I recall a late evening walking home after watching the film House of Dark Shadows. Every few steps, I turned to glance behind me. Later, reading Bram Stoker’s Dracula one Sunday afternoon, I sat frozen in my chair, devouring sentence after sentence, page after page, often forgetting to breathe. I hadn’t noticed it had grown dark. This was in our apartment in Kochi, where my housemates were away for the weekend, leaving me alone with Count Dracula for company. I was too scared to move from the chair to switch on the light, preferring to strain my eyes in the fading light rather than stir a limb. Soon, it was pitch dark, save for streaks of light from the streetlamp at the gate. Then, at seven o’clock, the streetlight went out—load-shedding for thirty minutes. In that moment, my resolve to be an atheist offered little solace!

The fear of the dead was profound. Old stories claimed that the dead lingered as ghosts, often seeking vengeance. They carried their animosities into the afterlife, taking neither disobedience nor past rudeness lightly. This dire narrative was instilled in me from early childhood. I wished and hoped no one would die at home or among friends and relatives, for the dead, even without reason, could become our nemesis. Even recently, the tragic death of a friend’s son disturbed me deeply. He was close to me and fond of me. In the nights following his passing, I wondered if he lingered near my bed. Dark rooms at night remained places where the dead might pounce, the grim warnings of my cousins echoing in my ears.

When Amma died, and I spent nearly a year alone in the house after her passing, that fear strangely dissipated. At times, I wished she would appear, so I could address things left undone and unspoken. The confidence that she, even as a ghost, could not and would not harm me was oddly comforting. I could yell at, argue with, or even shout at a mother’s spirit—why not? Mothers would understand, unlike grand-uncles or hunchbacked great-aunts. This confidence was both amusing and reassuring.

I still hope that some of those dear to us might visit on a dark, lonely night for a chat, perhaps to resolve things left undone and unspoken. It’s an amusing thought, and I can only laugh at myself.

Burning the Soul

 

He was a timid, shaped by forces beyond his control. How could he be otherwise, dwarfed by self-absorbed adults who scripted his every step? Their judgments loomed, dictating who he should become, what was expected of him. Was he not lucky to escape darker fates—to avoid losing himself entirely or rebelling in ways that might have broken him? He came close. What a fractured, fleeting childhood.

Even now, decades later, the scent of books from the British Council Library lingers. Rainy evenings, with their ceaseless downpours, offered a perfect excuse to delay returning home. Often the library was his refuge. James Leasor, Maurice Proctor, Agatha Christie, Arthur Conan Doyle, and James Herriot spun tales that carried him far from his reality. Books on cricket, brimming with timeless photographs, whisked him to the pitches of Old Blighty, Australia, and the Caribbean. Later, he found solace in the Brontës and Dickens. Then came Bertrand Russell –the irresistible, perhaps fortuitously at the most opportune time – late adolescence- and mid-teen. The junior subscription cost just five rupees, yet the tyrants at home argued fiercely over whether he should have such liberty. What if he fell in with the wrong sort? They already suspected he had.

In fifth or sixth standard, Enid Blyton’s stories opened a new world. Her English and enchanting tales sparked reading, an urge for knowledge, and curiosity. The Secret Seven and The Famous Five captivated young readers, while older girls drifted toward Mallory Towers or the romantic allure of Barbara Cartland and Mills & Boon. Blyton’s books, though, were rarely on the library shelves—always borrowed. This scarcity fueled a desire not just to read them but to possess them, a fixation that consumed him.

Each day, Bhaskara Books, the shop on his school route, beckoned. Enid Blyton’s titles glowed from the shelves. Asking the despots at home for money was out of the question—why invite their disdain? A book at Rs 1.50 was a luxury, a frivolity. He should stick to schoolbooks—social studies—or his abysmal mathematics. Yet The Famous Five and The Secret Seven were irresistible. In the early 1970s, whispers of Naxalite ideas—taking from the haves what the have-nots needed—offered a perilous solution. So, he filched. From one of the despots, he pinched Rs 1.50 and, with a mix of pride and thrill, bought his first Famous Five. Like an addiction, Blyton’s world enveloped him. Again and again, each Rs 1.50 fueled another purchase. Soon, all 21 Famous Five and nine Secret Seven books were hidden in a secret corner of the house. He devoured them, pressing his face into their pages, inhaling the scent of fresh paper, lost in their magic.

But the fear of discovery gnawed at him that was a dire possibility. Each day, he opened the wooden box where they were concealed, touching the covers, smelling the pages, escaping to Blyton’s vivid English countryside. He yearned to belong there, far from his cold, oppressive world—a place more suffocating than a garrote.

Ill-gotten treasures, though, rarely endure. The books were discovered, their pristine pages betraying their newness. Questions mounted. How had he acquired such a collection? His excuses and alibis crumbled, and the despots demanded answers. The Great Dictator’s return loomed, promising an inquisition.

In desperation, he acted. One afternoon, he crept to the terrace, books in hand, doused them with kerosene, and struck a match. Tears burned his eyes—not from the billowing smoke—as the pages curled and blackened. Each character seemed to sprout wings, escaping from the stifling place -soaring in the dry afternoon breeze. Soon, only a handful of ash remained. No funeral pyre could have wounded more deeply.

I'm a Farmer

 

From a commoner's perspective, one can see that perhaps the Supreme Court did not delve into the constitutional validity of the farm laws because, prima facie, they may not have identified anything ultra vires of the Constitution and could not strike down the farm laws, hence opted to stay them till further orders.

But at the same time, on what grounds did the Court stay the farm laws? And if they did so to facilitate the committee they proposed, which would examine the issue, why not then ask the government to repeal them instead? Staying the implementation of the laws in itself reflects the Court’s acknowledgement of their obnoxious and egregious nature.

When the Court observed that the government did not hold consultations on the bills with all stakeholders before ramming them through Parliament, does it not indicate that the bills are bad in law? Why then is the decision to stay them and not to order their repeal?

Is it beginning to suggest that something is "rotten in the State of Denmark"?

The Chief Justice timidly observed yesterday that the farmers may not trust them, but they are the Supreme Court. If the Court finds itself in such an unenviable position, where the trust deficit in the Court is at its nadir, there is no one to blame but the Court itself and the men in robes who occupy the hallowed seats.

The Chief Justice's suggestion that the elderly and women participating in the protest must go back may be, as some say, a ruse to prepare the ground for the government to flex its muscles on the protesting farmers.

Never, in post-independent India, and not even during Indira's reign leading up to the Emergency infamy, have we looked at the courts with such sceptical eyes as we now do. Court decisions and subterfuges over the past three to four years do not inspire any trust in the judiciary either. A sad state indeed!

What is astonishing is the Court's insistence that the farmers' unions should participate in the deliberations of the committee. The farmers rightly fear that they would be led up the garden path by a Supreme Court-nominated expert committee, and once they commit to it, they may have no recourse when some alibi is used to vacate the stay on the farm bills, albeit with some cosmetic changes.

I think we are in for a long haul, which may either end unpleasantly and sound the knell for the Modi government, or result in the complete bludgeoning of the farmers by the government, where we may see the Supreme Court, like Pontius Pilate, washing its hands of the blood of India’s food givers.

If this sounds cynical, I cannot help it, but I earnestly wish I am wrong.