Morbidity in the Mundane
The fine line between Reality and Imagination is blurred …
Kudukuduppukkaran — /ku: — du — ku: — du — pʌ — kə — ræn/
He is a scary mendicant from the folktales of Tamil Nadu. A soothsayer, grave-digger and a necromancer, he is a rogue magician well-versed in the mystic arts. With his ancient power, he enchants vengeful spirits lingering on earth into handmade dolls to do his bidding. Common people give him alms in the fear that he might curse them otherwise.
The lore warns us, “Be wary of all the pleasing words he says. He will trick you into complacency. Never let him come in contact with any of your personal belongings. If he does, he will use them against you. And you will belong to him in life and in death.”
We are told to believe in reality. Taught to believe in the natural. Made to disregard the paranormal. But, just because we don’t see them, it doesn’t mean they are not there.
When I was a child, I used to visit my grandparents living in a quaint village down South for the summer holidays. The day I had a brush with them, my grandparents had gone out leaving me under the care of Selvi akka.
Selvi akka was a dusky, plump woman of 35, hailing from a village nearby, who used to help my grandparents with the chores. With the ever-present huge, red pottu on her forehead and colourful bangles clinking on her forearms, she was my best friend, confidante and a repository for incredible tales.
On that golden evening, everything appeared normal. A calm before the storm. Children were playing on the streets. Women were gossiping while decorating the verandas with white kolams. But, the air quivered with anticipation.
Tak-tak-thap. Ting. Ting.
All noises around stopped. For the next few seconds, it was as if the entire village was frozen.
Tak-tak-thap. Ting. Ting.
The thrum of a damarutham followed by bell chimes broke through the eerie silence. With the uproar of a great dam breaking open, everyone started to scramble. Women were fleeing into their homes, shutting all windows and my companions, the kids on the street ran, yelling,
“He is here. He is here. The kudukuduppukkaran.”
I stood stranded in the middle of the street confused, while people pushed me about, scurrying for safety. Then, I was bodily lifted by the two, strong, red-green bangles-clad arms of Selvi akka.
“What is happening?” I cried out.
Paying no heed to my fervent questions, she pulled me through our gate, locked the front door and closed the curtains. “Kadavule, please keep quiet for the next few minutes,” she whispered, shushing me.
Tak-tak-thap. Ting. Ting. Shuffle. Shuffle.
The drumming grew ominously close, along with the sounds of someone shuffling along, scraping their foot on the hard earth.
“Nalla kalam porakkuthu, nalla kalam porakkuthu, good times are coming, good times are coming,” chanted a strong baritone that seemed to resonate through the house. I peeked out of the curtains to see a red silk turbaned head move past our gate. Before I could open the curtains wider, Selvi akka pulled me back.
“What are you doing?” she hissed. “Stay behind me”. With bated breath, we waited hidden behind the curtains on the veranda. After the bell chimes faded away, I heard her take a long breath out of relief. “Listen to me thangam, your parents may scoff and laugh at what I’m about to tell you. But you must never forget this.”
“Never trust humans.
Never trust the unnatural.
And never ever trust those who control the fey,”
she said, with a sober look on her face.
Another deep breath.
“Okay, do you want Bournvita in your milk?” And the matter was forgotten.
The next day, while Selvi akka went to fetch a glass of water, I sat on the veranda admiring the trinket my grandparents had bought me. The gleam of the bright green stone on my ring pleased me. That’s when I heard it.
Tak-tak-thap. Ting. Ting.
The kudukuduppukaran.
I wanted to see him up close. So, I ran to the gate and poked my head through the bars. There, walking down the deserted street was an old man dressed in swathes of red and yellow. The same garishly red turban I had spied upon the day before, was perched on his head. A few gold plated chains hung around his neck, multiple sacred threads of red, green and black lined his right wrist. With all the stories I heard, I had imagined him to be a scary magician with wild, kohl-lined eyes and black robes. Instead, this man was small and wiry, with an impeccably kept black and white beard. But, the eyes. His eyes were dark, so dark, that they seemed to pull in beams of sunlight.
He noticed me looking at him with curiosity and walked towards our gate. The sound of bells seemed to follow him. Shadowing him, on a leash was –
“Oh! You have a monkey!” I cried out in excitement.
He laughed, because, that wasn’t a monkey. It was a rag doll. A very badly made one, I remember thinking.
A blood-stained green silk cloth was sewn into a humanoid figure with a dirty, yellow sponge cut out as the head. A black button and a blue one held by paper pins were in the place of its eyes. A once white string, now a mix of carnelian and coconut-fiber brown, sewn in wide crosses signified its mouth. A brass bell shone around its neck.
I watched fascinated, as the macabre doll seemingly floated in the air with the green dress trailing on the ground. The air around me suddenly felt strange. I shuddered, feeling my hair rise at the back of my neck. It felt as if there was not just him, but a group of malevolent eyes leering at me. A low buzzing akin to that of an irritating mosquito sounded in my ears. An oppressive feeling pressed down on my throat. As I stared, rooted to the spot, the limp head turned to my fingers clawing at the bars of our gate.
“Look at that, Ponmani likes the ring you’re wearing. Such a pretty thing, right Ponmani? Pretty owner, pretty ring.” he said softly, smiling at me with a wicked gleam in his eyes.
I gulped, scared witless, of this disingenuous man and his creepy pet. Trembling, I pulled the ring off my finger as if dictated by a surreal power and slipped it through the bars. In a blink of the eye, the ring sat on its head under the turban. The oppressive feeling faded. I breathed easily. “But, how, how did the ring leap to the rag doll’s head?” I wanted to ask, but I couldn’t talk. I stood there, staring at the thing as if hypnotized.
A high pitched scream and a crash sounded behind me. Selvi akka. Startled out of the trance, I turned and ran to her, hiding my face in the folds of her sari.
“How dare you?! How could you do this?! She is a child!” she yelled, livid, wrapping me up in her arms.
He did not answer and smiled instead. “Give the ring back” she spat, trembling with fury. “No,” came the soft reply as he turned to leave. “Come, Ponmani,” he ordered. I lifted my head and watched the duo leave. It’s sewn in smile seemed to widen as the thing floated behind its master with its head still swivelled in my direction. The glimmer of my ring dulled as they moved farther away.
That night, after dinner, as I lay in bed, I heard a few snatches of an altercation between my grandparents and Selvi akka. “I won’t believe in this mumbo jumbo…” “… this is NOT a random superstition.” “Selvi, I am more worried about the costly silver ring than I am about …”
I turned over in my bed and closed my eyes tight, trying to forget its grotesque, mismatched eyes.
Truth is an illusion. Should Selvi akka’s words regarding the Kudukuduppukkaran’s curse be taken as gospel? Or should the pragmatism of the protagonist’s grandparents be accepted?
Find out in the next part of the story.
A sneak peek to reel you in:
I waved to her as she stood forlorn with the pleats of her orange sari fluttering in the wind. That was the last time I would see my beautiful Selvi akka.
Days passed. I grew taller. Took exams. Got a little sister. And Selvi akka became a memory buried deep in the halcyon days of my early childhood. But, true to my word, I never removed the ring.
Tamil words used:
Thangam — A term of endearment that roughly translates to ‘Precious’
Kadavule — An exclamation equivalent to ‘Oh god!’
Kolams — Decorative designs that are drawn outside houses in Tamil Nadu.
Damarutham — a small, handheld drum made of wood and animal skin.
Akka — an affectionate term for ‘elder sister’
Pottu — A beauty mark that most Indian women keep on their foreheads in between the eyebrows.
