Short Story: JESUS BY THE ROADSIDE.

“I’ll kill you.”

The hissed statement came from right behind me. I was in an awkward position. The hood of my old Ambassador car was up and I was bending over the engine that had stalled on the deserted mountain road leading down to the plains from my friend’s cardamom plantation.

Don’t panic, I told myself.

“Do you hear me?” This time it was almost a shout. “I’m about to kill you.”

It was a strange place where I wasn’t known. Obviously, there was some mistake. But murdered in error or otherwise, a dead man was a dead man.

“Take all you want,” I said. “But don’t do anything drastic.”

“Do you think I’m a highway robber?”

“Sorry, didn’t mean that.”

“You did.”

“Okay, I did,” I admitted. “Why else should you hold me up?”

“To finish you off.”

A chill ran down my spine. The man apparently meant business. “But why?” I asked in desperation. “We don’t even know each other.”

“I know you, great sinner. And you know of me.”

Nut case? Drugs? Drunk in the afternoon? That was immaterial; I had to find a way out. The voice direction gave me a fairly good indication of where the assailant stood. But from my vulnerable situation it was impossible to whip around quickly enough to overpower him. And I didn’t know what weapon he was carrying.

“I don’t,” the voice came again, “like stabbing people in the back.”

I wondered why he made that statement. “That’s decent of you,” I responded.

“Stretch your arms,” I was told, “sideways, palms open.”

I obeyed.

“Take one step backward and straighten up.”

That was at least a great relief to my back.

“Turn around slowly.”

Now I was facing a young man who stood about ten feet away. His shoulder-length hair that was parted in the middle, and beard were neatly combed. The eyes were clear and focused and had an unusual intensity. His hands were behind the back.

I looked up and down the road.

“No chance,” the stranger said. “There won’t be any traffic at this time.”

“Okay.”

“Do you recognize me now?”

“No, but you resemble Jesus Christ.”

“I am Jesus.”

I had anticipated something of the sort. “Jesus,” I said, “didn’t go around killing sinners. His mission was to save them.”

“Was that the script?”

“Yes.”

“Then we’ll change it in your case.”

“Why?”

“To kill you. Imagine tomorrow’s banner headline, ‘Jesus Slays Great Sinner!’”

By now, instead of fear it was exasperation that I was feeling. If he were carrying a gun there wasn’t much that I could do. But if it was a knife, I had a fairly good chance of defending myself.

“Why don’t you,” I asked, “shoot and be done with it?”

“Can’t. I don’t have a gun.”

“Okay, stab then.”

“Not possible from this distance. If I get closer, you’ll fight me.”

“Well,” I said, “you have a problem then.”

“None whatsoever.”

I stared at him, trying to understand.

“Knife throwing,” he explained. “Can hit a flea at twenty-five feet.”

He sounded convincing. “Bastard,” I shouted.

The chap went into peals of laughter, throwing his head back first and then doubling up. I quickly moved a little closer to him.

“They have called me that before.”

“Okay mad man,” I almost screamed, “throw your damned knife.”

“Not yet. Sudden death would be a relief to you. Sinners must suffer in this world and in the next.”

The fellow started asking questions about my family – whom I loved most, how that person would react to my death, whether my wife would marry again, and so on. Then he described what would happen to my body after the execution. He would roll it down the mountain slope to the forest below. The animals and the birds would have a feast. Perhaps the skeleton would be found on some future date.

“It could,” I said, “very well be your bones.”

“How’s that?”

“Because I’m going to kill you.”

The man quickly brought his left hand forward in an underarm throwing motion. I leapt aside and steadied myself, getting a foot nearer to him in the process. But nothing was thrown.

He laughed aloud.

Rush him now, my mind whispered.

In a split-second his right hand came up, holding a mini-dagger by the tip of its perfectly shaped blade. The handle looked colourful.

”Hey, that’s a beautiful knife,” I said, thinking quickly.

The man looked at the weapon and back again at me, and asked, “You really think so?”

“Absolutely. Where did you buy it?”

“Fool,” he shouted. “Which shop will have such a treasure?”

“Sorry. Where did you get it?”

“My grandfather had it specially made by the best blacksmith of those days. He was a great man, my grandfather.”

“Great knife for a great man.”

“The handle,” the man said moving towards me, “is ibex horn. See these studs. They are 24 carat gold. The stones are real rubies.”

Perhaps what he said was true. “This must be,” I commented, “the finest knife in the world.”

“Yes, it is.”

“Can I have a feel of it?”

“Sure,” he said, came forward, and handed over the weapon.

That was incredible. I backed to the car door quickly.

“Hey,” the man hollered, “Give back my knife,” and moved forward.

I took out my Beretta from the glove compartment. The idea was to leave provided the car started and chuck the dagger to its owner.

The moment he saw the gun the stranger screamed, “You’re going to kill me.” He turned around and raced away taking a narrow footpath that led down from the road.

“Stop,” I shouted after him. “I won’t harm you.”

There was no response. He had already disappeared.

I was left holding his knife and wondering what to do with it. Abandoning the apparently valuable piece there wouldn’t have been right. One option was to locate the nearest police station and report. But I didn’t know the locality and had a four-hour drive ahead of me. Finally I went home taking the knife along.

Next day I contacted my plantation-owner friend. His advice was not to bother. He said he would try and trace ‘Jesus’.

Six weeks later a police inspector came home accompanied by a constable. He said they were investigating the roadside incident. I assumed that my friend had contacted the police. The officer said to call my lawyer if I wished, but I felt there was no need for that.

The inspector wanted me to describe in details of what had happened that day at the roadside. The constable took notes. After the narration I was asked for the knife and told to see if there was any inscription on it. The word ‘Eso’ was etched on the hilt.

Eso. That meant Jesus in the local language!

The policeman stepped forward and asked me to place the weapon on the handkerchief spread over his palm. He wrapped it carefully and put it in a plastic bag.

I was wondering why all the formality when the inspector asked, “Were you driving under the influence of alcohol that day?”

“No. Had a couple of gins for lunch at the estate bungalow. That was an hour or so earlier.”

“Are your driving license and the car papers current?”

“Yes.”

“Gun license?”

“Yes.”

“We’ll be,” the officer continued, “taking the pistol into custody.”

“What’s all these about?” I asked, feeling that something was amiss.

“I told you we are enquiring into the complaint.”

“What complaint? I just want to return the knife to its owner.”

“Well,” the inspector answered, “we’ve received a petition against the person who was driving Ambassador car number KLK 1232 that day. We traced the vehicle to you.”

He gave the details briefly. The allegedly drunken driver nearly knocked down the complainant, who protested loudly. The accused jumped out of the car with a gun, threatening to shoot. Then he noticed the valuable knife tucked in at the waist of the complainant and grabbed it. When the complainant tried to take it back, the accused pushed him over the edge of the road.

“Who,” I asked after the initial shock, “has filed this complaint?”

“One Eso.”

Eso, grandson of Eso, I thought with wry humour. “Its all rubbish, inspector,” I said.

“The man’s still in hospital. His shoulder, two ribs and thighbone are broken. Some woodcutters found him, almost dead.”

I thought of saying, ‘Serves him right,’ but restrained myself.

“I suppose,” the inspector went on, “you understand that the charges include robbery and attempted murder.”

I nodded.

“You can,” the officer added, “still call your lawyer because I’m arresting you. I can quote all the relevant sections if you like.”

“No need,” I said, reaching for the telephone.

Ends.

Copyright: Abraham Tharakan.

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.

Answer

To the reader who commented 'Spledid. Beautiful. Simply Spledid. Is this true or fiction?' about 'Captain of the St. John's team': It's fiction of course, but based on my experiences.

Short Story: Treasures of the East.

One look at the Arabian Sea in the early morning sunlight and I was unnerved. It was a dark blanket stretching to the horizon in sharp contrast to the white sands of the beach. The stench of dead fishes was just bearable because breeze had not picked up yet.

“Awful,” Maya, my colleague said softly.

Several media persons like us were already there. The breaking news had been on from the previous day. The air along a five-kilometre stretch of beach south of Cochin had suddenly filled with a severe stink around noon. A few schoolchildren vomited and fainted. Later, some adults too became afflicted. The fisher folk panicked as seawater began turning black and the waves washed ashore dead and dying sea creatures.

The locals in colourful dhotis who stood around tense and grim said that Kadalamma, the Mother Goddess of the Seas, was still angry. They didn’t know why. The people of that beach, they told us, belonged to one clan and considered themselves superior to the other fishing communities. Their chief was traditionally respected even by rajas. They used to have special rites for Kadalamma, and for their ancestors.

“Can we meet your chief?” I asked.

“Won’t do you any good,” one of the men answered.

“Why?” Maya asked.

“He’s been mentally sick for many years. That’s why our rituals are discontinued.”

“Does he have any sons?”

“One. You’ll never find him sober.”

“See the chief anyway,” another person suggested. “Occasionally he’s normal for short spells.”

I phoned the editor. The ‘sea stain’ as the media had termed the discoloration of the water, was extending further out to the west, but other beaches were not affected. The scientists had no clue about the phenomenon.

Maya was thoughtful for a while as we walked to the chief’s residence. Then she said, “Strange.”

“Yes,” I agreed. “What kind of scientists do we have?”

“May be it’s something beyond science.”

“What do you mean?”

“Don’t you see, Ravi?” she asked. “This area is inhabited by a particular group. Their leader and his son are sick. The customary rites are disrupted. And this curious problem is confined to their fishing field only.”

“That’s a Brahmin mind at work.”

“Call it whatever you like.”

The chief’s wife received us. “We would like to pay respects to the chief,” Maya told her.

The lady was touched. “So many people,” she said, “came to our beach from yesterday. No one else bothered.” She went inside and reappeared minutes later with her husband.

Maya told the chief that we were from Morning News and asked, “Can we take photos?”

The old man thought for a moment and nodded. “Get my baton,” he ordered his wife.

“Would you,” I asked, “care to comment on this problem?”

“This is,” he replied after a long pause, “only a warning. It’ll pass. But great calamities are coming unless –"

He was interrupted in mid-sentence as the baton arrived. It was a black, rounded wooden piece with a silver ring at the top. The chief held it in his right hand across his lap, sat back and commanded, “Take photo.”

Maya quickly clicked a few shots.

“You were,” I reminded the chief, “talking about calamities.”

The response came after a while, “Yes,” he said. “May be you can help.”

“Whatever we can, shall be done,” I assured him.

“The solution lies in the east. That’s where our treasure is. We must bring it back.”

“What treasure?” I asked quickly. “Where in the east?”

“Get a plane and -” The chief made a flight simulation with his baton. His wife was crying silently as she led him back.

“I’ll stay here, Ravi,” Maya said, “and talk to the lady alone. You scout the place and get some photos as well.”

I roamed around, keeping well away from the waterline. The only interesting landmark in the otherwise monotonous scenery was a large grove beside a pond, which, a native who was there told me, contained sweet water.

The boss came on the mobile phone. “What’s happening?” he asked.

“We,” I replied, “may be on to something. Reserve front page space for us.”

“Okay.”

“Can you get a historian’s comments about any migrations from the east to the coastal areas?”

“What’s this about?”

“Just a hunch,” I answered. “We’re starting in about half an hour.”

Maya briefed me on the way back. The chief had been telling his wife a story handed down the generations. His people had come to their present location from the east centuries back, leaving behind a treasure with a Brahmin family for safekeeping. When the new settlement was ready to receive the cache the incumbent chief was to collect it. This had to be done within a certain period failing which disasters would befall the community. Indications that the time was running out had been appearing frequently. The chief even attributed his sickness and his son’s aberration to the non-recovery of the treasure.

“Why doesn’t the chief,” I asked, “go to the custodians and get it back?”

“There’s a problem,” Maya replied. “Somewhere along the line, the details were lost. Today none of them know where they came from, who the trustees are, or even what the treasure is.”

“Makes a great story alright,” I said. “Do you believe it?”

“Why shouldn’t I?”

The next day’s issue of Morning News was a great hit. The headline read, “SOLUTION LIES EAST, SAYS BEACH BOSS”. The chief’s picture was impressive. A brief article by an eminent historian confirmed that there had been migrations to the coastal areas. The paper also carried a boxed item, offering a reward of one hundred thousand rupees for authentic information on the chief’s story.

Around noon a message came from one Vamadevan Thirumeni of Olavaip Mana claiming that he had important material on the subject. He wanted someone senior to meet him immediately. We went across straightaway since Maya had heard of this Kerala Brahmin family.

Thirumeni greeted us at the front steps of the huge tile-roofed building.

“Ravi Menon,” I introduced myself, “This is Maya Dathan.”

“Maya!” the old man said, studying her. “Short form for Unnimaya. Some Brahmin ladies have that name.”

“My grandmother was one,” my colleague said.

“Maya is from Thekkanatt Mana,” I explained the Brahmin background.

Thirumeni gave my colleague an affectionate smile and stated, “Devadathan’s daughter.”

“Do you know my father?”

“By sight. Never met the great lawyer.”

The old man led us inside. As soon as we sat down he said, “I’m the custodian that the chief mentioned.”

It was as simple as that.

“How do I claim the reward?” Thirumeni asked without waiting for our response.

“There’s a committee,” I answered, “to make the final decision. We can pass on the details to the members.”

“Before that, tell me why anyone should part with a treasure for one hundred thousand rupees?”

“There could be,” Maya answered, “several reasons. Fear of possible consequences?”

“At the age of eighty-nine, what retribution should I be afraid of?”

“Okay. An obligation, perhaps?”

“Precisely,” Thirumeni said. “An undertaking given centuries ago. Generations went by waiting to fulfil the commitment. This had to come up at least now because time is running out. I have only three more months in this world.”

“Horoscope?” Maya asked.

“Yes. There could be problems after me.”

“Like?”

“For one, after my death this Mana will not be here for long.”

“Again, horoscope?” I asked rather cynically.

“Of course. Horoscopes of buildings, separate from that of people who live in them, can also be drawn up with great precision. It is all based on astronomy and mathematics.”

“Okay. What are the other possible complications?”

“The question, after me who? I have no legal heirs.”

“How do we proceed?” I asked.

“I can return the treasure only if the chief requests and I am certain about the authenticity.”

“But the man,” I said, “is mentally sick.”

“In these matters there could be a divine intervention.”

We were silent for a while. Then Maya said, “The chief has appealed through us.”

Thirumeni looked at Maya thoughtfully. Then he remained thoughtful so for a long time. “Yes, Maya,” he said finally, “the chief has asked through you. That is sufficient. But I have to be convinced that they are ready to receive the treasure.”

“How?” I asked.

“I will know when the sign comes.”

“What exactly,” Maya asked, “is this treasure?”

Centuries back, Thirumeni explained, the sea extended up to a sacred grove three kilometres west of the Mana. The shore was inhabited by a colony of fishermen. Then suddenly the waters receded for several miles due to some geophysical occurrence and took away their means of livelihood. That forced them to shift to the new barren coastline leaving behind the remains of their ancestors who were buried in the copse. They requested the Mana to take care of the forefathers till the new settlement was ready to receive them. The Mana was also entrusted with all their lands as compensation.

“Oral tradition?” I asked.

“It was,” Thirumeni replied. “But in 1789 the then boss of the Mana had it written down on palm leaf. The document is well preserved. Should be sufficient proof for your committee.”

“There could be legalities,” I said.

“I’m an only child and a bachelor.”

“That should,” I agreed, “make it easier. How will you transfer the so called treasure?”

“It’ll be a fistful of earth from the woods sealed in a pot.”

“A symbolic act?”

“No. The spirits of those sleeping there would be drawn into the sand by thanthric power and locked.”

“Many would be disappointed,” I said, “when it is known what the treasure really is.”

“Understandable,” the old man agreed. “But if it were material wealth, fighting for share would begin immediately.”

“Would you,” Maya suddenly asked Thirumeni, “hand over the pot or deposit it somewhere?”

“Grove,” the old man answered. “That is it. There has to be a grove to place it.”
“There is,” I said elatedly, and quickly fished out a photograph of the beachside woods from my briefcase.

One look at it and Thirumeni’s face brightened. “It takes a very long time,” he said, “for a grove to mature. I hope that the pond beside it has sweet water.”

“It has,” I said.

“That settles it,” Thirumeni stated. “I’m about to discharge the great responsibility of this family, as written in my horoscope. But I need seven days for fasting and prayers.”

“Very well.” I said.

“The other side too may have traditional rituals to go through.”

“We’ll inform them.”

“My abstinence,” the old man stated, “starts tomorrow. The sea stain is only a sign. It will disappear soon.”

Before we left, Thirumeni handed over a sealed envelope saying, “Please open it when your committee takes a favourable decision. I hope there will not be any problems or delay about the reward.”

The first thing I said on the way back was, “Eighty-nine years old and the avarice hasn’t subsided.”

Maya’s response was, “The obvious needn’t always be true.”

We visited the chief before returning to the office. Fortunately his condition was normal. We told him and his wife confidentially that the custodian had been located and what the treasure was.

Tears rolled down the old man’s cheeks. “The spirits of our ancestors,” he said, “are more important to us than any amount of gold or gems.”

“They’ll come to you soon,” I said.

“So many arrangements,” the chief continued, “have to be made. Suppose my mind goes again? You know how my son is.”

“Everything will be fine,” Maya reassured him.

By the time we were back at the office the Editor had the management’s clearance to disburse the reward. They had also decided to bear the entire expense for the function.

Maya phoned Thirumeni and told him that we were opening the envelope. It contained two sheets. The first read, ‘The money is to be kept with the newspaper for: (1) meeting the expenses for transferring the treasure, (2) giving treatment to the chief, (3) paying the chief a reasonable monthly stipend till the fund runs out.’ The second sheet gave details of the arrangements to be made.

The event was a memorable one that attracted a great deal of media attention. Two days prior to the transfer, the sea stain had vanished completely. There were festivities, but immediately after the rituals were performed Thirumeni returned with Maya and me.

When we were about to leave after dropping him at the Mana the old man said, “I would be delighted to see you often. Come whenever you can and make an old man happy.”

It didn’t take long. Two weeks later we were back there in response to a call.

“The proposed super highway,” Thirumeni said as soon as we reached, “is to pass through the middle of this building.”

“No,” Maya’s reaction was sharp.

The plan to build an expressway from one end of Kerala State to the other with World Bank assistance had generated a great deal of protest but the government seemed firm on going ahead.

“The engineers,” Thirumeni continued, “showed me the alignment sketch yesterday. They said altering the route would escalate the cost considerably and displace many more people.”

“But this,” Maya’s tone was still edgy, “is part of our heritage, a place of history. We must fight the move.”

“The local people also say the same things. But we should not obstruct development.”

“The first time we came,” I addressed the host, “you mentioned about the Mana’s horoscope. Is that why this is happening?”

“Nothing happens because of what some astrologer wrote. Horoscope is a statement of what is likely to take place on the basis of planetary positions. Of course, there are superior forces that can change the readings.”

“Then,” Maya’s response was immediate, “we shall create or invoke such force.”

I got the impression that she would want to rush back. But instead, she asked Thirumeni, “Can I see inside of the Mana?”

“Of course my girl,” the old man promptly agreed. “Call a servant from the kitchen to show you around.”

Maya proceeded with an easy assurance. For some time Thirumeni sat looking at the door through which she went. Then he turned to me and said, “It is amazing how human destinies get entangled sometimes. Now this girl is inside the empty building. It should have been full of people but for the treasure and astrologers.”

“What’s the connection?” I asked, rather baffled.

Years ago, Thirumeni said, he was in love with the sister of his closest friend. They were working together in a progressive group dedicated to social welfare, and met often. Since the families belonged to the same community and were of equal status there were no apparent impediments to their marriage. But at the last minute, the girl’s family astrologer suddenly brought up an argument that even though Thirumeni’s horoscope showed a possible life span of eighty-nine years, the core was that it depended on him discharging a family obligation, soon after which he would die. There was no indication when that call to duty would come. The girl’s family backed out. Within weeks she was quietly married to a rich and powerful widower Brahmin who was known to be keen on the alliance.

“I could have,” Thirumeni said, “possibly eloped with her but there was this treasure and my inherited obligation. I had to remain here.”

“Was the astrologer,” I asked, “influenced?”

“That was one of the rumours those days.”

"What were the others?"
Thirumeni did not answer. A few moments later he continued, “I don’t know how the horoscopes of that couple were matched. A month after the wedding the husband was totally paralysed.”

“Fate,” he added.

He lay back on the easy chair. “She was so beautiful,” he whispered and closed his eyes. They were opened only after Maya returned.

“I’m all the more determined,” Maya said. “We have to save the Mana. It would be criminal to demolish it.”

Thirumeni nodded.

“The lamp,” my colleague went on, “the servant said it’s called ‘Perpetual Lamp’, is beautiful.”

“Its flame,” Thirumeni commented, “is believed to be burning uninterrupted for five hundred years and more.”

“Amazing,” I commented.

Maya’s story on the Mana was a masterpiece. The headline ran ‘Disputed Super Highway Project – BLOW OUT THE PERPETUAL LAMP?’ When I congratulated her she said, “There’s something I want you to clear,” and handed over Thirumeni’s obituary ready for press. I looked at her questioningly.

“His Karma,” she said, “is over. The end is near according to what he said.”

The write-up contained several details that I was not aware of. Thirumeni was a multifaceted personality. Maya said she obtained some of the information from an old lady who had come with her grandmother as bride’s maid and had stayed on. That one knew of almost all the old Kerala Brahmin families. Maya had also contacted some of the community organisations, referred to old publications, and talked to elders.

“We must,” I said, “visit Thirumeni soon and get an auspicious date marked for our wedding.”

Surprisingly, Maya did not respond. I felt uneasy about her silence, but decided not to pursue the matter at that moment.

Our next trip to the Mana was for the funeral, which was attended by many people from all walks of life. A group under the leadership of the chief’s son who looked well groomed represented ‘The Beach’. His father couldn’t come because of physical ailment. He said that before leaving, they planned to visit the grove where their ancestors had rested for centuries. Maya deputed one of our people to cover that gesture.

Suddenly we saw Maya’s father. He was about to leave when we caught up with him.

“I’m rushing to the airport,” Mr. Devadathan said. “Have an appearance before the Supreme Court tomorrow.”

“You knew Thirumeni?” Maya asked.

The lawyer nodded. “Great man,” he said and added while getting into his Mercedes, “He was very fond of you.”

Maya seemed to be thoughtful and waved feebly as the car moved forward.

Life was routine till an NRI businessman from Hong Kong called on us a week later. He congratulated Maya on her article about the Mana.

“Within couple of days after seeing it on the Internet,” he said, “I flew down and bought the Mana.”

Maya and I looked at each other.

“Thirumeni,” the visitor continued, “wanted it kept secret till his death.”

After a pause the man went on, “I’m having the building shifted stone by stone next to the grove. Experts are working out the details. The highway may or may not come but we can’t risk our heritage landmarks being lost.”

I felt an overwhelming sense of gratitude to the stranger but it was Maya who expressed the feeling. “That’s very noble of you,” she told him.

“I don’t know what to do with the building after transplanting it. May be a research centre. There are so many ancient records there. And antiques. Your suggestions are welcome.”

Thank God it’s not another tourism project, I said to myself.

“Part of the purchase consideration,” the visitor explained, “is to be distributed among the staff and a couple of Brahmin social and charitable organisations. The balance is to be held in trust for the benefit of the fisher folk. Thirumeni wanted the two of you and Mr. Devadathan, the lawyer, to be the trustees. You’ll be receiving the documentation soon.”

“Mr. Devadathan is Maya’s father,” I said.

“Really?” the NRI asked. “A perfect gentleman. I engaged him for this transaction and introduced him to Thirumeni. We stayed there for three days.”

“You mean,” Maya asked, “my father stayed at the Mana?”

“Yes. Thirumeni and he got on famously – chess, classical music, and discussions on the epics! Even shared the same room.”

Maya shook her head gently.

“Well, coming back to business,” our visitor continued, “there is the matter of the Perpetual Lamp. I was very keen on buying it, but Thirumeni said it was for you, Maya. Let me know where you want it delivered.”

Maya nodded silently.

“Thirumeni also mentioned,” the visitor added, “about your marriage. He has entrusted with me a wedding gift for you. Do inform me the date.”

The visitor left. Maya was unusually quiet and I couldn’t fathom the expression on her face.

“I would also like to know the date,” I said.

“After the customary mourning period,” she whispered.

“What do you mean?”

Maya turned to me slowly. “He was,” she said trying hard to be calm, “my paternal grandfather. I could feel a bond right from the beginning. But grandma’s old maid told me secret too late.”

My God, I said silently.

“The sea stain,” Maya continued with a quivering voice, “brought us together briefly and gave me a few moments to treasure.”

Suddenly she put her face on my shoulder and broke down.
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Short story: Captain of the St. John's team.

Ponnaiah could hear the crowd inside the stadium from where he stood in a corner of the dressing room watching his team lace up. It was obvious from the clamour that the stands were full.

The Maharajah’s Gold Cup Hockey Finals always attracted a large turnout but that year was something special. St. John’s College had reached the finals of the tournament for the first time. The college team was always the sentimental favourites in Sengalore, a cantonment town in South of India. Several generations of fans had followed the fortunes of the team with such intense feeling. Today, in the finals, the St. John’s team was pitted against the reigning champions, the Army XI.

Ponnaiah looked at his watch; there were twenty minutes for the game to start. He would have to announce the playing eleven almost immediately. Normally that would have been a routine exercise. But on this occasion it was different.

He watched the face of each player. They looked young and vulnerable. But the Captain knew that he had a very good team, probably the best ever to don the famous blue and gold colours. St. John’s could be champions that day. Their rivals had won three all-India tournaments earlier in the season. That did not overawe Ponnaiah. He and the coach, Donald, had assessed the opponents shrewdly. They could be beaten on that bare, hard ground. In the semi finals against the Madras Sporting Club, St. John’s had purposely slowed down the play with elaborate moves to upset the rhythm of the rivals. The Army XI was too good for such tactics. They had to be beaten in a fast, fluctuating game.

Ponnaiah was confident that his team had the edge if all the players were in form. The intelligent, talented and physically fit boys had been trained to near perfection. The rules of the game had been drilled into them to the extent that each player could possibly qualify as an umpire. The tactics and strategies for different situations were taught over and over again. Their defence was solid and could not be hustled. The half-line was capable of blunting enemy offence and initiating and supporting counter attacks. The inside forwards had been taught to fall back with the game and to take up moves. The well-knit forward line had speed, penetration, opportunism and marksmanship. This was a dream team. But morale was the major factor at the moment. The Captain knew that the uncertainty about the final eleven had a dampening effect on the players. For the first time that season, there were conflicting views on the team to be fielded.

A number of people, all with good intentions, had advised Ponnaiah about the selection. He had listened to them patiently but that had not helped. A captain walked a lonely path; he had to make his own choice. If the match were won, they would praise his judgment. If St. John’s lost that day, they would be talking about his big mistake for a long time.

Will Swamy be retained in the team? This, the captain new, was the question on everybody’s mind. For days the boys had been talking about it in whispers. Then there was Fr. Antonio whom they affectionately called Anty. The priest practically lived with the team and died a little at each game. He was obviously troubled by the question mark on Swamy. During the last few days the creases on the forehead of Donald had grown deeper. This balding man was a bundle of hockey wisdom, but never interfered unnecessarily. At St. John’s, finalizing the team was always the captain’s prerogative.

That morning The Sengalore Sentinel had carried a pre-match assessment, which discussed Swamy’s place in the team. Ponnaiah knew that the people out there on the stands would be debating the matter at that moment. He was aware too that there was discreet betting going on in the crowd and that his decision would affect the odds.

Swamy’s case was intriguing. Ponnaiah had not seen anything like it before. The boy was a superb centre forward who could some day play for India. He had started the season well. St. John’s routine was two practice matches a week, in a carefully planned program beginning with mediocre opposition and gradually involving increasingly tougher rivals to peak out for the tournament circuit. In the second half of July, Swamy had scored eleven goals. In August his tally was eighteen, and twenty-one in September. Then came the inexplicable slide – three goals in October, none in November. The bad patch continued through December though they did win the inter-collegiate. In the Gold Cup tournament Swamy had been a mere passenger so far.

In the beginning, everyone took it as a temporary loss of form. Many good players occasionally experienced some lean patches. The boy was rested for a few games. When that did not help, the captain became apprehensive. But Swamy was retained in the Gold Cup playing eleven because Ponnaiah was afraid that the boy’s confidence would be shattered if he were dropped. Once the centre forward lost heart it would be difficult for him to regain form and he would fade out. Others were waiting in line for a chance. In an outfit like St. John’s, there could be no comeback for a man who failed. That was the problem with having too much talent on hand.

At times the captain felt that he was worrying unnecessarily. The safe tactic for him would be to replace Swamy with the reserve centre forward. That boy too was very good and would have walked into any college team. With him in the side St. John’s would still be a top class team but not one capable of beating the Army XI. That was the difference an in-form Swamy could make. The boy had sheer genius, the kind that won critical games.

There had to be an explanation, and hopefully, some corrective action was possible. The captain had talked to Swamy’s friends, teachers and parents. No one had a clue. Then he went to the girl with whom the centre forward was reportedly close. Perhaps they had a tiff. That sort of thing could have an adverse effect on a player’s concentration.

But the girl was hurt that such a thought even crossed the captain’s mind. “Every morning,” she said, “I go to the temple and pray for him.”

“I’m sorry,” Ponnaiah apologized. “Will you come for the finals?”

“I would be too tense.”

“You must come,” Ponnaiah insisted. “That might inspire him.”

The girl nodded.

The morning of the finals, the Principal had summoned the captain. That was a rare event. The saying in the college was that no student who entered the Principal’s room came out in one piece. Ponnaiah waited silently for couple of minutes before the big, bearded Jesuit looked up and said, “Must win today.” That was all.

When the captain came out of the college, Swamy was waiting for him near the gate. The moment Ponnaiah was near enough the centre forward said in one breath, “Please drop me. I can’t play.” He seemed to be on the verge of a breakdown.

“Recommendations,” Ponnaiah said sternly, “about team selection are unacceptable.” He got on to his bike and rode away.

Now it was time to announce the team. Tension in the dressing room was almost tangible. Anty was stroking his beard. Donald was staring blankly at the wall. Swamy’s eyes were focused on his boots. Others were looking at the captain in anticipation.

“We are,” Ponnaiah said in an even tone, “fielding the same team that won the semi - finals.”

It took time for the statement to sink in.

“Well boys,” finally Anty broke the silence and said cheerfully, “you’re going to win the finals.” Turning to Swamy he continued, “I’ve said a special novena for you. Today you’ll do well.”

Ponnaiah looked away as he saw Swamy’s eyes fill with tears.

There was a pep talk by Donald and then it was on to the field. The stands were packed. For a moment Ponnaiah wondered whether Swamy’s girl friend was in the crowd.

The whistle blew and the play started with a missile attack. The ball was scooped towards the St. John’s goal. An Army forward trapped it and was within the ‘D’ in a flash, bringing the crowd to its feet. But his shot hit the upright and bounced out of play. For a short while the game swung to the Army half. Then the blitzkrieg started. It was relentless. The tanks came rolling down the flanks and through the middle. The St. John’s goalkeeper made two miraculous saves.

On the few occasions the college team managed to swing the play to the other half, the moves fizzled out. The void in the centre was noticeable. Couple of opportunities that came Swamy’s way went begging. From then on, whenever St. John’s got the chance to take up the ball, the players ignored Swamy and tried to develop moves along the flanks. That was not enough to penetrate the Army defence. But Ponnaiah did not try to alter the pattern.

Right from the beginning, the aggressive soldiers had crushed the St. John’s plan for a fast game. The Army men were all over the collegians. But they were overdoing it. Most of the time there were eighteen players in the St. John’s half – all excluding Swamy who stayed up, and the Army goalkeeper and backs. The soldiers were rough and the pressure on the college team kept mounting. But Ponnaiah knew that crowding the area reduced manoeuvrability. The opponents could not open out the game and carry out well-planned moves. St. John’s had another advantage – Donald’s dictum “A foul always works against you” was followed to the hilt. Still, before the interval they conceded six penalty corners, but none was converted.

The halftime break came as a lifesaver. The players sat quietly taking light refreshments, each one alone with his thoughts. Hardly any of them listened to the colourful police band that marched smartly up and down the ground. Donald was tending to the players, but gave no advice; there was no point. The boys were doing their best but it was doubtful whether they could hold out through the second half.

The captain sat alone. This was his last big match. Once the degree exams were over by April, he would be back at Coorg to assist his father in their coffee plantation and that would be the end of serious hockey for him. Why bother about the outcome of this match, he asked himself. After all it was only a game. What did it matter whether they won or lost? Tomorrow’s headlines would either scream “St. John’s Lift Gold Cup” or “St. John’s Goes Down Fighting.” In any case they would be heroes. People would stop them on the roads to shake hands. Girls would ogle and giggle at them. Other students would look at them with respect. They would get special attention at the restaurants frequented by the college crowds.

Then what was the point in this desperate need to win, the attitude of come back with the shield or in it? Ponnaiah suddenly realized that the answer was simple. They didn’t like to go down, fighting or otherwise. That was the St. John’s spirit. For them it was more difficult to give up than to fight on. And that was the captain’s message to the team as they returned to the ground for the second half.

There was no let up when the game resumed. In spite of the vociferous support from the stands for St. John’s, the fight could not go on forever. At some point of time the tide would overflow the dykes. The well-oiled Army machine seemed unstoppable. Still the boys held out. They lived by the minute, not thinking of what would happen next. They resorted to long clearances to gain breathing time. The goalkeeper was brilliant and made a few unbelievable saves.

About seven minutes of play was left. Now there was a feeble hope that St. John’s might survive to fight another day. It was then that Ponnaiah saw the opportunity. He intercepted a pass and noticed Swamy standing almost statue-like deep within enemy territory. There were only two Army defenders between him and the goalkeeper. The captain passed the ball quickly to the centre forward and ran after it shouting, “Go, Swamy, go.” The defence had not anticipated the move that was totally against the run of play.

“Go, Swamy, go.” The stands too screamed.

The ball came near Swamy and passed him and one of the backs rushed towards it. Ponnaiah’s heart sank.

It was then that the centre forward came to life. He trapped the ball on the run. There was a feint to the left and a swing to the right, throwing the defenders off position. The move had a touch of class.

Now only the goalkeeper was between Swamy and the net. It was a position that not even a novice would mess up. The crowd was on its feet shouting. The St. John’s players had frozen, except the captain who kept running after Swamy. The Army backs were trying to recover.

Time stood still. Hearts were little drums beating a rapid tattoo.

Swamy was the college sprint champion as well but his legs seemed to be moving agonizingly slow. Footsteps thundered behind him like canon fire. But slowly the distance to the net reduced. The goalkeeper rushed out and encountered Swamy at the top of the ‘D’. That was his only chance.

What had to be done was elementary. All along Swamy had been in full control. He waited till the custodian was committed to a dive. Then he pulled the ball to the right as the goalkeeper skidded past. Now there was nothing that stood between the ball and the citadel. Only a push was required.

That push never came.

Swamy took one more step forward and tapped the ball to Ponnaiah who had reached the top of the ‘D’ by then. Almost in a reflex action the captain shot it into the unguarded net and the stands exploded.

The Army came back, all guns firing. Six minutes were still left. The game turned rougher than before and two college players had to be carried out, hurt. But in an all out, desperate, crying rearguard action, the rest of them managed to survive miraculously.

The final whistle blew.

Strangely, at that moment of glory, Ponnaiah’s thoughts were of the coffee estate in Coorg, the cool, secluded home.

Ends.