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.]

parayilat.blogspot.com/index.html

Songs of the sea - Part 2.

Paru suddenly burst out crying. The doctor knelt beside her on the beach and hugged her. After a while she asked, “Paru, what’s the matter?”

“Amma died,” the girl replied between sobs, “because of me.”

The doctor hugged her again, gave her a gentle kiss, and said, “I’m sure that you’re wrong.”

“No, it’s true.”

“Would you care to talk about it?”

The girl nodded.

On the day of the waves, Paru said, she was walking back from the local shop with Amma around noon, carrying Dolly, her plastic baby. She wanted to chase crabs. That was something they did together often. Amma told her that it was too hot for the crabs to be out. But the daughter ran to the shore anyway and was surprised to find several of the little creatures moving around frantically. She called her mother who was waiting by the shade of a coconut palm at the edge of the sands.

Amma came out to the beach. She looked concerned when she saw the frenzied crabs.

It was then that they heard the roar like a thousand motorboats racing together. Amma looked towards the sea once, lifted Paru and ran. She did not scream or shout for help but sprinted with all the speed she could muster, her blue and white checked dhoti flapping about.

But not fast enough.

When they reached the coconut grove the gushing waves overtook. The last thing Paru remembered before becoming unconscious was Amma trying desperately to reach her in the swirling waters and Dolly drifting away.

The girl told the doctor between sobs that if she hadn’t stopped for chasing crabs they would have been safely home.

“My dear child,” the doctor said gently, “you’re wrong. Your house too was washed away.”

That was true, Paru thought.

After months at the camp Paru and her father shifted to one of the few identical little houses that were newly built near the beach for the tsunami victims by some good people. Father said that it was theirs. Others who weren’t so lucky complained that Government wasn’t doing anything. There were protest marches and slogan shouting. The girl didn’t care. Now they had a home again.

Jasmine doctor had come to see them off to the new place. As they were leaving she had told the girl, “Paru, you’re a good girl. You are all right now. Look after yourself and your father.”

Shortly after they moved to their new abode, grandma joined them. The old lady told the little girl that she shouldn’t worry. Kadalamma wanted Amma at her palace and had called her. She was happy there and would come to see Paru one-day.

And the girl waited.

She would look towards the sea often during the day though the glare hurt the eyes, and went to the beach every evening. It was good that she hadn’t started school yet, she thought. Otherwise, when Amma came she might be away in class.

Her one great worry was whether Amma would get sick, being wet in the sea because Kadalamma’s palace was underwater. Grandma said no. Would Amma stay when she came? No, she would have to go back. That was the rule. In the end everybody returned to Kadalamma’s castle, which was the real home. It had different tiers. The sinners and the bad people would be at the lowest, in the muddy filth of the ocean floor. Forever. Slimy snakes and fearsome fishes and craggy crabs would keep on nibbling at them. They would freeze and thaw, freeze and thaw, as the water temperature changed. That was bad enough, but knowing that it was coming, the wait for it, made them even more miserable.

It was frightening. Clutching grandma, Paru resolved silently that she would always be good. She wanted to be on the upper levels of Kadalamma’s palace where Amma surely would be. That was the place for good people. Grandma wouldn’t describe those parts of the castle except saying that they were beautiful beyond words. That didn’t make a picture in the mind. May be that was one thing the old lady didn’t know.

That evening, after sitting up on the sands for some time, Paru lay down. The breeze had softened and caressed her hair gently. It felt nice and she drifted off to sleep.

Then her mother came.

Amma rose from the water suddenly and rushed to the shore where the daughter was. She looked more beautiful than she was when the waves took her. Paru ran forward. Amma lifted her, held her against the bosom and whirled around like a top. Amma’s clothes were dry even though she had just come out of the sea.

They sat on the sand and talked. There was so much to tell each other. The girl gave details of the camp and the problems they had to face. She described the new house. Even now they had no money because the fish catches were poor. Father was always sad and silent. The mother explained that one had to be patient and bear the difficulties. She said that the situation would improve. Kadalamma was rearing large schools of fishes to be sent out to the sea for her sons to catch. The beach would soon see days of plenty.

Paru wanted to hear the song, which Amma had sung to put her to sleep on the night before the tsunami. It was about men venturing out to the endless sea on catamarans and women waiting anxiously beside wick lamps in windswept huts praying for the safe return of their husbands. Amma’s beautiful voice rose once again over the murmur of the waves. It lingered in the air briefly and faded away.

The mother described Kadalamma’s palace. It was made of innumerable types of seashells and pearls of sizes that ranged from little beads to huge boulders. The garden around the building had corals of different colours and lovely plants that swayed with the currents. Pretty fishes of varying hues swam around like little angels all the time. There was continuous music that often changed in pitch and tune and tempo like wind on the palms, and the waves danced in rhythm. Certain types of sea life emitted light and kept darkness away. Everybody inside the castle was happy and cheerful and loved each other.

Now the palace made a picture in the mind – clear, like a photo. There couldn’t be a lovelier place, the girl thought.

“Amma, I want to come there,” Paru said.

“Of course you must.”

“Now. With you.”

“No Paru, only when Kadalamma calls.”

“When will she call?”

“When it’s time,” Amma explained. “After you grow up and have babies of your own.”

“You mean real babies? Not like Dolly?”

“Real babies.”

“But Amma, you’ll be very old by then, like grandma.”

“At Kadalamma’s place each one would be herself. Always.”

The girl thought for a while. “Okay,” she said. “But will you come again?”

“If Kadalamma permits. Now I have to go.”

By the time Paru awoke and scrambled up Amma was gone. After a moment of hesitation she raced to the water, thinking that she could follow her mother’s footprints, reach the palace and be with her. But there were no marks on the wet sand to guide her. May be, Paru thought, Kadalamma had the waves erase Amma’s trail because it wasn’t time yet. She had to stay back. She had to look after herself and her father. And, she had to grow up and have babies of her own. Real babies. Not like Dolly.

Paru looked at the last remnant of the sun for a moment and turned around to the long way home.

■

Songs of the sea - Part 1.

The little girl wearing a faded green dress sat alone on the deserted beach, a few feet away from the waterline, looking westward and waiting. She tried to flatten her hair that tossed about in the strong evening breeze with her hands but the strands wouldn’t stay back.

The sun was setting against a dull, cloudless sky. Waves rolled in with foam on their crests. Some new, colourful fishing boats along with the older ones were out in the distance on their way back home. Birds flew around looking for prey before returning to their nesting places. But the girl was not concerned with the details. She was watching the vast expanse of the Arabian Sea. Somewhere under that water mass was the palace of Kadalamma, the Mother Goddess of all oceans and fisher folk.

Occasionally there was talk about the waves striking again. But the girl was not afraid. After they shifted to a small new cottage beside the beach, she went to the seashore every evening all by herself. It had become a routine. Sometimes when she was tired of sitting up, she would lie on the sand. Often she dropped off to sleep and had dreams that were mostly pleasant.

She loved Kadalamma in spite of what had happened. Her grandmother had told her so many stories about the great ocean goddess who was kind, loving, and caring. It was only when her subjects broke the rules that Kadalamma became angry. And once that happened, the goddess was blind and raving mad. Someone somewhere would have breached the rules. That was why Kadalamma had sent the huge waves.

One of her grandma’s stories warned that if a fisher woman went astray Kadalamma would take her husband away. The old lady had a song for it. She had songs for most of her yarns. She would sing exposing the few teeth she still had, clapping her hands in rhythm and then give the narration.

The girl didn’t know what ‘astray’ meant and guessed that it was something not good. But she couldn’t understand why the innocent man was taken away? May be it was to save him from the shame of his wife turning bad and the troubles of the world. People were always talking about problems and difficulties. Many of granny’s other tales though, were of men who braved angry seas and fought giant sharks and returned victoriously to become heroes. And they lived on. Strange were the ways of the grown-ups, the girl thought. When she asked her grandmother about it, there was a ready answer – the actions of bad people sometimes caused loss and hurt to good people as well.

Granny was away at the girl’s uncle’s place when the sea attacked. She had not seen Kadalamma’s fury. But the girl had, and remembered every little detail till she become unconscious during the rage of the waves.

When she opened her eyes again that day, she was lying on a bench in the partially damaged schoolhouse near their hamlet and a tired-looking doctor was examining her. Her father stood nearby with tearful eyes, along with other people. Someone was describing how she was found trapped among the fronds of a fallen coconut palm.

She looked around and whispered, “Amma”.

Nobody answered. Father told her later that they were searching for Amma and other missing persons. Hope lingered for a few days and slowly turned to numb acceptance. The girl couldn’t even cry.

They were housed in a crowded temporary shed after the tragedy. The girl didn’t like the place or the people there and kept aloof even from children of her age group. Some called her dumb because she hardly talked. Initially, food was scarce. Fisher folk were used to that during times of poor catches or when the men were careless with money. Then supplies started coming in regularly. The first lot of old clothes distributed to them were the type the sahibs wore, thick and warm. They were taken back and lighter garments were brought. The girl got three dresses. One was slightly torn and another a bit too large, but they were all nice.

Everyone was talking about tsunami all the time. It sounded like a girl’s name. However the girl realized soon that the word referred to the disaster that had ravaged their hamlet and had left a strange impact on the victims. People were grumpy and very irritable. They fought amongst them even over small things and always blamed government. She too was angry.

Then, one day, she got to see government.

He came in a big, fat car accompanied by others in several vehicles, and Jeep-loads of policemen. Initially the girl was a little afraid but forced herself to look. Government was an elderly person with tousled hair and seemed like other men. His name was Chief Minister. He listened to complaints of the inmates, talked to important-looking people, and gave a speech.

The girl didn’t understand what was said. But after Government left, the grown-ups argued as usual. Some said that they would get new houses and boats soon. Others were doubtful. Many felt that people with Government would cheat the poor fishermen and make money for themselves. Her father kept out of such discussions. He was always sad and quiet. She felt sorry for him. She knew that he had loved Amma very much even though sometimes he used to fight with her. Men were like that.

One night the girl saw the waves again in her sleep and woke up crying. She couldn’t stop. Some of the people in the camp cursed loudly because they were angry at being disturbed in their sleep. That hurt more and she wailed louder. Father carried her outside and they spent the rest of the night on the moon-washed sands. By morning the girl had high fever and started vomiting. The doctor said that it was partially a delayed effect of the shock caused by the tsunami and needed expert treatment. He sent them to a large hospital run by nuns in the nearby town.

They were directed to a doctor who attended to tsunami related cases. The lady faintly resembled Amma. She wore a white coat over a pink sari, and smelt of jasmine. The girl secretly named her ‘Jasmine doctor’.

“What’s your name?” the doctor asked.

“Parvathy,” the girl answered. “Amma used to call me Paru.”

“Shall I also call you Paru?”

“Yes,” the girl said with a shy smile.

After examining the girl and asking questions, the doctor said, “You’re fine, Paru. Only a little frightened inside. We’ll remove that fear.”

The doctor went to the refugee camp frequently and took Paru for long walks along the beach. They talked a great deal, told stories, and played games.

One day the girl asked the doctor abruptly, “Have you ever played chasing crabs?”

“No. What sort of game is that?”

“You find little pinkish crabs on the seashore. Go near them and they start running. You run after them. It’s very exciting.”

“Well,” the doctor said, “I missed the fun. There were no crabs where I grew up. But why did you ask?”

Paru suddenly burst out crying. The doctor knelt beside her on the beach and hugged her. After a while she asked, “Paru, what’s the matter?”

“Amma died,” the girl replied between sobs, “because of me.”

To be continued.

DEAD MEN IN TOWN - Concluding part.

(If you haven't read the earlier parts of this story, click on the title.)

Dead Man looked disappointed. “Apparently, your accountant isn’t very smart,” was his rejoinder. As I started the car he added, “Do keep the Christmas Eve date.”

First thing I did on reaching home was to visit Koottil Bank’s website. Photo of the ‘special safe’ was quite prominent. There was one of Joseph Koottil Sr. as well, wearing or bearing a different body of course. Picture of the former Chief Minister placing one hundred and one rupees in the safe, was also given.

How much money that iron box contains, I wondered. Five million? Ten? More? As a good citizen, I should report the matter to the authorities. I was aware that my reward would be twenty per cent of the unaccounted money seized. That should be sufficient to get my project off the ground. After pondering for two days, I decided that to succeed one had to take risks, and contacted a senior officer in the Income Tax Department.

The raid came the next Saturday afternoon.

According to the media, it was the largest search of its kind in Cochin till then. The bank premises and the three Koottil residences were combed simultaneously. The operation lasted well into the night.

Front page headline in next morning’s Cochin Chronicle summed up the exercise, “Koottil Bank Raid – MUCH ADO ABOUT NOTHING.” The only unaccounted money the tax sleuths unearthed was the former Chief Minister’s contribution. I couldn’t claim my share of Rs.20.20 even if I wanted to because the officials had ignored the find.

The aftermath of the raid was tumultuous. People from all walks of life, banker’s associations, and trade unions protested against what was generally considered as an unwarranted offensive action against a financial institution with an impeccable record.

Newspapers and TV channels picked up the story. Suddenly Koottil Bank was in the national limelight. A prominent analyst wrote an Op-Ed article in Economic Mirror titled “Koottil – A Rock Among Smaller Indian Banks.” Speculative reports about Koottil going public, international banks approaching them with tie-up proposals and so on were published almost daily. The financial community developed a sudden interest in local banks and big players began buying available shares on the quiet.

I was on fear mode. On couple of nights I dreamt of my mutilated body floating around in the Cochin backwaters. Now even the Income Tax people were unhappy with me.

Days dragged on and nothing happened.

Koottils might have let me go, I felt, because they hadn’t lost anything. Or had they taken a hit and kept quiet about it? Some one could have cleaned up the ‘special safe’ ahead of the raid. There were other possibilities as well. A tip off from the Income Tax Department couldn’t be ruled out. May be Dead Man had given his sons a ghostly warning. Or, perhaps, he had bluffed me in the first place.

On a sudden impulse I went to Neptune on Christmas Eve, not really expecting Dead Man there. But he was at my table with the same body he had on at our first meeting, and greeted me warmly.

“You are,” I said suspiciously after the orders were placed, “having the same body. I thought they came from the top of the pile.”

Dead Man laughed. “Money,” he said, “can do wonders. Now I have three bodies reserved for me at the cemetery. A small problem is that the clothes on them can’t be changed. They’re pre-fixed.”

He went on talking. In two months he had practically become the boss of St. Patrick’s cemetery. That very night a dozen souls including the supervisor were in town enjoying at his expense. He had the freedom to go out whenever he wanted. But he was unhappy.

“Why?” I asked.

“I visited home in the morning,” he said. “As a spirit, of course. The fight between my daughters – in – law has flared up sooner than I expected. My wife is too simple to handle them. The sons would succumb to their wives and the Bank will be wrecked.”

“That’s the problem with several family business establishments,” I said sympathetically.

“I’m planning to tell the boys to sell out and go their separate ways. Now we’re getting fantastic offers.”

“Tell them?”

“There’s a method of communication.”

“Fourth generation bank, and doing very well,” I said. “Aren’t you sentimental?”

“Sentimentality without discipline is dangerous.”

We drank in silence for a few minutes. Then I asked, “Didn’t you bluff me about the ‘special safe’?”

“I told you once,” the reply came with vehemence, “that I’m an honest dead man. The money was there and I needed it. The day after we met I found an accomplice. We took what was required and I warned my sons to clean up. I knew you would squeal.”

“Look here-”

“OK, I’ll rephrase it – I knew your patriotism would overcome particularly with the twenty per cent reward.”

I looked away.

“Have you found the money for your project?” he asked.

“No.”

“Thought so. Tell you what. Apply to our bank for a venture capital loan. Say 1.5 millions. New players have a tendency to underestimate project cost. Employ a consultant the bank recommends.”

“But,” I expressed my doubt, “will they help me after what happened?”

“Oh,” Dead Man was exasperated. “You’re a technician, not a businessman. Do you know how much market value you’ve added to the Bank? They’ll give you the money all right. Of course, the project has to be good.”

The project was excellent. Perhaps, I thought, I should follow his advice.

“Are you really a dead man?” I asked suddenly.

“An entrepreneur who cannot decide things by himself, is unlikely to succeed,” he stated and ordered another round of drinks.

Ends.

œ

DEAD MEN IN TOWN - Part 2.

(If you missed the first part, click on the title.)

He had turned around, studying the crowd. “Oh, no,” he exclaimed suddenly and looked at me. “He’s here.”

“Who?”

“Our supervisor. The one in blue checked shirt at the bar counter. He’s drinking water because he doesn’t have money.”

I saw the chap who had a faint resemblance to Frankenstein.

“You’re bluffing,” I said. “How can he identify all the bodies stocked at St. Patrick’s?”

“Look, I’m an honest dead man. There is some kind of a hologram on these bodies with the home cemetery code. He can read that.”

“But how -”

He interrupted me saying, “These are highly technical matters. I’m not competent to explain. But help me now. Apart from the main entrance is there any other door?”

“There’s one from the side street. I don’t think they allow exit that way.”

Our bearer was serving at the next table. Dead Man told him to get the bill.

“Is the supervisor looking this side?” he asked after some time and drained his glass.

“No.”

“Tell you what. I’ll wait by the side door. The waiter is taking too long. When he comes, direct him there. That’ll also help me to exit that way. See you.”

He moved away quickly before I could respond.

When the bearer came, I sent him to the side door. He returned after a while to report that the ‘gentleman’ couldn’t be found. You’re a gullible ass, I told myself and ordered anther drink.

‘Frankenstein’ was still at the bar counter as I was leaving. I had half a mind to tell him that an AWOL from his cemetery was with me till a short while back.

When I came out there was a hushed ‘pssst.’

It was Dead Man.

Not again, I whispered to myself and said aloud, “Thought you were gone.”

“How could I? You were to have drinks on me but end up paying. That’s not the done thing.”

Very correct, I said silently.

“That stupid bearer took too long and I couldn’t go on waiting there. How much was it?”

“Never mind.”

“You have to tell me,” Dead Man said. “Come, let’s go.”

“Where?”

“I’ve to pass your car en route to the cemetery.”

That’s it, I thought; five hundred meters and I can be rid of this creature.

“At the bar,” he said as we were walking, “I could have signed. Now how will I pay?”

“Forget it.”

“Of course not." Koottils always pay up and also collect what is due to them. Tell you what. We meet here on Christmas Eve. Then I can relax. We’ll have cocktails and dinner and I’ll foot the entire expense.”

Not again, I thought. “Christmas is still two months away,” I said.

“Oh! Then how about the day after tomorrow? I’ll sneak out again.”

“No,” I protested. “Let’s keep it Christmas Eve. Tentative.”

“You won’t turn up.”

I didn’t deny that. We carried on in silence for a minute or so. Then Dead Man stopped abruptly and I followed suit automatically.

“We’ll settle the account tonight itself,” he said. “If you need more money I can arrange that also. I mean big money.”

“How big?”

“Say, half a million rupees provided you have a good project. It’ll be an interest-bearing loan. Amortization on easy terms.”

Strange coincidence, I thought. Or, had he selected me after doing a background check? “What I need,” I said, “is something like a million rupees.”

Dead Man considered that for a moment and said, “OK. That would mean more interest inflow than I require. May be I’ll give the excess to charity.”

I was almost sure that it was all a joke. “Why do dead men need money?”

“Signing in my son’s name would be exposed sooner or later. I must be able to pay directly. You’ll deposit the interest with restaurants I stipulate in the names I tell you. We meet once a month to review.”

He pulled me to the outer edge of the footpath and went on to explain. He would allot amounts to the cemetery supervisor and others according to the cooperation they extend; they could sign till the credit runs out. Kind of Dead Man’s Debit Card. Possibly the area supervisor for cemeteries and his boss would be covered as well. Thus Dead Man would buy freedom to roam around at will. “Money talks even in cemeteries,” he concluded.

“But,” I expressed my doubt, “how’ll you manage the money in the first place? You’re dead.”

“Yes, I’m a dead banker who walks, talks and drinks. Often, apparent reality is the relevant one. You drive me to Koottil Bank HQ and en route sum up your project in five minutes. If I’m convinced that the project is viable, you wait in the car and I deliver the cash. In either case drop me back at St. Patrick’s.”

My strange companion went on to explain that he knew all the security passwords and safe combinations of the bank. He could easily get in to the building at any time by the executive lift, which could be operated either by smart card or punched ID. He was the only one who knew the double code of their special safe; his two sons were privy to only one each.

‘Special Safe’ was where all their unaccounted money was kept. His grandfather had bought it when he started the bank. It was decommissioned after a new strong room was built. My ‘friend’ had it transferred ceremoniously to the reception area as a memento and placed a photograph of the founder on top of it. The much-publicized function was presided over by the then Chief Minister of Kerala who kept one hundred and one rupees inside it saying that a bank safe should never be empty.

“Why didn’t you keep your father’s picture also?” I asked.

“That would have diffused the focus. My photo won’t be there either.”

The reception was apparently a low security area and nobody paid any attention to the safe. That was precisely the effect, which had been planned for. All the black money was shifted into it. This included funds of politicians, business tycoons and other important personages. There was lending of unaccounted funds too. Ten percent of the profits from that operation went to charities.

“But won’t the missing money be noticed?” I asked.

“Because of secrecy concerns, the infrequent physical verifications are quick and not very accurate. The last one was a month before I died suddenly. Damned cardiac arrest. My sons won’t know how much I had drawn during that period.”

I was flabbergasted. Shortage of one million rupees may not even be noticed!

“What about documentation?” I asked.

“No-fuss loan,” he answered and started walking again. “I hand over the cash tonight if your project sounds good. No papers. Conditions apply, though. But no small print, no hidden costs.”

“How can you,” I asked, “evaluate a project on the basis of a five minute verbal presentation?”

“That’s all it takes for a good lender to decide on an expression of interest. The rest are details.”

“How can you be sure of repayment?”

“You would be surprised. We have one of the best recovery rates among all banks in the country. Several factors are involved. Basically, most people want to repay loans. We are careful in lending. Funds utilization is closely monitored. We also give necessary guidance and timely assistance. In fact we walk a client through his project. Main thing is to ensure that debt servicing capability is maintained.”

After a brief pause he continued, and in the process answered a question that was in my mind, “Like some of the modern banks, we too are a bit goon-tech on the rare defaulters. Now I can even send a few spooks after them. For those who squeal on us the treatment is more severe.”

I had to make a quick decision. Funds were offered without hassles to implement my dream project. But I had to deal with a dead financier and in black money.

We reached the car. “Without papers,” I said, “the source can't be shown. Don’t want to be in trouble with Income Tax. Thanks anyway.”

Dead Man looked disappointed. “Apparently, your accountant isn’t very smart,” was his rejoinder. As I started the car he added, “Do keep the Christmas Eve date.”

To be continued.

DEAD MEN IN TOWN. Part 1.

The evening rush was on. I found a parking space about five hundred yards away from my favorite restaurant and started walking along the crowded pavement.

“Excuse me, sir,” someone said from behind.

Turning around I saw a middle-aged person who quickly caught up with me. “Have they opened the Neptune?” he asked.

“Yes,” I answered.

“Good,” the man sounded pleased. “Do you happen to know how the place is?”

“Nice ambiance, tasty food, clean liquor. Prices are a bit steep though.”

“Well,” the stranger responded, “there’s always a premium on quality.”

“True,” I agreed.

The man followed me into the bar and seeing the crowd, said, “There’s no place to sit.”

“I’ve a reservation,” I responded without thinking. I went to Neptune occasionally and did some problem solving over dinner and three whiskies. Tonight’s agenda was the one million rupees I still had to raise as part of the promoter’s equity for my ambitious biotechnology project.

“If no one is joining you may I use your table?” the stranger requested.

I couldn’t say no. After we settled down my new found companion said, “You’re right. The atmosphere’s good. They were planning to open by Independence Day when I died.”

“Oh,” I whispered absentmindedly, looking for a bearer. All of them were busy. Finally, one carrying a tray of drinks noticed. He smiled and nodded.

When I turned to the chap sitting opposite, something clicked inside my brain. “What did you say?” I asked.

“Sorry it slipped out. I said when I died -”

“You mean that you are a ghost?”

“Not technically. Ghosts are shapeless spirits. Don’t you see that I’m bearing a body? It would be more appropriate to say that I’m a dead man.”

May be he was putting me on. Nevertheless I took out my handkerchief and wiped off sweat that had appeared suddenly on my forehead and neck.

“Don’t be frightened,” Dean Man said. “We’re quite harmless compared to many of the living.”

Perhaps. But I was counting my options. There was none, really. If I left he might accompany me. I would rather be at a known place with real people than outside on the street with a dead man, friendly or otherwise.

The waiter came. That was a relief till he asked me, “Sir, are you all right?”

“Looks as though,” the being sitting across the table said, laughing, “he saw a ghost.”

I gave him a dirty look and told the bearer, “Get me vodka on rocks. Double large.” If the chap was surprised at the change from my usual he didn’t show it and turned to Dead Man who ordered, “Grand Old Parr. Large. Cold water, no ice.”

The ‘fellow’ has taste, I thought.

“Sorry, sir,” the waiter apologized. “We’ve no premium Scotch.”

“Red Label?”

“Yes sir.”

“I’ll be signing. Koottil Bank account. Joseph Koottil Jr.”

“Very well, sir.”

When we were alone Dead Man explained, “That’s my elder son. Can easily duplicate his signature. In fact I taught him to sign. He hardly visits this place.”

At least his bill won’t be dumped on me, I thought with a sense of relief.

“Might have heard of us if you stay in Cochin. Fourth generation bank. Low-key operation, but fairly big and high tech. I advanced a bridge loan to the group that owns this place.”

I knew of the bank. It was in the short-list of possible financiers for my project.

Dead Man obviously noticed my continued silence. “Don’t be so concerned,” he said. “Everyday people come across entities like me without realizing it. If I hadn’t inadvertently blurted out my status, you wouldn’t have known.”

That was true. But the problem was that I knew.

“There are,” Dead Man said, “others like me around. From St. Patrick’s cemetery alone – that’s where I am buried – three of us are out tonight.”

Unconsciously I looked around the bar. Everybody seemed to be living human beings like me.

Drinks arrived and I took a gulp. My companion sipped his whiskey and said, “I’m on pins and needles.”

I looked at him questioningly.

“Sneaked out without permission. The cemetery supervisor may be on the prowl. If caught I’ve had it.”

Warmed with vodka I asked, “Why, what would happen?”

“We’re allowed only two outings per year – Christmas and Easter. First offence attracts cancellation of the privilege for five years. For repeat, the ban would be sine die.” He laughed suddenly and added, “Imagine a dead man using that phrase!”

I didn’t find it amusing. “Why don’t you,” I asked, “return quickly before getting caught?”

He shook his head and answered, “No way. I want to celebrate my birthday.”

“Oh, well, happy birthday,” I wished him, feeling rather stupid.

“Thank you. By the way, the drinks are on me.”

I ignored that and asked, “Shouldn’t you be visiting your family?”

“Thought of that. But the problem is that if they forgot my birthday I would feel bad. If they celebrate also I would feel bad.”

I finished my drink and ordered another. Dead Man followed suit and continued, “There are other problems as well. I can visit the family only as a spirit. That’s faster of course. But to do that now I’ll have to go back to the cemetery and return this body. Then I can’t drink. Spirits can’t have spirits!” He laughed, rather sadly.

“You mean that even when you sneak out they give you a body?”

“That’s how it’s programmed. It’s not case sensitive. Anyone who is leaving is offered a clothed carcass. Take it or leave it.”

“Not one’s own body?”

“No, I think that’s reserved for the Resurrection. This is from top of the stack. It goes by size. I think they are sterilized, micro-shrunk and stored. Some process blows them to actual size before issuing.”

After a couple of minutes Dead Man said wistfully, “I would have been sixty today!”

The body he was sporting didn’t look that old. But then the program matched only the size and not the age.

He had turned around, studying the crowd. “Oh, no,” he exclaimed suddenly and looked at me. “He’s here.”

To be continued shortly.

Click on title for part 2.

THE DEAD AND THE LIVING DEAD.

I’m on my way to see Kiran again. We have met only once, but no other woman has left such an indelible mark in my mind as she did. In spite of the time that has elapsed, every little detail of that meeting is still fresh in my mind.

Maj. Gen. Krishna Marar, a retired Indian Army officer, and I were on his lawn in Munnar, a small hill station in Kerala’s tea country, sipping whiskey and soda and watching a full moon rise over the mountains. After a while I followed the general’s sidewise glance and saw a tall young lady standing a few paces away, dressed in a dark-blue silk sari.

“My only child, Kiran,” the general removed the pipe he was smoking from his mouth and introduced us. “Mr. Samuel Mathai is a writer.”

I stood up chivalrously and said, “Hello, Kiran.”

Kiran came forward with great poise, giving me a charming smile. After making her cosy on a cane chair she addressed me, “I’ve never met an author before. What do you write?”

“Well,” I replied, “articles mostly. A few short stories. This time it’s a novel.”

“That’s great,” Kiran responded enthusiastically. “Of late Indian authors have been doing very well.”

“Do you like novels?”

“Yes. The better ones.”

“She reads a great deal,” the general pitched in.

“What’s your novel about?” Kiran asked. And, looking at the moon, added,

“Not one of those moonlight and roses stuff, I hope.”

I laughed and answered, “Oh, no. Romance isn’t my genre. It’s about a young army officer.”

“That’s interesting. A war story?”

“Not really. There’s some action of course. But it’s mostly about the young man’s life. His loves and his hopes. The sacrifices. The pitfalls.”

Kiran nodded. “War,” she said, “is a terrible business. Think of people dying, getting maimed. The misery endured by their families.”

“But it’s a fact of life.”

“True.”

“You don’t seem to like war novels.”

“Some are great. All Quiet on the Western Front, Across the Black Waters. Naked and the Dead was good too, but a bit raw for me.”

“You’re nursing your drink” My host’s statement was almost a command. I smiled and took a sip.

Kiran was staring at the horizon, lost in thought. Her shoulder length hair that was parted on the side shimmered in the moonlight.

“Actually,” I said, “I came to consult your father on certain aspects of the book. I’d sent him a copy of the manuscript in advance.”

Kiran nodded and turning to her father asked, “How’s it, daddy?”

Gen. Marar took a quick puff on the pipe. “Good,” he answered. “In fact, very good, I would say. But some corrections and polishing are required. After all, it’s only an initial draft.”

Kiran had a serious expression now. “But a general’s view alone,” she said to me, “wouldn’t give sufficient dimension to a war story. You should know about the junior officers and the jawans. They are the army, really.”

“All generals were junior officers once,” my host said.

“Okay, daddy,” Kiran said laughing.

“You’re right,” I concurred with her. “I’ve covered that as well. In fact, a great deal of research has been done.”

“Good,” Kiran approved. “That’s essential. But what about soldiers’ wives, like me? They form a silent force behind every army.”

Did I feel a tinge of disappointment that she was married? I wasn’t sure. “That’s an area,” I admitted, “I haven’t really looked into. Thanks for the advice.”

“My husband, Maj. Mohan Nair….”She stopped abruptly and looked with concern at her father who had choked on his pipe and went into a fit of coughing.

“Daddy, you’re smoking too much these days. Are you alright?”

The general took out a handkerchief, removed his spectacles and wiped his brows. His face was flushed and his eyes blinked. He smiled with some effort and nodded.

After a few seconds Kiran asked me, “Where was I?”

“Your husband,” I reminded her.

“Oh, yes,” she said with a smile, “Before retiring daddy was his Div. Commander. That’s how we met, at a garden party on a moonlit night like this.” She paused and a faraway look came into her eyes."He’s coming on leave next month," she added.

Mist was beginning to rise from the valley in soft, woolly streamers. It floated around in the gentle breeze.

“We should go in now,” the general said. “It’s getting chilly.”

Kiran suddenly woke up from her reverie. “No, daddy, please,” she pleaded. “It’s quite pleasant, really. Let’s sit here a little while longer.”

“Mr. Mathai is a city dweller. He may not be used to it.”

“I’m fine, sir".

After a thoughtful moment Gen. Marar said, “Okay,” and poured fresh drinks.

“I could,” Kiran addressed me, “provide you some material from the wives’ angle.”

“That’s very kind of you,” I responded. “I’ll take down notes.”

“Shall I, daddy?”

“Later. We haven’t finished our discussion.”

Kiran could, I felt sure, furnish useful information that could be worked into the story.

“May I request you,” I asked, “to go through the manuscript and send me notes? If necessary, I’ll come back for a discussion after that.”

“Fine. I’ll be happy to do that.”

The suggestions and anecdotes she sent are still with me. In fact, I’ve acknowledged her contribution in my book.

“Oh, my!” Kiran exclaimed with a start and got up. “The baby’s crying. I have to go.”

I couldn’t hear any child cry and wondered about the invisible mechanism by which a mother could monitor her little one. I stood up to bid goodbye.

“I hope,” Kran said with a smile, “that your book turns out to be a bestseller.”

“Thank you.”

“You must send me an autographed copy.”

“I certainly will.” I did, and her well-composed letter of congratulation is carefully preserved at home.

“Please excuse me,” Kiran continued. “Mine’s a spoilt child. Daddy pets her too much. I suppose all grandfathers are like that. Now I have to play the piano to put her to sleep. Good night, Mr. Mathai, and good luck. See you daddy.”

I said good night and the general waved to her affectionately.

Kiran moved away quickly but gracefully. I watched till she disappeared inside the bungalow.

There was emptiness about the scene now. My host began the procedure of refilling his pipe. I sat looking at the moon, which was clear above the Western Ghats.

A few minutes later, strains of piano drifted over to us. Soft, captivating. Trained fingers caressing the keys. The notes lingered in the air.

“That’s beautiful,” I said spontaneously. “Kiran?”

Gen. Marar looked up and nodded. “She’s very good. Her music teacher used to say that she hadn’t come across any one better talented.”

“Not surprising,” I said. “The way Kiran plays is fascinating. It’s a pity - ”

“That such a gift is being wasted,” the general completed the sentence for me. “Yes, it’s sad. She even composes. But army life isn’t the best platform for a musical career.” He put the pipe to his mouth to light.

What Kiran had said about the army wives made more sense now. “Yes, I understand,” I commented.

“But she practices every morning. My wife – she died two years back – and I used to look forward to those sessions. I still do. They are so soothing.”

“Where’s Kiran’s husband posted?” I asked.

“He’s been dead five years.” My host stated bluntly.

"Oh," I exclaimed.

The general recharged his glass, pushed the bottle towards me, and continued, “Got it on an unnamed hill at the border. Officially, a peacetime casualty. It was one of those days of sporadic firing across the line.” After a momentary pause he added, “Half his face was blown off. It was an awful mess.”

A strange kind of heaviness seemed to have permeated the atmosphere and the mood changed tangibly. The music sounded distant, hardly audible. But I could visualise Kiran at the piano – beautiful, talented.

I helped myself to a stiff peg.

“He was,” the general went on, “the son I didn’t have. Handsome. So full of life. And a good soldier as well. They had made an ideal couple.” He began lighting his pipe.

Mist was getting thicker and made an eerie haze in the moonlight. The mountain range could be hardly seen. The tmperature had dropped and I shivered slightly.

The pipe-lighting ritual took time. Finally that was done. The old soldier let out the smoke and stared at the horizon.

The music was back. A different tune. We were quiet for a while, listening. Then the general drank more whiskey and said, almost in a whisper, “Cradle Song by Johansson Brahms. The lullaby is meant for my granddaughter. Well, a rag doll, really. The one that was Kiran’s favourite when she was a child. When the news about Mohan came, she lost the baby she was carrying. But her mind hasn’t accepted that.”

There was heavy silence for a few moments. Then Gen. Marar said, “She’s almost normal in everything else.”

I looked away from him towards the house. Diffused light could be seen from the front door, like a lantern marking some distant grave.

That was four years earlier. This morning’s newspaper carried Gen. Marar’s obituary, which concluded with the sentence, ‘Survived by daughter, Mrs. Kiran Nair.’

Ends.