Morbidity in the Mundane — Chitragupta — 1
The smell of fresh petrichor filled the air. I sat on the balcony admiring the drizzle falling over the jasmine buds. “Grandma!” came a loud call. I turned to see my granddaughter dragging my old, worn out writing desk. 15 centimeters tall, held together by rusting nails and brown wax, the desk was a gift from a man long, long ago. “Can you help me with my homework?” she asked, dropping the desk next to me. “Careful Child! Don’t throw it about. You belittle the gift” I scolded. “Gift?” She replied frowning. “Why would anyone give something so damaged as a Gift?” she asked.
Why would anyone give such a thing as a gift indeed…?
Sixty-three years ago, I witnessed two murders. I knew who the murderer was. But, no one believed me when I told them. One was passed off as an accident and the other due to natural causes. But, It was what it was. Cold blooded murder.
I lived all of my childhood in Puthery — A small village off the coast of Kanyakumari, the southernmost tip of India. Plentiful sunny days and copious amount of rainfall meant that our ponds were always brimming with water keeping our rice harvests surfeit.
To help my agrarian father, Chithran Uncle, the village accountant would drop in our house every week. Chithran Uncle was a short man with a bountiful paunch, always clad in a sparkling white veshti (lower garment worn by men) coupled with a sandal-colored shirt and a long rudraksham maalai (necklace made of prayer beads). Wherever he goes, he’ll carry with him a small hand-desk protected by a stiff, shiny brown wax layer. The two men would sit in the veranda outside the living room, drinking varakaapi (Black Coffee) as they calculated the gains and losses from the harvest.
“Where are you from, Chithran Uncle?” I asked one day, curious since Amma had let it slip that he was not from our village. Chithran Uncle had been gazing out of the window vacantly, tapping his pen on the desk, splashing tiny droplets of blue ink. On my question, he turned to look at me sitting cross-legged on the floor beside him. His gaze sharpened, amusement trickling into his brown eyes.
“Ah! I was born in Nepal actually. But lived all of my life in Kancheepuram before I moved out here.” He replied.
“Ooh! Kancheepuram?!” I asked excitedly.
“Yes. Kancheepuram. It is a beautiful town with magnificent temples. My favorite temple is the one dedicated to Lord Chitragupta.” he replied smiling curiously.
“Amma said that his idol is sheer beauty decorated with lots and lots of jewelry. Is that true?!” I asked.
“Did she now? Hmmm, I don’t remember much of jewelry. But…” he confessed.
“But?” I asked.
“But, I do remember clearly the pen he held in his hand. It was a stunning tool. It is rumored that the Cholas who built the temple made it entirely of gold” he said. The strange smile had not left his face. In the setting sun, his eyes gleamed gold as the gilded pen in his hands tip-tapped the register.
A few hours later, as I wandered about the house, I stopped at our living room, because in there was a foreign object in there that did not belong to us. Standing resplendent in its 15 cm glory, was the hand desk of Chithran Uncle. ‘Huh. Looks like he forgot it and left’ I thought, walking over to where it was kept. As I poked around, I discovered a small, hidden compartment attached below the top surface of the desk. Puzzled, I slipped my hand into it. My fingers hit upon a hard-bound book and I pulled it out.
With a gold embossed cover, the pages were stiff, and the book seemed to belong more in a museum than with someone as normal as a village accountant. I marveled at its sheer richness; I had never seen such a book ever in my life. I opened it to the first page where a picture of Lord Shiva was stuck on it. Flipping over to the other pages, I found something very peculiar. Each page held a name on top, followed by a series of tiny lines in red or blue. Some names were struck out with black ink. I continued flipping over, only to stop when I came across a page with Appa’s name. Sucking in a fearful breath, I flipped to the next page to find Amma’s name, then my elder brother’s and then, mine. Poongodi, written on top was followed by five blue lines and three red ones. Terribly puzzled and slightly afraid, I turned over to the next page. There on top, written and then scratched out, was the name of our neighbour, Thanammal. The black line drawn through her name seemed very recent. Her page was overflowing with blue and red lines, with the blue being predominant. ‘Why are these names here? What do these lines mean? Do these colors have a specific significance?’ I thought to myself worriedly.
The sound of someone opening our front gate was heard. I hurriedly replaced the book back into the compartment and ran.
The golden book kept me awake through the night.
The next day, as soon as I returned from school, Amma sent me off to our neighbor Thanammal’s house with packed food. Thanammal Grandma was a seventy-year-old pottery woman who lived in a ramshackle cottage next to us. Her husband long dead and her two sons in Calcutta working in our Independent India railways, left her lonely. Lonely and poor. Not the best combination. Taking pity on her, my parents took her under our wing, making sure she had enough food, firewood and blankets for cold nights.
“Grandma! I’m here” I called out, pushing open the peeling blue painted door. Placing the package on the mud floor, I moseyed over to the other end of the cottage towards her. She hummed as she deftly maneuvered the pottery wheel placed between her wizened knees. I watched, captivated as she put the finishing touches on a tiny tumbler with her gnarled fingers. Appraising her newest creation through her milky-brown eyes, she said, “Poongodi! How wonderful to see you! How was school?”
“It was good, Grandma. Amma has packed rice and aviyal (stew) for you” I replied.
“Yes, yes. I’m coming. Here, take this as a present” she said hobbling over to a wooden bench where a few clay decorative vases were kept. I winced, taking the one she held out to me, thinking about what Appa would say if I went home with yet another unusable trinket from Thanammal Grandma. Then, we sat down on the woven mat, me with a copper tumbler filled with varakaapi and Thanammal Grandma with the packed food. As she ate, she told me stories of pre-Independence India, of her brave sons participating in the Salt Satyagraha, of ancient kings and queens. Meandering through History and Mythology alike, we talked the evening away. Listening to her tales had been always been the favorite part of my day.
After promising her that I’d be back the next day, I left. As I opened the gate of our house, I spied someone entering Thanammal Grandma’s house. It was Chithran Uncle. Feeling my eyes on him, he paused to give me a smile. A smile with lips stained red from betel leaves. Though it was not cold, I shivered.
Something strange was going on.
That night, I was roughly shaken awake by my idiot of a brother. Before I could yell at him, he gestured to the bedroom door. Murmurs could be heard as the light from the oil lamp outside illuminated the bedroom floor. We crept forward and strained our ears against the door to hear snatches of the conversation.
“…I’m sorry. There was nothing I could do. She was already gone by the time I arrived” said someone quietly. “That was the Doctor from the town” my brother mouthed to me.
Doctor? Why was he here?
“Is there nothing to be done?” asked the teary voice of Amma. “No, I’m afraid not” said the Doctor gently. Appa sighed, “At least Thanammal is in a better place now that she is gone from this wicked world. We’ll take care of her…” the rest of the sentence went unheard by me. I felt numb. Thanammal Grandma. Dead. Gone. Never to tell stories again. I curled up against the door and cried myself to sleep as brother stroked my hair.
Her funeral rites were held the next day. I clutched the last clay vase she had given me as I watched the villagers heap pink flowers over her dead body. ‘This was no natural death.’ I thought, ‘She was hale and healthy. Someone must have killed her.’
My mind whirred with the possible suspects. I suddenly remembered the strange golden book with names. ‘Of course, It has to be Chithran Uncle. He writes down the names of the people he kills. He was also the last person to see Thanammal Grandma alive’ I thought. ‘Now all I need to do is find the book again and show it to the elders’, I concluded triumphantly. But, I couldn’t do this alone. I needed help. Big brothers maybe annoying but they do have their advantages. I needed to rope in my brother into my plan.
I pulled him aside from the funeral proceedings and told him of my suspicions. After I finished, he gave me a supercilious, disbelieving stare. “Really? Chithran Uncle, A murderer?” he said flatly.
“Poongodi, are you sure you’re not feverish?” he asked sticking his hand over my forehead. Growling, I shoved his hand away. “Listen, I may not be able to help you much, because, you know, I’m very busy” he continued.
“But, whatever you do, don’t tell our parents about what you think” he said.
“What?! Why not?” I asked, indignant.
With all the wisdom of a 13-year old, he pinched the bridge of his nose in feigned exasperation, “That’s because nobody likes being told that their friend is a murderer. Chithran Uncle is a very close friend of our parents. So, don’t tell, okay?” he reiterated.
And with that sage advice my brother left.
An eerie book holding the names of the villagers. What is going to happen to them? Was Thanammal Grandma’s death natural? Who is Chithran Uncle? Catch the next part by clicking the following link!
