Story postings

The following stories are also posted in Song of the waves - Parayil A. Tharakan Blog

Morning After The Storm - Part 1.

A Tyreseller.

Songs of the sea - Part 1.

A Crow in the Bonnet

A VODKA STORY

Flash Fiction: Medicine Specialist.

Short Story: A Bend in the Lake.

Short Story: JESUS BY THE ROADSIDE.

The story of a story.

Fiction (Flash): The Wait.

A Tyreseller.

I reached Cochin determined to succeed where my predecessors had failed. Before boarding the taxi at the airport I had a good look at its tyres. That was a professional habit.

I dumped my baggage on the back seat and sat in front. “Chandra Mohan,” I Introduced myself to the well-groomed elderly driver, “General Sales Manager, Parat Tyre Company.”

“Krishnan.”

“Why don’t you use Parat tyres?” I asked.

“What’s the difference, sir? They’re all round, black and made of rubber.”

I had a good laugh and said, “Technology makes all the difference. You may not understand if I explain.”

“My company purchases the tyres,” the driver said. “Kovil Transports.”

“Well, I came here to talk to them. They don’t buy from us.”

The driver shrugged.

“I’m meeting one Mr. K.P. Nair around noon tomorrow.”

“That’s the MD’s son.”

“It appears,” I commented, “that Mr. K.K. Nair, your MD, is rather difficult to contact.”

“Not for his employees.”

I had a dossier on Mr. K.K. Nair. He was from an old family, which had lost its wealth. At the age of eighteen he joined a local businessman as driver. He educated himself during spare time and obtained a university degree. His boss offered him a desk job but he wanted to strike out on his own and bought a second-hand taxi cab and later went in for a new vehicle. The fleet grew with amazing speed. Trucks were added. Then he diversified into other fields.

“Tell me,” I said, shifting to a matter of personal interest. “Is there any restaurant here that serves genuine Kerala food?”

“I doubt,” Krishnan replied. “Most of them provide a blend.”

Next day, my meeting with Mr. K.P. Nair turned out to be reasonably successful. We obtained a trial order with a promise that if proved good we would be in the list of regular suppliers.

When the business part was over Mr. Nair said, “There’s a slight change in our lunch programme. I hope you won’t mind.”

I had no choice.

“Our cab drivers,” the host said, “file a report if they observe anything special about a client. Your driver yesterday noted that you like to try authentic Kerala cuisine.”

I was impressed.

“I’m inviting you home,” Mr. Nair continued, “for lunch.”

We reached the place in about twenty minutes. An elderly gentleman dressed in white kurtha and dhoti greeted me and introduced himself, “I’m K.K. Nair.” He was the image of the cab driver that had dropped me at the hotel the previous day.

After we sat down, Mr. Nair addressed me, “Can I ask a question?”

“Of course, sir.”

“The quality of commercial technology,” he said, “is in achieving optimum performance by using the cheapest raw materials. Agree?”

I was amazed by the near perfect definition. “Certainly, sir.”

“Mr. Chandra Mohan,” Mr. Nair continued, “every three months I’m a taxi driver for a day. Just to keep me reminded of my humble beginnings. Yesterday you happened to be my customer. I’m glad.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say.

Ends.

[Note: This story won 3^rd prize in the Unisun-British Council Flash Fiction Contest, 2004 and was published in an anthology titled Winners 1.

I am publishing it again now in memory of Chandy Mathew Pallivathukkal who was the moving spirit behind Unisun Publications. He passed away at Bangalore, India on April 7. An MBA from IIM, Ahmedabad, he was the Chairman of Duroflex, and the Chief of Unisun Technologies Ltd., a company that has made great contributions in the field of solar energy. Chandy’s collection of short stories ‘Looking in, looking out’ was acclaimed by critics. Abraham Tharakan.]

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A Vodka Story.

The policeman escorting me stopped at the door of the Magistrate’s chamber and talked to a turbaned peon in hushed tones. He had promised to save me the ignominy of standing in queue along with the accused in other petty cases for the afternoon session of the Court. The shopping bag containing the booty recovered from my car was in his hands.

It had been a pleasant drive from Bangalore that morning. Instead of the direct route to my destination, Calicut via Sultan’s Battery, I happened to pick up a hitchhiker and took the road through Bandipur – Madumalai Wild Life Sanctuary. A part of it was in Tamil Nadu State, which I could have bypassed. But the drive along the route was exhilarating.

We stopped at the check post on the Tamil Nadu side of the border. A squat Head Constable accompanied by his assistant and a politician-looking young man took their time coming to the car.

After checking my driving license and the registration papers of the car, the Head Constable asked, “Are you carrying any alcohol?”

I suddenly remembered that Tamil Nadu State had prohibition those days and thanked my stars for not buying liquor at Bangalore where it was cheaper, to carry home.

“No,” I answered.

“What’s in that?” he questioned, pointing to the bag kept on the car floor.

“I don’t know. It is a present. Haven’t opened it yet.” When I was leaving Bangalore, the friend with whom I was staying had placed it there saying, ‘Here’s something for you’.

The constable opened the bag and triumphantly took out a bottle and examined it carefully. “Vodka,” he said loudly. “There’s one more.”

The Head Constable nodded. “Do you have,” he asked, “a permit to carry liquor in Tamil Nadu?”

“No,” I said. “Look here, I was on my way to Calicut.”

“Should have been on that road, not on this.”

“But I was stopped and told that there’s rouge elephant blocking that road.”

The policeman laughed. “Not a dinosaur?” he asked sarcastically. “Who told you this fib?”

“The man,” I replied, “to whom I gave a lift.” I looked around for him but he had vanished.

“Did he stop you at the turning to Calicut?”

“Yes.”

The Head Constable gave me an amused look. He got into the car and sat next to me. “Drive,” he ordered.

“Where to?”

“The Court,” he replied. “I’ll tell you the way.”

There was a big crowd just off the road half a mile from the check post. “What’s happening?” I asked.

“Cinema shooting. Some of the top stars are there. Your travel companion must be in the crowd”

Bastard, I said under my breath.

“Would you like me to pick him up?” the policeman asked. “Of course it won’t help you. He would deny everything. But I can shake him up pretty bad.”

“No point.”

“Actually,” the cop said after a while, “I would have let you go. After all you’re not a smuggler. But that local politician was there.”

“My bad luck,” I said. “How long will the court procedure take?”

“Depends on the number of cases ahead of yours. May be you’ll have to spend a night in the lockup.”

“I want a lawyer.”

“Sure,” he said. “I’ll get you the best as soon as we reach the court. But there’s another way.”

“What?”

“I’ll arrange for the Magistrate to see you in his chambers as soon as the Court adjourns for lunch. He’s fed up of these silly cases. You admit the offence and there’ll be a fine. It’ll be over in less than fifteen minutes.”

That seemed to be the best option under the circumstance.

When we passed a tea stall by the roadside the Head Constable asked me to stop.

“The bottles,” he said, “will be confiscated. Why waste good vodka. Can I have it? A return favour.”

I was silent, thinking.

“If not me,” the policeman continued, “the court peon who seals the bottle will take it. Or someone else. What difference does it make to you?”

“What do you plan to do?”

“Do you have any water bottles in the car?”

“There’s one on the back seat.”

“That won’t do. You go to the teashop and get two bottles of water. Tell them that the engine seems to be heating up and you need to carry water.”

I did as I was told.

I was asked to stop again after a few minutes. Using the third bottle, which was in the car, the policeman executed a transfer trick. When he finished, we had two water bottles filled with vodka, two vodka containers with water, and an empty bottle!

“Smart,” I said. The cop smiled.

The Magistrate was a chubby man. He looked bored. After studying me he announced, “This may appear rather informal, but the Court is now in session.” Then turning to me he asked, “Do you require a lawyer?”

“No, Your Honour.”

“Good. They talk too much and waste the Court’s time.”

The policeman briefly explained the case including my claim that I landed up in Tamil Nadu inadvertently. He took out the bottles and placed them on the Magistrate’s table. After scrutinizing them the Magistrate said, “We haven’t seen this brand here. Must be expensive. Made in Sweden.”

“Only the container, Your Honour,” I said.

The judge gave me a hard look. “And the contents?”

“Water, Your Honour,” I replied without looking at the policeman.

The Magistrate leaned back on his chair and asked me sternly, “Do you know the punishment for perjury?”

“No, Your Honour, but what I stated is the absolute truth.”

“But,” the judge rejoined, “it is written Absolut Vodka on the labels.”

“True, Your Honour,” I said. “But the bottles are filled with water. Your Honour can see that the caps are not sealed.”

The judge examined the bottle caps and frowned. He turned to the policeman and asked, “What do you have to say?”

“Your Honour, I’m sure that what I confiscated was vodka.”

The judge thought for a moment and pronounced, “ Since there is dispute about the contents of the bottles, we shall send them for lab test.”

“But Your Honour,” I protested, “the verdict will have to wait till the results come.”

The judge looked at me sympathetically and nodded.

“Please, Your Honour,” I pleaded, “the test can be done right here. Vodka will burn. Water will not.”

The judge turned to the policeman and asked, “What do you have to say?”

The Head Constable looked pale. “I apologise to the Honourable Court,” he said. “I didn’t think of that test.”

When we started back the cop went into peals of laughter. “You’re a smart one,” he said. “Escaped the fine.”

I nodded and drove in silence. When we reached the halfway point between the court and the check post I stopped the car, told the cop that the rear tyre appeared to be flat and requested him to check. When he was out of the car I banged the door shut and drove away.
–

Flash Fiction: The Wait.

I’m sure that I fell in love with her only after my death.

As the end was nearing I was afraid – the dread of the unknown. She was also in the room along with a few others, standing apart in a corner. Her eyes, which often met mine, gave a silent assurance that she would be there to see me off to the place I was going. That helped.

She was crying quietly as I left.

There was no wall, no door, and no veil to go through. I was in one world and a moment later in another. It was a surprise that I could still see humans and kept watching what was happening on earth. She was at the funeral as well, dignified, even beautiful, but I knew that her inside was lacerated. I wanted to reach out and sooth her.

Was it then that I fell in love?

We had been schoolmates in our small town. Later I became a travel journalist and a globetrotter. She stayed back, became a teacher, and went through a marriage that ended in divorce within two years. We met occasionally on my rare visits home. That was always enjoyable.

What struck me about my new home was the emptiness that stretched out to infinity. I was alone. From time to time translucent images moved in the distance, some in a hurry, others slowly – spirits like me. But we had no communication between us.

Sometimes I wondered how she would like my present abode that would be hers too some day. I watched her on earth regularly. She looked different – sadder, older, so lonely.

I had no physical wants. Days and nights did not exist where I was. All that could be seen was the woolly nothingness. But time was aplenty. Not in units. Interminable.My entire earthly life was on show frequently. At each viewing new revelations emerged – the wrongs and rights I did, matters that I could have handled better, my failures, weaknesses, and so on. I was capable of much more good. And questions came up. Why did I hurt people? Why didn’t I help others as much as I could have? Why did I carry grudges?There was no feeling of guilt but only realisation, disappointment that I had not performed as well as I could have, and a sense of sadness.

The greatest regret was that I failed to recognise her love for me. We could have been married happily, had a home, children.

Then I started visiting her at night. I would sit silently on her bed watching the woman I loved. Some times I communicated without words. I knew she understood because of changes in her expression and the rare smiles. In the morning she perhaps forgot what had happened in her sleep or dismissed it as a pleasant dream.

During one of my nocturnal visits she fell sick, suddenly going into a fit of coughing. She was perspiring profusely and clutched her chest, gasping. My inability to help was frustrating. I returned, praying that her death would be painless, and waited.

I was unaware how long it took, but finally she died.Shortly, an image flashed past me. Was it her, looking for me? She didn’t know where I was in that vastness of space. Then it sank in – a soul had no visual identity without physique.

What next? Rebirth? Resurrection of the body?

The wait for my beloved continues.

Ends.