Short Story: HUNDRED RUPEES

The fast passenger bus to Kottayam made an exceptional racket as it rumbled past Baby's house at eight in the morning and woke him up. After waking up, Baby lay on his back and tried to shut out all his problems. He seemed to have exhausted all options, all avenues. Never mind, he told himself. There's always a way. He rolled up his mattress and propped it in a corner of the verandah where he had spent the night. He adjusted his mundu, tied it a little more tightly and walked around his house towards the jack-fruit tree which dominated their back-yard. He peed under the tree, parting his mundu to do so. He then walked back into the house, sat on the rickety bench in the kitchen with his hands propped up on a table that was black with dirt and grime and bellowed, ‘coffee.’ His mother was nowhere to be seen. He raised his voice by a notch and shouted once more, ‘coffee.’ ‘Where has this old woman gone to?’ he muttered into his stubble. Baby needed some coffee, the stronger the better, to get himself started in the morning. After the first cup of coffee however, he preferred to drink tea. He sat in the kitchen for a few minutes, his head in his hands and then slowly considered his options. He could shout a bit louder for his coffee. Or he could get up and walk a few feet towards the hearth and pour out the coffee from the small black coffee pot. He never understood why his mother could not make it a point to be around every morning when he woke up and serve him some coffee. He realised that he did not have the energy to raise his voice. And so he got up and dragged himself towards the hearth. His picked up one of the three glasses kept inverted on a stainless steel plate near the stove, lifted up the pot and realised that he had been let down. Just to be sure, he peered into the pot with eyes, which still had sleep in them and wiggled the pot. He was right. There was no slapping sound of fluid inside the pot. The betrayal gave him the energy he needed. He slammed the pot down and shouted ‘Old Woman! Where's my coffee?’ His voice was barely loud enough for him to hear. He opened his mouth yet again, but did not shout. Instead, he went back to his bench and waited for his mother to arrive.

The sound of approaching footsteps warned him of his mother’s arrival. He lifted up his head from his hands and gave his mother a disappointed look as she walked in with a bundle of firewood. His mother was in her early fifties, but looked a lot older. He waited for her to make her excuses and was even more disappointed. Without bothering to explain why there was no coffee in the pot, she dumped the firewood in a corner and said, ‘why don’t you hurry up and go to Eesho Sir’s house before he leaves for work. He has asked for you four or five times already.’

Baby decided to conserve his energy and not reply to something as demeaning as that. Plucking pepper berries for Eesho Sir could hardly be a priority so early in the morning. He waited for his mother’s excuse for not having brewed some coffee in the morning. When none seemed to be forthcoming, he bellowed at her, ‘make me some coffee!’ She ignored him for a few seconds and then said, ‘there’s no milk in the house.’ She pulled out a few roots of cassava from a large brown sack, sat herself down on the floor in a corner of the kitchen and started to peel and chop them.

‘Never mind,’ Baby told her in an exasperated voice. ‘Make me some black coffee.’ His mother ignored him for a few more minutes, but then she abandoned the cassava roots, got up and started to boil some water for the coffee. ‘It took the old woman so long to come to her senses,’ Baby muttered once more.

His mother gave him a dark look. ‘I have written a letter to Bincy. You can post it on your way to Eesho Sir’s house.’

‘You do it yourself. Can’t you post a letter to your own daughter?’

His mother took out some coffee beans from an old tin, ground them for a minute or so with a pestle so that they broke down into tiny molecules, scooped the tiny pieces into her hand and sprinkled them into the boiling water. She then opened a rickety wooden cupboard in a corner and took out an aluminium container and poured some milk into the pot, which continued to boil. After sometime she used a rag to grip the pot by its brim and poured some coffee into a glass. She took out a green plastic box that was quite dirty, pulled out its white top, which was equally encrusted with dirt and used the small spoon permanently kept in the box to scoop some sugar into the coffee. She then picked up the coffee glass and kept it in front of Baby. As the steam arose from the coffee, Baby lifted up his head, picked up the glass and took a sip. 'The sugar hasn't dissolved,' he angrily accused his mother, who had gone back to peeling the cassava. She gave him a dark look, but got up nevertheless, took a large spoon which was too big for the glass and used its handle to stir Baby's coffee. As soon as she was through, Baby gulped down the fluid, as if his life depended on it. 'Give me some more,' he demanded of his mother, holding up his glass in her direction.

'No. You will have to survive with just one glass.'

Baby wiggled his glass up and down once.

'Your father will be coming home soon. There's just enough coffee for him.'

Baby gave up. His mother was an obstinate old hag who did not care for his welfare. 'Can you give me hundred rupees?' he asked his mother. There was no reply. Baby did not actually expect her to give him any money. Not after she had asked him to hurry to Eesho Sir's house.

'I might as well get going then.' Baby prepared to leave. He had no wish to run into his father who always got up before dawn and went off to assist a neighbouring landlord tap his rubber trees. His father would soon be home for breakfast, after which he would go off once more to collect latex from the tappings. No, he was not scared of his father who used to be a strong man with a job that involved carrying heavy weights. But one day his father had hurt his back pretty badly while lifting a heavy sack. Ever since then, he had been forced to give up his unionised job that had paid quite well and take up rubber tapping, which was less strenuous on his back. Baby entered the room where his parents slept. He picked up the orange comb that was balanced on top of the small mirror mounted on the wall and started to comb his hair. He was due for a haircut and his long wavy hair almost touched his shoulders. He put the comb back, retied his mundu and put on his shirt which was hanging on a clothesline that ran from one end of the room to the other end. He then strapped on his old HMT watch which was kept on the ledge by the window and walked out of the house.

As soon as he stepped into the road, he realised that he had not picked up the letter for Bincy. He walked back to the house. His mother was still in the kitchen. 'Where's the letter?' Baby asked her.

'Over there. On the window ledge. Where you keep your watch. Didn't you see it?'

'No, I did not.' Baby noticed that the cassava was almost done. His mother was now mashing a few onions and chillies into a paste, to be eaten with the boiled cassava. The blue inland letter had fallen down from the ledge, which was why Baby hadn't seen it. Baby picked it up. His mother had filled in the address, but had not sealed the edges. His mother's scribble filled most of the blue sheet, which when folded, had three sides. There was space for a few lines at the bottom of the third side. Baby walked off, the letter in his hand. 'I hope you are going to Eesho Sir's house,' his mother shouted after him.

As he walked off, Baby was all too aware that his pocket was empty. But he patted it nevertheless. Yesterday night he had spent the last rupee in his pocket to pay for the movie they had all gone to. He was a Mohanlal fan and never missed a single one of Mohanlal's new releases. Yesterday's movie was not as good as the average Mohanlal movie, but Baby forgave his superstar. He would support his hero in good times and bad. His best friend Achuthan had then bought a few bottles of toddy and some cassava from an arrack shop - Achuthan's wife was pregnant and he was celebrating - and three of them had climbed the Lion Head. They had finished off the toddy and cassava, which had pieces of beef in it, on top of the rock. They had had a good time. But that was yesterday and he was penniless for the moment. As he walked towards the teashop, Baby nurtured the forlorn hope that he would find some of his friends there. Someone who would happily lend him hundred rupees, knowing that Baby not only always paid back his debts, but did not hesitate to lend money when he had some cash to spare. He was disappointed. There were only two others in the shop, two teachers from the neighbouring primary school, noisily downing a cup of tea each before commencing what was for them yet another working day.

'Give me a glass of tea,' he ordered Paappy who ran the teashop. Paappy looked at his wife who was mixing dough in a plastic basin. She abandoned the dough, washed her hands, picked up a dog eared note book from its niche between two beams which supported the roof and started to turn its pages.

'Why do we have to do that now? I will pay you back another day,' Baby protested. Paappy's wife ignored Baby's protests and continued to turn the pages. Baby grew angry. 'Haven't I always paid you back?' He slammed his fists on the table.

'Give him a glass of tea,' Paappy told his wife. Paappy's wife gave Baby the darkest look possible. But nevertheless she put the notebook back in its place and obligingly picked up a dirty glass, washed it under a tap and poured milky sweet tea into it from the large brass vessel covered with an aluminium lid. The tea was piping hot since the brass vessel was kept on top of a gas stove and was frequently reboiled. Baby started to read the letter his mother had written to Bincy, sipping his tea at the same time. Once he was through, he picked up the day's Malayala Manorama and started to turn its pages. He wished there was someone close by with whom he could share the day's news. Local news did not interest Baby. It did not really matter which party was in power. The congress party and the communists had alternately captured power every five years ever since Baby could remember. Baby turned to the international news section. He wished some of his friends were around. The pleasure of sipping from a glass of piping hot tea and debating a newspaper article with a friend was something to die for. Baby and Achuthan held divergent views on most topics. For example, Baby supported the US invasion of Iraq, though he did not particularly like the United States of America. What if Bush knew that Iraq did not have weapons of mass destruction? It was still as good an excuse as any to have democracy in the middle-east. First Iraq whose population was largely secular, then countries like Oman, UAE and Bahrain which were not too fundamentalist and finally Saudi Arabia and Iran, the most fundamentalist countries in that region. Achuthan did not agree. Just an excuse to grab the oil in that region, he said. Which was silly. Saudi Arabia was supplying the US with all the oil that it required. And the Saud family depended on the US for their survival. They would not dare to hike oil prices once more. If the US were to stop supporting them, would they be able to carry on with their decadent lifestyles in the Wahhabi heartland?

Dileep walked in. Dileep was not a friend, but only an acquaintance. Baby waited till Dileep ordered some palappam and chicken stew and some coffee to go with it. He then put aside the newspaper and asked 'Ah Dileep! How are things with you?'

'Not too bad. I had a bad flu and could not work for a week. And you?' Dileep had a smirk on his face. Baby ignored the smirk. If any of his friends were around, Baby would have shown him. If only Achuthan were around. 'I am fine. I am off to Eesho Sir's house. They have been begging me for many days to pluck their pepper berries. I have been too busy to do their work.'

'What have you been busy with?

That stumped Baby for a second. Then he said, 'I've been mending a few things in my house. The cupboard in the kitchen was creaking and the back door needed to be fixed.'

'Oh yes, I forgot. You are an experienced carpenter aren't you?' There was some emphasis on the word 'experienced'. However Baby decided to let it go. He took out Bincy's letter from his pocket. 'I nearly forgot. I need to post this letter. Do you have a pen?'

'Why do you need a pen to post a letter?' Dileep could see that the address had been filled in.

'I need to add a few sentences to what my mother has written.' He raised his voice. 'Paappacha! Give me a pen for a second.' Paappy dropped what he was doing and brought Baby a pen. Having done so, he sat down beside him and asked, 'so how is your sister doing? Does she like Bangalore?'

Baby took the proffered pen and started to write where his mother's letter ended, reading out aloud what he was writing. 'I hope you are taking care of yourself. Make sure you eat well. Don't worry about the visa. All that will happen in good time.' There was no more space at the bottom of the page, but Baby turned the letter to one side and started to write on the margin on the left. 'We are praying for you daily. Affectionately. Your brother Baby.'

'Give me some rice,' he demanded of Paappy. Having heard Baby read out his writing, Paappy could hardly deny such a simple request. He got up and returned in a few seconds with a few grains of boiled rice held in his fingers. Baby folded the letter, took the rice from Paappy, smeared it on the flap, squashing the rice in the process and sealed the letter with a flourish. Baby then turned to Paappy. 'Yes, Bincy is okay. She is having a tough time with her hospital in Bangalore. They make her work very hard and pay her very little. But she will be able to leave for England anytime now. Her papers are all in order.'

'And once she goes to England, Baby will become King out here, won't you Baby?' Paappy raised his voice and turned to his wife who was busy making Parottas on a dosakal. 'Listen to this,' he told his wife. 'Bincy is all set to leave for England.' He got up and walked to a corner where a long banana stem with a bunch of bananas on top was hanging from the rafters. He used a knife to chop off the lower end of the stem from where the bananas had been peeled off. Paappy's wife looked up from the stove and said, 'you don't have to wait till your sister goes overseas to pay us, you know.' Paappy wife had always been his enemy. She was really daft, to refuse him credit after knowing that Bincy would land a nurse's job in the UK anytime.

'Let me tell you something. After I start receiving money from England, I will come here, repay you and never enter you shop after that. Baby grew more and more angry as he spoke. Dileep looked amused. 'Why do you get so angry? Did she say that you will not repay her?'

'But she talks as if I am trying to cheat her. You can't get much lower than that, can you?'

'Oh let her be. She is only trying to run a business,' Dileep tried to calm Baby.

'Now you are taking her side!' Baby accused Dileep. Dileep had a perplexed look on his face as he finished off his palappam and stew. Baby waited till Dileep washed his hands with water kept in a basin, wiped his hands on a dirty blue towel which had not been changed for a day, paid Paappy and walked out. Baby followed him. 'Dileep!' He shouted after Dileep. Dileep stopped and waited for Baby to catch up. Baby ran towards Dileep with an earnest look on his face. 'Tell me, do you have any cash to spare?'

'What if I do?'

'Can you spare hundred rupees? I will pay you back by the end of this week.'

'No I can't. Not for you!'

'Can't you lend me hundred rupees? That's hardly a day's wage for you?'

'So what prevents you from getting a job somewhere and earning a daily wage?' Dileep sternly demanded. Baby's hope of borrowing some money from someone to tide over the next couple of days evaporated. .

'Well, never mind. I'll manage somehow.' If there was anything Baby hated more than being refused a loan, it was being lectured to.

'But tell me seriously, what's your problem? Why can't you do some work like the rest of us? Come with me to the estate. I'll get you a job. They'll pay you hundred and ten rupees a day!'

Baby seriously considered the offer. 'Do they pay you hundred and ten rupees at the end of each day?'

'No they pay you at the end of every week! Saturday is pay day. Six hundred and sixty rupees every Saturday.'

Never mind. I have other things to do. I've been looking for a place to start a restaurant. Not a teashop like the one Paappy runs. But a proper restaurant'

'Stop day dreaming and find some work. The other day we were talking about you. Chankunni carpenter was also there.'

'And what did the old bastard have to say?'

'He did not say anything negative about you. He only said that he has always wished all his apprentices well. Even the ones who do not complete their apprenticeships.' Dileep spoke with a smirk and it was obvious that Baby had not been spoken of in flattering terms.

'Get lost, the lot of you. Once I start my restaurant, I won't have to even talk to people like you.'

'You've been making plans like this even when your sister was in high school. Poor girl, she has to slave away to feed a lazy fool like you.'

Baby wanted to punch Dileep, but Dileep was much bigger and stronger than him. He would pay him back at a convenient time. He was bound to run into Dileep when he had his close friends around him. If only Achuthan were around!

Baby walked towards the main market and posted the letter. He realised that he was quite hungry. He looked at his watch. It was quarter to ten. He father would go back to work at ten. If he went home after that, he could eat some cassava. Or, if there was nothing left, if his father and mother had finished everything off, he could get his mother to make some rice for him. Seeing that he had fifteen minutes to kill, he decided to go to Eesho Sir's house. Eesho Sir would have gone to work and his wife would be at home. Baby actually preferred to deal with Eesho Sir rather than his wife who was a terror. He walked for a while and reached Eesho Sir's house. Eesho Sir's father had five sons and after his death each of them inherited half an acre of land. One brother had bought out three others and had a holding of two acres. However, Eesho sir had decided to build a house on his miserable half an acre. He planted twenty Murikku trees in a garland around his house and trailed pepper vines on them. Baby reached the outer gate and shouted, 'Chechee! Chechee!' Eesho Sir's wife opened the door and poked her head out. Baby was planning to say something civil. Something like 'has Eesho Sir gone to the bank?' even though it was common knowledge that Eesho Sir caught a bus to Ponkunnam every morning, where he worked as a clerk for the State Bank of Travancore. But Baby did not get a chance. 'Where have you been for so many days?' Eesho Sir's wife snapped at him. 'Sir must have asked your mother a dozen times for you.' As if Baby was obliged to work for them. He was tempted to walk off. They had a few miserable vines of pepper but behaved like Bill Gates!'

'Well, I am here now. What did you want me for?' Baby decided to go through the motions.

'Can you pluck the pepper berries from all the vines?'

'How much will you pay me for that?'

'Hundred and ten rupees'

Baby's face had a serious look, as if he were seriously considering the offer. 'How many vines do you have?' he asked, though everyone in Simhapara knew that Eesho Sir had twenty vines.

'Only twenty.'

Baby had an amused look on his face. Do you actually expect me pluck berries from twenty vines for hundred and ten rupees?'

'What do you expect? A thousand rupees? It is not even a day's work. Even labourers in the Simhapara estate get paid only hundred and ten rupees a day!'

'So what? They get regular work! People like me who work on an irregular basis, we deserve more.'

'Has anyone prevented you from working regularly?'

Baby noticed that quite a few berries had started to turn red on the vine closest to him. Which meant that they had no time to lose. The berries had to be plucked just before they started to ripen. 'I may as well leave now.' Baby started to walk off. 'Okay how much do you want?' Eesho Sir's wife shouted after him.

'Hundred and sixty rupees.'

'I'll pay you hundred and fifteen and that's final.'

'Why don't you ask me to work for you for nothing? There ought to be a limit to the exploitation of the working class!'

Eesho Sir's wife was silent for a while. 'Okay hundred and twenty then.'

Baby agreed. He was tired of arguing. He was tempted to ask Eesho Sir's wife if she would pay him hundred rupees for plucking pepper from just seventeen of the pepper vines, but decided not to. The woman was so unreasonable.

'I'll have breakfast and return in say half and hour.'

'Oh no. If you leave now, you will not return. 'I'll give you breakfast.'

'What do you have?

'Quite choosy aren't you? We had dosas for breakfast. I have a few left. Why don't you sit there?'

There were three chairs around a round table on the verandah. Baby sat on a chair. The dosas arrived with some green chammandi on top. Baby ate with the air of a man who considers food to be a distraction that prevented him from doing serious work.

'Do you have a good ladder?' Baby asked with his mouth full.

'Yes we do. There is one in the shed behind the house.'

'These vines are quite high.'

'No they are not. What do you think they are? Pepper vines or coffee plants?'

'You ought to cut these down and plant teak trees. That way you do not have to worry about plucking the pepper or selling it in the market every year. After ten years or so, you just have to cut down the trees and sell the logs.'

'Sir is actually thinking of switching to vanilla.'

'Didn't you have cocoa at one point?'

'Don't remind me of that experiment. We did not make a single paisé out of our cocoa cultivation.'

After eating the dosas, Baby started to pluck the pepper berries. He first plucked the berries that were within arm's reach from a vine, after which he would prop the ladder against the Murikku tree on which the pepper vines trailed and pluck the berries that had eluded him earlier. Eesho Sir's wife disappeared into the house within a few minutes of Baby getting down to work.

The fishmonger came by, a basket of fish on her head. 'Chechee! Do you need any fish today?'

Eesho Sir's wife reappeared on the verandah. 'No, not today. I still have some sardines in the fridge. Come back the day after.'

'So, you've got Baby to work for you?' Baby ignored the fishmonger. 'Why don't you pluck the berries that are within reach from all the vines and then use the ladder to pluck the ones that are out of reach?'

'Do you really mind if I do it this way?'

'Let Baby do it his way,' Eesho Sir's wife supported Baby. The fishmonger left.

Soon it was time for lunch and Eesho Sir's wife gave him a decent lunch of rice, lentils, red beans and two fried sardines. Baby continued to work. By six o'clock he had stripped seventeen vines of all their berries, which filled a couple of medium sized baskets.

'Chechee! Chechee! I'm done.'

Eesho Sir's wife came out once more. 'Have you finished all twenty?'

'No, I haven't. I've finished seventeen.'

'Well, finish the other three. There's a lot of daylight left. Its only six o'clock.'

'I finish work at six. Isn't that what everyone here does?'

'But that's when you start work at nine in the morning. You started after ten. Anyway, you agree to pluck the berries from all twenty vines.'

'I am sorry chechee, but I need to leave now. I'll pluck the berries from the remaining three tomorrow.'

'No!' Eesho Sir's wife wailed.’ You promised to do all twenty today.'

'I made no such promise. What's the harm if I do it tomorrow?'

'You are unlikely to come tomorrow!'

'Well, if you don't trust me, what can I do? You don’t have to pay me hundred and twenty rupees. Just pay me hundred rupees.'

'Why hundred rupees?'

'Aren't you people much more educated than I am? I have not even passed my SSLC.'

'Well, wait for Eesho Sir. You can discuss accounts with him. He'll be here any minute now.'

'Why should I wait for Eesho Sir? I have finished for the day and should be paid.'

'I won't pay you. Why should I? I agreed to pay you hundred and twenty rupees after you finish all twenty vines.' This was gross injustice, a blatant exploitation of a human being who had no financial capital, someone unable to live off his own wealth 'How unfair can you get Chechee?' he screamed at Eesho Sir's wife. 'I must be paid right away. Right this minute!'

'Get lost, I won't pay you anything!' On hearing the commotion, a neighbour came out of her house. 'What's the matter?' she asked Eesho Sir's wife in a voice loud enough to be heard and started walking towards the barbed wire fence which separated the properties.

'Baby agreed to pluck all the pepper berries for hundred and twenty rupees. He had done seventeen of the vines and does not want to finish the remaining three today. And he wants to be paid now for what he has done.'

'Don't pay him till he does what he promised,' the neighbour agitatedly said. 'If he does not turn up tomorrow, you won't be able to get someone to pluck berries from just three vines.' For good measure she told Baby, 'you are so unreliable.'

'Please don't interfere. This has nothing to do with you.' Baby spoke in a solemn tone. There was some more silence.

'This is ridiculous. I am not going to work after six. It is as simple as that. Tell you what, I'll take one of these two baskets with me. You can keep the other one. I'll sell this green pepper and give you the balance after keeping hundred rupees for myself!' 'What else can I do when I am forced to deal with human beings like this?' The last bit was not addressed to Eesho Sir's wife, but was said in a voice loud enough for her to hear.

Eesho Sir's wife did not respond to the threat to carry away a basket of pepper. They stared at each other for a while. Baby lost his patience and repeated. 'Pay me my money!'

At that moment Eesho Sir arrived. Even as he opened the outer gate, his wife shouted, 'see what's happening here. Baby agreed to pluck berries from all twenty vines for hundred and twenty rupees. He has finished seventeen and does not want to finish the other three today.'

'Give me my money. I need to leave.'

'There's still an hour's daylight left.' Eesho Sir's wife was adamant that Baby should fulfil his part of the bargain.

'Tell you what, you only have to string up a few bulbs on these vines and I can work till midnight!'

'How much did you promise to pay him? Eesho Sir asked his wife.

'Hundred and twenty rupees,' Baby told him before his wife could speak. 'And I have finished seventeen of the vines. All I am asking for is hundred rupees.'

Eesho Sir took out his wallet. 'I am so glad you came Eesho Sir,' Baby told him with genuine gratitude.

'Don't you pay him,' Eesho Sir's wife screamed at her husband. 'Who will pluck the berries from the remaining three vines?'

'Haven't I promised to turn up tomorrow morning at nine?'

Eesho Sir pulled out a hundred rupee note from his wallet and handed it to Baby. Baby pocketed the money and started to turn away. 'Hold on,' Eesho Sir said as fished out a two-rupee coin from his trousers. ‘Keep these two rupees as well,' he told Baby. 'One hundred and two rupees for plucking berries from seventeen berries! Now you can't claim that I've cheated you, can you? And please don't bother to turn up tomorrow morning' He then turned to his wife. 'I'll pluck them tomorrow morning before I go to work. It won't take me more than an hour,' he told his wife in a quiet voice and walked into the house.

'As you please Eesho Sir,' Baby told him and hurried off to the teashop. He looked at his watch. It was six fifteen. He hoped that some of his friends would be there. It would be grand if Achuthan were around. On his way he passed a beggar. He took out the two-rupee coin he had and dropped it into the beggar's bowl.

By: Winnowed

Published earlier in Epic India Magazine

© Vinod George Joseph

Book Review: Unimagined by Imran Ahmad

Unimagined is the growing-up story of Imran Ahmad, whose parents migrated from Pakistan to England in the early 1960s when Imran was a year old. The story, told in the first person in very simple and elegant English, consists of a series of anecdotes from Imran’s life, which get more and more mature as Imran gets older. Most of the early vignettes are set in Imran’s school, after which the cameos are taken from his college and later his work place.

Imran’s parents are shown as hardworking migrants who came to the UK with the hope of fitting into middle class England, only to find that they are at the lowest rung of society, just below the Irish. However, they work hard and slowly move up the social and economic ladder. Those were days where racism was rife in the UK and Imran experiences his share of it. Imran is academically bright and does well at school, even though a few teachers and students don’t like him on account of his background. Imran is one of the few coloured pupils in school and he knows he is very different from other students. For example, unlike other children, Imran’s parents take him to Pakistan for vacations. Imran tells us how once as he walked past a classroom full of senior boys, a few started shouting ‘Enoch, Enoch.’ The reference here is to Enoch Powell, a politician who sought the compulsory repatriation of all coloured people from the UK. A teacher saw what was happening and did nothing other than apologetically tell Imran, ‘Sorry about that.’ But in certain respects Imran’s school is not much different from schools in India. There’s an interesting description of a competition for credits between Imran and an ethnic Chinese classmate.

But Imran’s tale is never one-sided. There’s a story of how Imran’s father is angry with an Irish oil tanker driver who, having brought oil for their boiler, refuses to park the tanker as per Imran’s father’s directions. ‘Send me another tanker, not another Irishman,’ Imran’s father shouts into the phone as he calls up the supplier.

Imran gains admission to a good medical school, subject to the condition that he gets certain minimum grades for his A Levels. However, Imran takes his A Levels too lightly and does not get the necessary minimum grades. In a sense Imran is relieved. He never really liked the idea of studying medicine. Given a choice, he would have studied the classics and philosophy, but if he did that, how could his parents face the rest of the Pakistani community in London? Imran goes to Stirling University in Scotland where he studies Chemistry. I found it amazing that the pressure on Asian children to study medicine and engineering persists even when they are brought up in the affluent west.

As Imran grows older, his stories mainly involve girls and cars. In both these respects, Imran is not much different from other children. Imran doesn’t have much success with girls. This is partly because he is very different from others in his class and partly because he is very shy and introverted. Imran loves cars and is willing to work during holidays to save money for a car.

However, Imran is different from other youth in one respect. In addition to girls and cars, he is also interested in religion and theology. Imran is not particularly religious even though he slowly gets into the habit of praying five times a day. When Imran is sent to a ‘Sunday school for Islam,’ he hates the idea of memorising the Koran in Arabic, but he is very keen to understand Islam. Imran’s school has religious studies and Imran is constantly comparing Islam and Christianity. Which is the true religion? Imran wonders constantly. Is it Islam or Christianity? Imran is very much impressed by evangelical Christians. Their die-hard faith in their version of Christianity terrifies him. What if they are right and he is wrong? They warn him that people who get the opportunity to know about Christ and reject him will be condemned to eternal hell. Islam, he is told, is a conspiracy by Satan, to mislead people like him. Dinosaur bones are also apparently a part of Satan’s design to mislead people.

Imran’s interest in religion is carried over to college. He requests for a single room on the grounds of ‘religious privacy’, meaning he needs to pray. A single room is also convenient if he needs to meet girls. If you think Imran sounds like a person willing to use his religion for such purposes, you are right, but Imran does it in a genuine way that you will not find any fault with him. Imran’s interest in theology, especially whether Christianity or Islam is The True religion is also equally genuine. At Stirling Imran spends a lot of time with an evangelical Christian named Magnus who tries to convert him. One keeps wondering why Imran doesn’t ignore Magnus, but Imran just can’t bring himself to do that. He digs around in his quest to find the truth, even though his studies suffer badly and he does not get his honours degree.

Slowly, Imran builds up his case for Islam. It is the irrational fanaticism of evangelical Christians which finally convinces Imran that Islam is the true religion. Once again, I need to emphasise that Imran does not come across as a fanatic. For example, while discussing Hinduism, initially Imran talks of how Hindus have multiple Gods and Goddess, something unacceptable to monotheist Islam. Later he tells us that Hindus also believe in the oneness of God, even though there are thousands of manifestations of God. Imran never becomes too religious, though he doesn’t drink and prays regularly. He also starts fasting during Ramadan.

After Imran fails to get his honours degree, he finds himself a job selling advertisements. Initially he likes the job, but soon starts hating it since he is forced to act in a manner that he does not find to be very ethical. He goes back to college and gets his honours degree. He then enrols for a Ph.D in Chemistry. But his heart is in theology and not in Chemistry. He spends much more time researching theology, especially Sufism, rather than Chemistry. Finally, he decides to chuck his Ph.D and find himself a job. His application to Unilever is successful. He is hired as a trainee in the audit department.

Imran’s parents want his to marry a Muslim from Pakistan. The idea of an arranged marriage revolts Imran, though after he gets a job, he goes for various ‘viewings.’ Till the end of the book when Imran quits Unilever to join GE, there is no mention of a wedding.

Even at work, Imran stands out from his colleagues. He is not willing to drink. He does not enjoy vulgar jokes. He continues to be interested in comparative religion. And the novel ends on that note.

It is impossible not to compare Unimagined with the Islamist. There are many differences between Imran and Husain. Husain was brought up in relative comfort by middle-class parents. Imran’s parents on the other hand, struggle with finances during his early years. Imran talks of racism at school in detail. Husain does not mention any instance of racism directed at him by his teachers or classmates. After primary school, Husain goes to a boys only school dominated by migrants from Bangladesh. Imran on the other hand, always studied in schools where he was one of the few coloured pupils.

The main difference between Husain and Imran is that Husain became a fundamentalist. Imran never even considers violence against any other community. In fact, he is distinctly uncomfortable whenever he sees signs of creeping Wahhabism or fundamentalism. In one instance, when there is talk of a global Islamic state, Imran is shown to be hoping that it never materialises. He wants the West to remain as it is. It is very tempting to theorise and say that if Husain had been exposed to a diversity of people and views during his youth as Imran was, he would not have turned to fundamentalism. Maybe if Husain’s parents were less well off and Husain had a less economically secure childhood, he would have focussed on his secular studies and not turned out to be an Islamist.

However, in certain respects, Husain and Imran are similar. Both Husain and Imran hate doing jobs which they think involve unethical practices. Husain gives up his job with HSBC and Imran quits selling advertisements. Both of them have no answers to how Muslims can integrate into a society where alcohol is the fuel for most social interactions. Neither of them even suggests that it may not be unIslamic to drink socially, provided one does not get addicted to liquor. When Imran goes for Karate classes (while at college), he is uncomfortable with the bowing that is part of the Karate culture. Bowing is unIslamic, he feels, since Allah made all men equal. It is quite unfair for me, a non-Muslim, to judge the degree of compromise Imran and Husain are willing to make in order to integrate into British society and so, I shall say no more.

All in all, this is a very readable book, a lot lighter than the Islamist, which does not have much in the way of humour. I guarantee that Unimagined will make you laugh out aloud many times before you reach the end.

Short Story: THE BOY WHO KILLED A RAINBOW

Rohan popped the question within an hour of reaching Simhapara. His mother emerged from the bathroom that was attached to the bedroom they were to occupy for the duration of their stay at Simhapara, only to find Rohan waiting at the door. His mother’s stern look made him pause for a moment and stare blankly at his mother, who had discarded her saree in favour of a comfortable nightee. His mother always wore a nightee at home, even in Delhi. A familiar smell wafted towards Rohan. It was a mix of talcum powder and his mother’s body odour. The perfume which his mother sprayed on her wrists and underarms whenever she went to office or anywhere else was missing. But Rohan’s olfactory senses did not notice any of that. Instead, he quickly gathered up his courage and asked, ‘Mummy can I go for a bath in the river today evening?’

An exasperated look flashed across his mother’s face and disappeared equally fast. It was too early to feel exasperated. ‘So soon? We have only just got here.’ Her tone softened ever further, already into the cat and mouse game she had played with Rohan each year during vacation time, for the past four years. ‘Let’s get out of those clothes and eat something, shall we? We’ll think of bathing in the river a bit later.’

‘But when?’ Rohan persisted. He had been given a short haircut a few days before they caught the train from Delhi and he missed the long black locks which he had to sweep away every once in a while. He was much shorter than an average Indian ten-year old and took after his father who was of medium height and quite dark. He did not bear much resemblance to his mother who was plump, stocky and quite fair-skinned. He twitched his nose and sniffed as the smell of damp earth filled his nostrils. There had been a light summer shower earlier in the day, a precursor to the heavy monsoon downpours that would drench Simhapara and the rest of Kerala in less than a month’s time. His father came into the room. He was wearing a mundu and for good measure had folded it in half so that his legs were bare from below his kneecaps.

‘Do you want to have a bath now?’ Rohan’s mother asked his father, her head jerking towards the bathroom.

‘No. I’ll have my bath in the evening.’

‘You’ll feel fresh if you have a bath now.’

‘I am quite fresh.’ Exchanging his trousers for a mundu had given him all the freshness and freedom that he wanted. ‘Anyway, I don’t want to bathe in there.’

‘Daddy, are you going to bathe in the river?’ Rohan tilted his small head backwards at an impossible angle so that he could look his father in the eye and detect any signs of deceit.

‘Maybe. Let’s see.’ His father was vague and non-committal. Rohan did not push his demand any further for the moment. He knew that the chances of him being allowed to jump into the river that day were quite remote.

‘Let’s go and see what Ammachee has in store for us’, Rohan’s father declared. He led his way from the bedroom, which was not very large and had a wooden roof. The large double bed in the room occupied most of the space. As she brought up the rear, Rohan’s mother quickly opened the larger of the two suitcases they had carried with them from Delhi, which was kept squarely in the centre of the bed. She took out two large brown parcels from the suitcase and followed her husband. As she banged the door shut behind her, her husband’s shirt which, along with his trousers, was hanging on a hook attached to the door, fell off. She went back into the room, picked up the shirt and delicately hung it on the hook once more, on top of the pair of trousers. Rohan’s father pushed open the door slightly - he could not open it fully since his wife was standing just behind the door - and muttered - ‘Annie, don’t bother. We’ll see to it later.’ By that time, his wife had partly opened the door once more and followed her husband into the dining room, shutting the door gingerly behind her.

‘Annie-ammé!’ Her mother-in-law walked towards her. She had already greeted Rohan and his father. Her daughter-in-law had however repaired to their bedroom within a few minutes of their arrival. The family members who were present swarmed all over Rohan and his parents.

Rohan sat himself on a chair, one of 6 chairs which adorned the formica topped dining table. One of his aunts who sat on the large wooden rice box, which was no longer used to store rice, held out her arms towards him, ‘Look at Rohan. He has grown up. He is so tall now.’ Rohan went towards her. He was a little bit shy, but not as shy as he had been last year when he was a lot younger. A ten year old had no right to feel shy, but every right to be fussed over by his favourite aunt. ‘Tell Tessy auntie what you’ve been up to?’

Tessy’s son walked in, sweaty and panting, one arm wiping the sweat off his brow and another swinging a cricket bat. Tessy who was fussing over Rohan tried to wipe off some of his sweat with the fall of her saree, but he shrugged her off. Rohan’s father has two brothers and three sisters. All six siblings and their families would spend a substantial part of May at Simhapara.

‘Annie-ammé, how was your journey? His grandmother asked his mother. She treated all three of her daughters-in-law equally. The one due to arrive in a week’s time from Muscat would receive the same welcome as Annie who had travelled down from Delhi.

Rohan’s father did not receive an invitation to partake of the food, but he helped himself to a sukiyan. It was around three o’clock and the brunch they had had from a restaurant at Kottayam after getting off the train, before they started their journey to Simhapara by a taxi, seemed to have been ages ago. Rohan’s cousin Simi settled herself in his father’s lap.

'Why don’t you eat something as well?' Rohan’s grandmother asked his mother who reluctantly sat down on a chair. Manjith reached across her shoulders and snatched a Neyappam.

There was a commotion at the door and Rohan’s father’s youngest brother entered. His daughter Simi got up from Rohan’s father’s lap and rushed to greet him. ‘Eda Mathai, we nearly did not make a trip this year’ Rohan’s father told his brother by way of a greeting. Mathai entered the room, with Simi clinging to his legs. He brought with him a strong smell of rubber latex.

‘So how did you manage to get leave? I was hoping you wouldn’t make it and I could have some peace of mind this summer.’ Mathai bore an uncanny resemblance to his elder brother. He too was dark, of medium height and had the same aquiline features and shockingly intense eyes. His mundu was also folded up to his knee in the same jaunty way as his brother.

‘You little thief! You underestimate my capacity to get what I want.’

‘Have you been bathing in the river Manjith?’ Rohan asked his sweaty cousin, who was two years older than Rohan, but was almost twice his size.

‘Don’t worry, you will be able to bathe in the river before we go back to Delhi.’ Rohan’s mother’s tone indicated that it was unlikely to happen in the next few days.

‘Haah’, a collective exclamation rose from many lips around the table. ‘He’ll be alright,’ Mathai uncle came to Rohan’s defence. ‘Any man who has Simhapara blood flowing through his veins can go for a bath in our river and survive. Mathai uncle settled himself on a chair next to Rohan’s father. Simi abandoned her father and went back to Rohan’s father’s lap.

‘Only a man? Even a woman can do that!’ Simi asserted, turning slightly to her right to face her father.

Mathai uncle beamed at Simi. ‘The other day my darling daughter Simi went for a bath and….’ His voice trailed off as Simi who was sitting close by on Rohan’s father’s lap lunged at his throat and put her fingers to his lips.

‘Achcha, don’t…’ she began.

‘Well, can’t you swim as well as any man? Let me tell everyone what happened!’

‘No, let me tell everyone’, Manjith broke in.

‘Okay, you tell us,' Rohan’s father encouraged him.

‘Hmmmmm’, Simi growled. Then she smiled sweetly and said, ‘No, I will tell what happened myself.’

‘Yes, let Simi-mol tell us herself’, Rohan’s mother gave Simi a pat on the back of her neck’, and continued to daintily eat an avaloss-unda.

‘Well’, Simi began shyly. ‘Amma and I went for a bath. There was a bush floating in the water.’ ‘Yes, a thorny bush’, her father supplemented. Simi slowly moved away from Rohan’s father and sat on her father’s lap.

‘Aah, Aah, I wanted to touch the thorny bush as it floated past me. Amma said No, but still I swam up to the bush.

‘Swam! She can’t swim,’ Manjith butted in.

‘I can swim!’

‘Of course, Simi can swim,’ there was a chorus of voices from the elders.

‘There was no need to swim. The water was this high’, Manjith pointed to his upper thigh.

Simi ignored him and carried on. ‘I touched the thorn bush and swam back. I did not realise that my towel was entangled in the thorns. So, when I reached my mother, I was …. ‘ Simi did not have to complete her sentence. Once more there was a chorus of voice ‘Naked!’ Simi’s father gave her a hug.

‘Did anyone see you?’ Mathai uncle prompted Simi.

Simi was silent. Then she started speaking again, her six-year old voice slowed by the shame she had been exposed to. ‘Mia, you know Mia who lives in that house…’ Simi’s left hand pointed towards the road ‘was bathing close by and she saw me.

‘And what did you do?’

‘I cried’

‘And what did your mother do?’

‘She quickly swam after the thorny bush and got my towel and wrapped it around me.’

‘And then what did your mother do?’

‘She pinched me and said I deserved what happened to me since I disobeyed her.’

‘And what did you promise your Amma?’

‘I promised her that henceforth I will always stay close to her when we go for a bath.’

‘Good girl.’ There were smiles all around. Mathai uncle beamed at his daughter once more.

‘You should have heard Simi make her Republic day speech.’

‘Oh! We would love to hear it.’ Rohan’s father affirmed. ‘Tonight. After dinner. We should have a Programme. Rohan acted in his school play. He was Bassanio in the Merchant of Venice.’

‘Rohan! As Bassanio!’

‘And what have you been up to? Rohan’s mother asked Manjith who immediately started enumerating his exploits with the cricket bat and the numerous fights he had won in his school.

After a while Rohan grew impatient. ‘Daddy, will you be going to bathe in the river today?’

‘Well, I might. After sunset. I can’t take you with me today, but I might take you with me tomorrow, …………if Mummy lets you that is’, he hastily added.

‘Mummy, can I go for a bathe tomorrow?’

‘Not tomorrow.’

Why not tomorrow?’ Rohan’s father's surprisingly angry voice challenged her.

‘Because he is already sniffling. And the change in weather. From the Delhi heat to this rain. And he is weak from the journey.

‘He is not weak. Are you weak?’ Mathai uncle asked Rohan mockingly.

‘I am not weak.’

‘Chacko, tell me what’s the big deal if Rohan goes swimming?’ Rohan’s grandmother addressed the question to her son and not her daughter-in-law, as if she expected her son to put his wife in her place.

‘Let me tell you Ammachee,' Annie butted in before her husband could respond. ‘It is because of his bronchitis. She did not elaborate and her voice trailed off as if there was no point in explaining the reason to her mother-in-law. The explanation was unnecessary. She then decided to address the entire gathering. ‘Last time, he went for a bath in the river, he caught a cold. He was sneezing and had a running nose. After that his sneeze became a cough and finally he started wheezing. He was wheezing for the entire two weeks we spent in Kochi! Even on Rosie’s wedding day!’

‘But I haven’t had bronchitis since then!’

‘What if you get it once again this time?’

‘If we are to keep him wrapped up in a cocoon, well then go ahead.’

Mathai uncle’s wife who spent most of her time in the kitchen joined in. ‘He is going to be a man very soon, isn’t he?’

‘So when can I go for a swim?’ Rohan asked his mother with the air of a martyr. He was floating on a groundswell of support and was determined to make the most of it.

‘Let’s decide tomorrow.’ His mother put him off. ‘Let me first give this to Ammachee.’ Before anyone could say anything, she handed over the smaller of the two packets to Rohan’s grandmother.

‘What’s this? What’s the need for all this?’ The protests were addressed to her son and not her daughter-in-law. ‘Every year you people get me something. It is so unnecessary.’ She was quite pleased nevertheless and opened the parcel to reveal a kavani. Her smile broadened. ‘I’ll wear this to church this Sunday.’

‘How did you buy this from Delhi?’ Mathai uncle wanted to know. The Kavani was a uniquely Syrian Christian garment and was definitely not something one could get in Delhi.

‘In matters like these, you have to hand it to Annie. She got her sister Rosie to bring a Kavani to Delhi when Rosie and her husband came to visit us last month.’

‘Why do you go to so much trouble? You could have bought me a Kavani after you reached Kerala. Couldn’t you have bought this from Kochi when you go there? When are you going to Kochi?’

‘Well, I think it’s better if we bring our gifts from Delhi.’

‘So when are you going to Kochi?’

‘We haven’t finally decided. Maybe next Monday?’ Annie looked at her husband who looked uncomfortable.

‘Haven’t you finalised your plans Chacko-chaya?’ Mathai uncle asked Rohan’s father, amusement writ large on his face.

‘Well, next Monday I will take Annie and Rohan to Kochi, spend a day or two there and come back. Then after a fortnight, I’ll go to Kochi once more and bring them both back. And then we will have another week here.’

‘So Annie will get to spend only ten days with us. Do you have to spend a fortnight at Kochi?’ Rohan’s Grandmother sounded cross.

‘Well, Biju-achayan will come home on leave only on the twenty-first. So unless we stay there for a fortnight, we will miss him.’

‘If you can stay here till next Tuesday, you will be able to meet Jose,’ Tessy was hesitant.

‘Won’t Jose be back when we come back from Kochi?’

‘He might, but with Jose one never knows.’ Tessy laughed at the capriciousness of her husband’s schedule. They all joined in.

‘Jose hasn’t seen Rohan in over two years I think,’ Rohan’s father said, wrinkling his brow.

‘Oh, I’ll ask him to make sure he’s here when you come back.’

‘Mummy, aren’t you giving this to Simi?’ Rohan tugged at his mother’s saree.

‘Oh! I nearly forgot. ‘And this is for Simi-mol.’ Rohan’s mother opened the other brown parcel and pulled out a pink frock which she pressed towards a Simi who looked very shy.

‘Oh she looks so pretty in that.’

‘And this is for you Susan.’ The saree underneath the frock was handed over to Susan who immediately looked at Mathai uncle for approval. ‘Nice saree,’ he formally proclaimed.

‘What about Tessy and Manjith?’ Granny asked with mock seriousness.

‘Oh! Tessy and Manjith have so many good clothes that they don’t need any gifts from us.’ Rohan’s mother’s eyes made contact with Tessy and sought her approval.

Tessy smiled at her sister-in-law. You needn’t buy any gifts for us. What’s the point of accumulating so many clothes? All those clothes we brought back from Dubai - they are going to last forever.’

Manjith had stopped sweating, mainly because his had repeatedly wiped his face on his tee shirt. Manjith did not look too happy. He would not have minded receiving a gift.

‘Don’t we have some Jalebis for Manjith?’ Rohan’s father suddenly remembered. Don’t you like Jalebis?’ he asked his nephew who still hadn’t dropped his cricket bat.

‘I thought we could take them out after dinner.’

‘Can I go for a bath in the river tomorrow?’ Rohan asked piquantly.

‘Come on. Let’s take out the Jalebis. Where are they? In the smaller suitcase?’

‘Chacko, don’t take them out now. We have so many things on the table right here. Annie is quite right. Let’s eat them after dinner.’ Rohan’s Grandmother sounded relieved at being able to side with her daughter-in-law.

‘Can I go for a bath in the river tomorrow?’ Rohan repeated in a louder voice.

‘Son, why are you in such a rush? After we come back from Kochi, you can go for a bath in the river.' His mother had the most reasonable tone possible.

‘Noooo!’

‘Let me tell you. We have to go to Kochi in a week’s time. Tony and Teena will be there. If you are ill, you cannot play with them.

‘I won’t fall ill!’

‘I know better than you do. You will if you bathe in the river.’

And that was it. His mother would not budge. Rohan timed his requests so that he gave his mother a gap of at least thirty minutes between each set of pleadings. Even after Rohan won a round of applause for enacting the agony and ultimate happiness of Bassanio, without having any of his fellow cast members around him, his mother did not relent. Finally Rohan’s father grew exasperated and told him to shut-up. Rohan went to bed in tears. How could his father be so heartless after he and Mathai uncle had slipped off towards the river after sunset, each with a thin white towel draped across their bare shoulders and a soap-dish with a piece of soap in it. They had returned after an hour, his father telling Mathai uncle of his plans to fix their fishing net and go fishing.

The next day morning Rohan was in for a huge surprise. They had just finished a hearty breakfast of cassava and fish curry when his father asked him, ‘what do you plan to do today?’ There were a million things to be done before they left for Kochi in a week’s time. He had to explore the stretch of land that belonged to his grandmother - about five acres or so - which ran from behind the house and was planted with rubber trees. The attic on top of the house was something he had been planning to explore this year, but he might postpone it to the next year - it was too dark and one could hear the sound of rats running overhead. There were a few rabbits kept in a pen and Manjith had told him that one of them had a litter - he had to spend some time with them. He had to chat with Thankachan, the handyman who helped Mathai uncle milk the cows and tap the rubber trees. Thankachan was also a black belt in Karate and Rohan was hoping to persuade Thankachan to teach him a few useful tricks. Most importantly he was planning to go with Susan auntie and Simi to the river in the afternoon and watch them take bath - even if he himself was not allowed to plunge into the water.

‘Are you planning to go to the river with Susan auntie?’

‘For a brief moment Rohan thought he was going to be forbidden from even going to the river to watch others bathe in it. And then to his eternal joy, his father told him, ‘I have spoken to your mother. You can bathe in the river today.’ Rohan could not believe his ears. But there was no mistaking the gleam in his father’s eyes. It was as much a victory for his father as it was for him. ‘I have spoken to your mother,’ his father repeated.

Rohan ran to the kitchen where his mother was peeling onions. ‘Mummy! Daddy says I can bathe in the river today.’

‘Well, go and bathe in the river. When you fall ill, you and your father will realise that I was only acting in your best interest.’ That killed off most of Rohan’s joy. His mother looked so unhappy, standing there in that badly ventilated kitchen which was filled with smoke from a stove stuffed with firewood.

‘Annie-chechy why do you worry so much?’ Susan who was standing nearby said. ‘You worry about everything.’

‘It’s not as simple as that. Last year even after we reached Delhi, Rohan had not fully recovered from his bronchitis. He missed so many classes in June and July.’

‘He will be alright this year,’ Rohan’s grandmother said as she churned milk. She paused for a moment and said, ‘Rohan come here.’ Rohan walked up to the bench where his grandmother sat. ‘Do you still have your sniffles?’ Rohan blew in through his nose loudly. There was some evidence of a very mild cold. ‘Oh! That’s nothing’ his grandmother dismissed the evidence.

‘So what if he catches a cold? It will go away in a few days.’ the daily help looked up from the fish she was cleaning and asked Rohan’s mother. That woman had been with the family for so long and had a say in most matters.

‘Annie-chechy, why don't you come along with us as well? You have never taken a bath in our river.’ Susan had tried to persuade Annie to test the waters many times before and she had given up hope. She had not really expected to elicit a positive response from Annie.

‘Not for me! No! So many people take bath in that river! It must be so dirty!’

‘Oh, the current carries away all the dirt. And the water is so clear.’

Annie merely shuddered by way of a response.

Though his mother’s agony had dimmed his joy, Rohan was still happy. He had to find Manjith and Simi. ‘Susan auntie, where’s Simi?’

‘She must be in the cow shed watching Thankachan milk the cows.’

Rohan pondered for a few seconds. Normally he would have rushed to see the cows getting milked. A man who was denied the privilege of taking a bath in the river everyday, as most people at Simhapara did, was entitled to grab whatever other minor pleasures came his way. But now, watching the cows get milked did not seem to be a big deal. He could follow Thankachan around the next day. Or even the day after. ‘And where’s Manjith?’ Rohan knew the answer to that question. Manjith and his mother were closeted in a room finishing off Manjith’s vacation work. Manjith had been promoted to the next year on the condition that he completed a certain amount of schoolwork during his vacation time. ‘Don’t disturb them,’ his grandmother warned Rohan with a smile.

Rohan decided to pay the cowshed a visit. He walked out of the kitchen to the outer verandah, which ran all around the house, except at one corner where Mathai uncle had built a concrete extension. Rohan hated that extension. He could still remember the days when he and Manjith could run around the entire perimeter of the house, peeping into rooms through windows that opened out to the verandah. Rohan climbed down the steps that led to the courtyard, crossed the courtyard and started climbing down a steep flight of steps that led down a terraced wall. Simhapara was at the western foothills of the Ghats and the skyline in the east was dominated by the looming green mountain ranges. Much closer to him, there arose a small hill. The rock on top of the hill was supposed to resemble the head of a lion, after which the village had been named. As he climbed down the steps, the smell of cow manure assaulted his sense. Rohan ran up to Simi who was squatting by the entrance to the cowshed and said breathlessly, ‘My Daddy said I can bathe in the river today!’

‘So you are coming with us?’ Simi was also excited. ‘Manjith is planning to set a trap for the fishes.’

‘Has he made the trap yet?’

‘No, not yet! He is in his room - studying.’

‘I know, but will he do it today?’

‘I don’t know. He was planning to do it yesterday, but Tessy auntie did not let him.’

Normally such treachery on the part of Tessy auntie would have upset Rohan, but today he was not bothered. He did have plans to persuade Mathai uncle to take him fishing - fishing with a rod and bait and not with a trap as Manjith did - but today he would merely take bath in the river. The sands of time refused to move fast enough for Rohan. He did not eat much at lunch-time and surprisingly, his mother did not press him to do so. She was too upset by what was going to happen. There were the usual jokes about his father’s appetite which usually doubled itself when he was at Simhapara.

‘Simi-mol, tell us how much rice your Chacko uncle ate?’ Simi’s grandmother prodded her after the meal as they sat chatting in the main drawing room.

‘From here,’ Simi obligingly touched the ground near her feet, straightened herself, lifted her right arm into the air, walked a few feet and touched the ground again, ‘till here’. There were roars of laughter. Rohan felt irritated. It had sounded funny last year when Simi said it for the first time. Now he wished they would just hurry up and make a move towards the river. But it was only half past one and he knew that Susan auntie did not go for her usual bath till around three o’clock.

After lunch Mathai uncle asked him, ‘do you want to help me press the rubber sheets?’ Rohan nearly said No for fear that Susan auntie and Simi would leave without him. But he knew that he was being silly. The daily collection of latex from five acres of rubber barely yielded ten rubber sheets. Pressing them did not take more than thirty minutes. He went along with Mathai uncle through the tapioca plants to the shed where the rubber press was kept. It was a dinghy shed which had mildew on its wall and an overpowering odour of latex. Ten aluminium trays filled with latex were arranged in two rows of five each at the foot of the concrete slab on which the press was mounted. The latex had become semi solid rectangular sheets, each of which was around three inches thick. Mathai uncle picked up one sheet with both hands, held it up for a minute on top of the tray so that water draining from the rubber sheet fell into the tray, and asked Rohan, ‘Ready?’ There was no need to explain. Rohan grabbed the metal rod attached to the wheel, which moved the press and started to rotate it. Mathai uncle fed the thick rubber sheet into the moving cylinders and the sheet that came out at the other end was not more than an inch thick. The pressed sheet was put back into the tray. Mathai uncle picked up a sheet from another tray.

‘So do you get along with your friends at school?’

‘With some of them.’

‘What are their names?’

‘There is Amarpreet Singh, there’s Gautam Mulchandani, there’s …’

Mathai uncle was fascinated by the unfamiliar names. He would repeat each name and Rohan would correct him when he got the pronunciation wrong. ‘ No! No! it’s Go-tam and not Gow-dham.’

‘Oh! Is that how it’s pronounced?’

And Mathai uncle would encourage Rohan to tell him about his exploits. ‘The guy you got into a fight with last year, what’s his name?’

‘Siddharth.’

‘Yes that’s the one. Are you still enemies?

After all ten sheets had been pressed once, Mathai uncle adjusted the settings so that the gap between the two cylinders was less than a centimetre. They started the process again. This time the sheets that came out at the other end where quite thin and much longer.

‘And you actually hit him?’

‘I did. There was no one else left in the playground. Just us and I punched him.’

‘I guess your mother doesn’t know any of this.’

‘Of course not! She will only make a fuss.’

‘I know, there’s no point telling her.’

‘What about your Daddy?’

‘He doesn’t know either.’

‘Did your Daddy get a bonus this year?’ At that Rohan became a bit wary. It was one thing to tell Mathai uncle about his exploits at school and quite another to divulge financial details about his parents.

‘I don’t know.’

‘Didn’t he tell you?’

‘No, he didn’t.’

‘Maybe he did not get a bonus.’

‘I don’t know.’

Mathai uncle moved to a different topic. ‘How are your folks at Kochi doing? All well there?’

‘Oh yes!’

‘Your Shibu uncle, he’s been in the Gulf for over ten years now, right?’

‘Yes. He has. He will be coming home this December.’

‘Doesn’t he have any plans to wind-up and come back home for good?’

‘I don’t know. I haven’t heard of any such plans.’

‘It’s a difficult thing to do. He must be making around - how many Riyals - per month?

‘I don’t know. But he does send a lot of money home. He gave most of the money for Rosie-auntie’s dowry.’

‘Oh, he did that, did he?

‘Yes he did.’

‘Didn’t your Avirachan uncle give any money?’

Before Rohan could divulge more details about his mother’s relations, Manjith entered the shed.

‘Hello! Are you finished yet?’

‘Almost. Just one more round and they’ll all be done. Rohan did it all by himself. Look at him - the man shows no sign of exhaustion.’

‘Well, Annie-auntie asked me if I could help you. She said Rohan might fall ill if he exerted himself too much.’

‘Oh! That mother of yours. She’ll ruin your life by molly-coddling you too much. Are you tired?’

‘No, of course not.’ Rohan was quite tired and would have happily handed over the wheel to Manjith if only he had not been sent by his mother.

‘Well, then carry on.’

Before Rohan could continue, his mother entered the shed. ‘Are you through with the work?’ she politely asked Mathai uncle.

‘No Annie-chechy, but we are almost through. ‘Come on Rohan. Let’s finish this task.’ Rohan started to turn the wheel and Mathai uncle recommenced the process of feeding the rubber sheets, which were now not more than a few millimetres thick, into the press.

‘Well, I’m off,’ Manjith scampered off, back to the TV channel he had been watching till Rohan’s mother very sweetly asked him, brave and strong boy that he was, if he could relieve Rohan who was quite likely to fall seriously ill if he spent more than five minutes working the rubber press.

‘Don’t worry Annie-chechy, he’ll not die if he does some physical activity for a few minutes.’

‘It’s been almost thirty minutes since you people started. And today he is going to bathe in the river.’

‘Well, what’s that got to do with this?’

‘If he exhausts himself before he goes swimming, he is much more likely to fall ill. Plus it will not do him any good to bathe in that cold water after sweating so much.’

‘Don’t worry Annie-chechy. Susan will not leave before three o’clock. It’s only five past two now. He’ll have plenty of time to cool down.’

‘If he falls ill, will you take him to the doctor?’

Mathai uncle muttered something under his breath and said, ‘if Rohan falls ill, I’ll take him to the doctor. I promise you.’ Rohan’s mother had nothing more to say. She walked off. In another five minutes or so, all ten sheets were done. Mathai uncle folded each of them in half - they were twice as long as they had been when they started - kept them all in one tray which he picked up and nodded to Rohan who walked out of the shed followed by Mathai uncle who used his right foot to kick the door shut.

When they reached the courtyard, Mathai uncle started to hang the sheets on an aluminium wire that ran from one of the pillars that supported the garage to a large murikku tree. Rohan’s mother was waiting for him on the verandah, another one of those thin, white towels in her hand. ‘Come here. Let me wipe the sweat off you,’ Rohan’s mother ordered him and he obligingly climbed the few steps that led to the verandah from the courtyard. His mother rigorously applied the towel to his face and to the sides of his head after which she unbuttoned his shirt, took it off and wiped off all traces of the sweat from his chest and back. ‘Now sit here for a few minutes. Once you stop sweating you can go and sit under the fan.’ Rohan dared not disobey his mother or give her an excuse to prevent him from going to the river. He sat on one of the four chairs, which were spread out across the verandah. After ten minutes or so, he went into their bedroom, switched on the ceiling fan and sat on the bed directly under the fan. He heard Manjith shouting for him. ‘I’m here,’ Rohan called out. Manjith came in.

‘Are you going to the river with Susan auntie and Simi?’

‘Yes. Are you coming along?’

‘No. I go on my own. Why should I go with the women?’ Rohan responded with a nervous grin.

‘You could go with me, you know. I will go by around four o’clock. All my friends will be there as well.’

Rohan was sure that his mother would never let him go bathing in the river with Manjith. Plus, there was no point in delaying his departure by an hour. Moreover, he was not sure if he would enjoy the company of Manjith’s friends. During his last visit, he had played a game of carrom with Manjith and two of his friends. One of them had made fun of his Malayalam which was accented and not very fluent. ‘No, Manjith. I don’t think Mummy will let me go with you. She would rather I go with Susan auntie.’

‘Very well then. I’m off. But you better grow up fast. All this hanging around aunties will not do you any good.’

‘I might go with my Daddy. He goes to the river after sunset you know. With Mathai uncle.’

‘Do you think they will take you along?’

‘Not today. But I will go with them one day before I leave.’

‘Your mother won’t let you go bathing in the river more than once.’

‘My father has told her to let me go bathing everyday.’

‘Is that right?’ Manjith looked sceptical.

‘What about Tessy auntie? Doesn’t she go to the river for her bath these days?’

‘No, she rarely goes. Three or four days ago, she went with Susan auntie.’

‘Did you go along?’

‘I did.’

‘Well, even you go to the river with women.’ Manjith did not deign to reply to that comment.

‘Yesterday I got into a fight with …..’ Rohan listened to Manjith’s description of the fight with fascination. Manjith seemed to do practically everything he wanted without Tessy auntie constantly monitoring him and haranguing him. He wished his own mother would give him the sort of freedom which Tessy aunty gave Manjith. As if in response to his thoughts, his mother entered the room carrying two towels, a change of clothes and a soap dish with a Cinthol soap in it. ‘Don’t spend too much time in the water. If you don’t, then you will not fall ill and maybe you can go bathing in the river again.’

‘Can I go tomorrow?’

‘No. Not tomorrow. But you can go after we come back from Kochi.’

Manjith was about to tell Rohan off, but took pity on him and kept quiet. ‘What about you Manjith? Are you going to the river with Susan and Simi?

‘Me? No! I go on my own a bit later.’

‘On your own? Is it safe?’

‘Of course it is safe. All my friends will be there.’

‘I don’t think it is safe. Let me speak with your mother.’

‘Tessy! Tessy! Rohan’s mother went in search of Manjith’s mother. Rohan and Manjith followed her. They found her in the dining room reading a woman’s magazine and occasionally exchanging a comment with Susan who was in the adjacent kitchen.

‘Tessy, are you going to let Manjith go on his own?’

‘Where to?’ Tessy lazily asked.

‘To the river. For a bath.’

‘Well, why not? He is twelve.’

‘See I told you, I’m allowed to go on my own.’

Rohan’s mother looked deflated. ‘Annie-chechy, would you like to come with us? Susan asked Rohan’s mother.

‘Me? No! I’m going to heat some water and have a bath in piping hot water.’

‘Sounds like a good idea. When you do that, could you please heat some water for me too?’

‘Sure.’ Annie did not particularly want to heat some water for Tessy. But she smiled at Tessy nevertheless.’

‘Does Jose like to bathe in the river when he is here?’

Before Tessy could reply, Manjith piped up. ‘No he doesn’t. Papa hates to enter the river. He thinks the river water is too dirty. Not just here. Even at Muvattupuzha.’

‘He is like you,’ Tessy informed Annie with a shy smile. She was quite proud of her husband and all his idiosyncrasies.

‘Oh! Yes. You have a small stream near your house there, don’t you?’

Amidst all the chatter Susan auntie did not show any indication that she would leave for the river any time soon. When the large wall clock which adorned his Grandmother’s room chimed three, Rohan walked into the kitchen. Susan auntie was mixing some rice batter.

‘What’s this for?’ Rohan asked politely.

‘Vellayappam. Don’t you like Vellayappam?’

Rohan was silent, agony writ large on his face.

‘Don’t worry. We’ll leave in a few minutes.’ As promised, after a few minutes, Susan poured the batter into a circular dish, which she set into a steam oven, stoked the fire and prepared to leave.

‘Chinnammé, make sure you take this out of the oven in thirty minutes. By three forty,’ she shouted to the domestic help who was washing dishes in the sink. She quickly grabbed a couple of towels, a soap dish and a change of clothes for herself and Simi. ‘You have your towel, don’t you? Oh yes! You do. Let’s go. Come on Simi.’ Simi started running ahead. ‘Simi don’t,’ Susan shouted after Simi who quickly crossed the courtyard and started running down the decline, which led to the main road. The area between the courtyard and the main road - around half an acre of land - was a garden and the declining pathway ran through it. Rohan’s grandfather had been passionate about his garden and had actually devoted half an acre of land to hibiscuses, roses, jasmine and crotons of various hues and shapes. There were anthurium plants, chrysanthemums, dahlias and daisies. You could plant rubber instead of those flowers and get at least an extra rubber sheet out of it every day, they had told him. But he had gone his own way and maintained his garden, paying good money to a handyman to weed the garden every alternate week. After his demise a few years ago, they had maintained the garden exactly the same.

‘Simi don’t cross the road,’ Susan shouted after Simi who was tugging at the bolt, which held the gate shut.

‘Simi don’t cross the road,’ Rohan repeated and looked up to Susan for approval. ‘You are ten years old. You can cross the road on your own. Why don’t you take Simi’s hand and cross the road?’ Rohan ran ahead and as he reached Simi, the gate flew open. Rohan took Simi’s right hand in his left and looked to both sides of the road. A bus bound for Kottayam passed by. As they were about to start crossing the road, Susan reached the main gate. All three of them crossed the road together, with Simi in the centre.

‘Why do you need two towels?’ Simi asked Rohan as they turned left and walked along the main road. Susan auntie had only one towel each for Simi and herself.

‘I like to use a dry towel after the bath. I’ll wear one towel while I am in the river and the other one to dry myself after the bath.’

‘Why can’t you dry yourself with the one you wear while you are in the river?’

‘Because it will be wet.’

‘What’s wrong with a wet towel?’

Rohan did not reply. To their east, the Ghats filled the entire skyline, their tops covered in a floating mist. Much closer to them, less than a mile away, there arose the Lion-Head shaped rock.

In a few minutes, they turned right from the main road and started walking down a steep and narrow road that led to the river. The Lion-Head was no longer visible. Rubber trees grew on both sides of the road and their foliage served to form an arch under which the three of them walked. Simi walked over to the edge of the road and kicked at a spread of touch-me-nots growing by the side. Rohan joined Simi. As they watched the plants shrink, Simi giggled and then looked up at Rohan who was staring at the shrunken plants in great fascination. ‘There’s more on the other side,’ Susan auntie pointed out to them. They ran across to the other side of the road and energetically stomped on the touch-me-nots. Susan gave them a few more minutes and said, ‘let’s get going.’

They started walked again and soon reached the main bridge, which spanned the river. Two well-worn trails ran from either side of the bridge to the bank of the river, which was around twelve meters wide at that point. As they took the trail that ran to the right, Rohan’s heart started beating faster with excitement. He could hardly wait to jump into the greenish water. Two women were in the water bathing and two others were washing clothes on a rock partly submerged in the water. Susan chose a spot, which was a bit further away from that group. Far away, they could see groups of boys and a few men bathing in the area designated for men. The river bank on the other side was overgrown with large plants and a few trees, the most prominent of which was a large Anjili tree, which grew very close to the water. Rohan quickly wrapped the towel around his waist and removed his trousers. He carefully folded his trousers and searched for a clean spot to keep them. ‘Here, keep them here,’ Susan auntie pointed towards a large flat stone, on which she had already kept her clothes and soap dish. She wrapped a towel around Simi’s waist and helped her out of her frock. Simi skipped and ran down into the water. ‘You too go ahead,’ Susan told Rohan who was standing by the water’s edge, his heart beating faster than ever and a very wide grin on his face. Rohan gingerly dipped his toe in the water and then took a series of very small steps, which took him into the water. The water came up to his hips. He moved a bit further and soon the water came to his lower chest. ‘Don’t go any deeper,’ Susan auntie shouted out a warning from the bank, as she discarded her saree and tied her underskirt tightly just below her shoulders.

Rohan squatted in the water so that it came up to his chin. Susan auntie waded in. Simi came from behind and splashed some water on Rohan’s head, which he had not yet dunked into the water. He splashed back at Simi. Susan auntie joined in and all three of them stood in a small circle and splashed water on each other. After a few minutes, Susan auntie turned to a side and made a shallow dive into the water. Simi tried to follow suit, but she only managed to fall into the water and came up again very soon. Rohan held his breath and slowly bent his knees till he was squatting and his head was under the water. He came up for air and then dipped his head in the water again. The sun which had been shining so brightly slipped behind a dark cloud. More dark clouds started to gather. We must make haste, Susan auntie told Rohan. It might rain today. Rohan made a wry face. What difference does it make if it rains? We are already in the water now.’

‘Your mother will panic.’ Susan auntie stated the precise thought which was passing through Rohan’s mind. They heard thunder.

‘Simi, go and soap yourself,’ Susan auntie ordered Simi who scampered out of the water and walked towards the large flat stone where the two soap dishes where kept. Susan auntie gave Rohan a look, which indicated that he too was expected to follow suit. Rohan unhappily waded out of the water and picked up his soap. Susan auntie followed him. She took the soap that was in Simi’s hand and rigorously applied it all over her. In a few minutes, Simi was covered in lather. Rohan was lethargically soaping himself. ‘Rohan, would you like me to help you? Susan auntie asked Rohan.

‘No, no. I can manage,’ Rohan said and increased the pace with which he was soaping himself. Susan auntie scrutinized Rohan for a few minutes and then followed suit herself. Rohan put the soap back into its dish and started to get back into the water, covered in a thin film of soap. ‘You haven’t soaped your nape,’ Susan auntie called after him. She took a few steps, took Rohan’s hand, pulled him towards her, took the Cinthol soap he had used previously and soaped him all over, starting with his neck. Soon Rohan was also covered from head to toe in lather. Susan auntie put the soap back into its dish and picked up her soap. Rohan walked back into the water. ‘Hurry up children,’ Susan auntie called out as she soaped herself with the same energy she had shown earlier. Rohan took a deep breath, ducked his head into the water and started counting. He counted till twenty and then had to come up for air. As he lifted up his head, he saw a wonderful sight. The clouds were disappearing and the sun was starting to shine brightly. By that time Susan auntie was back in the water. ‘I don’t believe it,’ she told them. Rohan yelled with delight. His yell was heard by a group of men who were bathing in the men’s section and they took up the yell. Rohan was embarrassed. Simi saw his embarrassment and told him ‘It’s okay. It’s only Rarichan and friends. He weeds our garden occasionally.’ The group of women who were bathing close-by prepared to leave. Two of the women had large loads of washing with them.

‘How long did you hold your breath?’ Susan auntie asked him. Rohan didn’t realise that he had been observed. He was silent, wondering whether he ought to inflate the number of seconds he had been underwater. ‘Thirty,’ he said. ‘Why don’t you both dunk your heads underwater? I’ll count. Let’s see who holds out the longest.’

Rohan wasn’t too keen. Simi used her thumb and index finger to pinch her nose shut and prepared to go under water. Rohan followed suit.

‘Ready? Ready! Go’

Simi plonked herself down and Rohan followed suit a second later. They both came up together at the same time. ‘Nineteen,’ Susan auntie announced. Rohan gave her a guilty look and said, ‘I count faster than you, you know.’

The sun was shining quite brightly now. All the rain clouds had disappeared.

‘Do you want to play ducks and drakes? Susan auntie asked them. Without bothering to reply, Simi immediately bent down, picked up a flat stone and used a sideway movement of her arm to throw it a short distance across the water. The stone fell into the water - like a stone.

‘Your stone wasn’t flat enough,’ Susan auntie told Simi. ‘Your turn Rohan.’

Rohan looked hard and came up with a stone, which he discarded. He picked up another and showed it to Susan auntie who scrutinised it and shook her head. Susan auntie’s eyes darted here and there, after which she bent down and picked up a stone. ‘Here, try this.’ Rohan turned sideways, puffed up his mouth and threw the stone. The stone skipped over the water once before it disappeared into the water.

‘Let me show you.’ Susan auntie picked up a stone and threw it with her arm almost parallel to the water. It skipped thrice before it disappeared. ‘Ammé, that was good!’ Simi praised her mother. Simi had better luck with her next throw which skipped over the water once.

‘Look,’ Susan auntie pointed out to the children. ‘There’s a rainbow over there.’ And sure enough, there was a rainbow on the horizon.

They stood in the water in silence watching the rainbow.

‘I thought a rainbow appears only after a rain,’ Rohan opined, turning his head towards Susan auntie. He wished his own mother would be adventurous enough to go to the river with him and chuck a few stones over the water.

‘Normally yes! But a large cloud filled with water can also do the trick.’

‘Why is that?’

‘I don’t know. You should ask your mother. She knows .. she knows many things.’

Rohan smiled at Susan auntie. What was that she had been about to say before she changed her mind? Rohan was used to hearing Mathai uncle make cutting remarks about his mother, when she was not present. But so far he had never heard Susan auntie say anything about his mother.

‘We ought to be leaving soon,’ Susan auntie announced.

‘Let me throw once more,’ Simi said and she started to look for a stone. Rohan followed suit.

‘One more throw each and we will leave.’ Susan auntie also started to search for a stone.

Simi picked up a stone and said, ‘Ready!’ she threw it rather well, for the stone skipped over the water twice.

‘Your turn Rohan,’ Susan auntie told him. But Rohan had not yet picked up a stone yet. Susan auntie had a stone in her hand and Rohan looked at it as if he hoped she would give it to him. But she didn’t. ‘Instead she said, ‘hurry up and find a stone.’

‘No, you go ahead,’ Rohan told her. ‘I will throw last.’

Susan auntie turned sideways and threw her stone as effectively as she had done the previous time. The stone skipped over the water thrice. Now Susan auntie and Simi waited for Rohan to pick up a stone. Rohan looked here and there and finally found a stone that he thought was perfect.

‘Go on,’ Susan auntie encouraged him. ‘Come on Rohan,’ Simi added.

Rohan puffed up his cheeks and wildly threw the stone which did not even hit the water. Instead it flew into the air and …. disappeared. They did not hear a plonk sound which would indicate the stone falling into the water somewhere. Simi and Rohan turned their heads this way and that way, but could detect no sign of the stone having landed anywhere.

‘Never mind Rohan, let’s go. Come on Simi. Let’s go. Let’s go.’ The children reluctantly climbed out. Rohan picked up his spare dry towel and towelled himself. Susan auntie used her towel to towel Simi and then used it to dry herself. After they had all changed, they started walking homewards.

‘Look, the rainbow has gone,’ Simi told them.

‘Yeah, Rohan’s stone hit the rainbow and killed it.’

‘Of course not,’ Rohan protested.

‘Where else could your stone have gone? And why do you think the rainbow disappeared?’

‘I killed the rainbow,’ Rohan declared wonderstruck. He knew that it was just a joke, but it was good fun nevertheless. None of his mates in Delhi had ever killed a rainbow, he was sure of that.

His mother was waiting for them when he reached home. She hurried up to him with a dry towel and vigorously towelled his hair. ‘If his head remains wet for a long time, he will catch a cold which can, you know ………’ They listened to her politely.

‘So, will you go with me tomorrow?’ Manjith asked Rohan. Rohan looked at his mother who was silent. His grandmother said, ‘your Daddy has allowed you to go. And you might as well go with Manjith. You are a man now. Why should you go with Susan to the place where women bathe?’

‘Rohan, breath deeply,’ his mother ordered him. Rohan complied. His breath came out naturally without any hitch which would have indicated the beginnings of a cold. He was exultant. ‘See, I am absolutely fine!’

The rest of the day Rohan tested himself periodically for any sign of a cold by breathing deeply. He was also slightly worried about the reception he would get at the hands of Manjith’s friends. In fact he was worried enough to mention it to God when they had their evening prayers which dragged on for more than half an hour. But he need not have worried. Manjith’s friends did not ill-treat him or even tease him when they met at the river bank the next day. It felt slightly strange to take the trail that ran from the left of the bridge, instead of the one to the right. Manjith was evidently one of the leaders of his gang and his friends treated Rohan with respect. They were curious about him and asked him a million questions about Delhi. As they splashed about in the water, Rohan felt that he had been silly to have gone with Simi and her mother the previous day. He should have gone with Manjith who was busy chasing the small fishes which darted in and out of holes and crevices in the water.

‘Who wants to do a headstand?’ One of the other gang leaders challenged the rest. Manjith took up the challenge. He moved to a spot where the riverbed was flat and firm, lifted up his arms and said, ‘here, watch me!’ He then bent down and planted both his arms in the water and then hoisted up his legs. The water came up to his navel. After five seconds or so, his legs went down with a splash and he got up. One of the other boys tried to do it and failed. His legs would not go up. A third boy successfully imitated Manjith, but could last only a couple of seconds.

‘We could help Saajan stand on his hands,’ Manjith suggested to the group at large. Saajan, who had failed in his endeavour could not refuse the offer of help. ‘You try and lift up your legs. As they come up, we will hold them up,’ Manjith informed Saajan who took a deep breath, planted his arms on the riverbed and swung his legs up. Manjith managed to grab one leg and another boy took hold of the other, only to lose the slippery leg after a second. But Manjith held on to the leg he had grabbed. ‘never mind, lift up the other leg,’ he ordered two of the boys one of who bent down and lifted up Saajan’s other leg. Saajan was much shorter than Manjith and the water level came up to Saajan’s buttocks. They held on for a few seconds and then Manjith told the group at large, ‘someone keep count.’ The boys looked at each other and then realised that none of them had kept count from the time Saajan had gone underwater. Manjith suddenly dropped the leg he was holding and ordered the others, ‘drop him, drop him,’ which they did with alacrity. Saajan did not come up on his own, but had to be helped up. He spluttered water and said panting, ‘you chaps held me down for too long!’ They fell back and stood around him in a guilty circle.

‘What are you boys up to?’ an old man bathing some distance away asked them. They ignored him, but did not do any more handstands in the water.

‘You could do this,’ Manjith suggested to Rohan and proceeded to swim towards a nearby rock, which was partly submerged in the water. He used his hands to hold on to the rock, held the rest of his body horizontal in the water and flapped his legs. Rohan waded up to the rock and followed suit. ‘That’s the way I learnt to swim,’ Manjith informed him.

After some more time, Manjith told Rohan, ‘We might well be going. Or your mother might get worried.’

Rohan wasn’t too keen to leave, but Manjith was insistent. ‘We need to leave or Rohan’s mother will be angry with him,’ he informed the rest of the group.

That evening when they were having dinner, Rohan sneezed once. A nun, who was a distant cousin of Rohan’s father, was at the table with them. ‘Bless you,’ the nun said and Rohan sneezed again.

His mother had a horrified look on her face. ‘See, I warned you,’ she began in a loud voice.

‘Its just a sneeze, for Christ’s sake,’ Rohan’s father retorted. 'Anyone can sneeze. It doesn’t mean anything. In this family we’ve all had loud sneezes.'

‘Just you wait. He’ll soon catch a cold and then he will go from bad to worse.’

‘Maybe he won’t. What makes you so sure that he is going to fall ill?’

‘Do you have a running nose?’ Rohan’s mother was actively looking for further evidence of a cold.

‘No I don’t.’

‘You are lying.’

‘I am not!’ Rohan then proceeded to breathe deeply. The nun who was sitting next to him pronounced, No! He does not have a cold.’ His mother gave him a sceptical look.

Rohan did not sneeze after that. The next day afternoon, when they were having lunch, Rohan asked his father if he could go to the river with Manjith once more.

‘Sure you can. That’s the way to become a sturdy lad! Expose yourself to the elements!’

‘Chacko-chaya, don’t let him go today,’ his mother beseeched his father in an unusually humble voice. 'Let him get some rest today and we shall see if he sneezes again. If he doesn’t sneeze, he can go tomorrow.’

‘No, let him go bathing today as well. Let me see what happens.’

‘He’ll be alright,’ Rohan’s grandmother assured his mother. 'Tonight, we’ll boil some water and Rohan can inhale some steam.’

‘That’s a good idea. We ought to stick to these natural remedies instead of relying so much on antibiotics!’

Rohan went off to the river with Manjith in the afternoon and had a jolly good time. He tried to make a few strokes in the water and did cover some distance before he was forced to find his footing. He went back to holding on to the rock and flapping his feet in the water. ‘You are making progress,’ Manjith encouraged him. ‘Soon you will be able to swim.’ The boys were making plans to jump off the bridge into the river once the water levels went up during the monsoon. ‘I won’t be able to join you,’ Manjith sadly said. By the end of May when his school vacation got over, his mother would take him back to Muvattupuzha where they lived as part of his father’s extended family. The monsoon would set in only in early June.

‘Don’t you have a river there?’ Rohan reminded Manjith.

‘Yes we do. But there is no bridge over it like the one here. This is so convenient!’

‘How high does the water rise up to?’ Rohan wanted to know.

‘Last year, there was water till that that branch,’ one of the boys pointed to a low hanging branch of the Anjili tree, which was around five feet above the water.

‘That high! Rohan gasped.

‘The depth of the water does not matter if you can swim,’ one of the boys bravely declared.

They continued to play in the water for a while. ‘Kochu Varkey’s land has just been cleared. I saw them carting away the logs this morning,’ one of the boys informed the rest.

‘We should have a game there.’

‘We should.’

The novelty of playing cricket on a piece of land where tall rubber trees stood until a week ago was not to be missed for the whole world. ‘Shall we leave now?’ The cleared land was not more than ten minutes away.

‘Who’ll get the gear?’

‘Hamid, isn’t your house close by?’

‘Yes it is! I will leave now and get my bat and ball and meet you all there’

‘Don’t you have any stumps?’

‘No I don’t.’

‘It doesn’t matter. We will definitely find a few sticks there.’

‘I will leave now.’ Hamid left in a hurry with the air of a host who was about to receive a multitude of guests.

The boys stayed on in the water for a few more minutes and then followed Hamid. Rohan was not sure if he should go with the boys or if he should go home. He was sure that if he went home and sought his mother’s permission, it would be refused. He decided to stay on, hoping that Manjith would not remember to ask if it was going to be alright with his mother. Once again he wished his mother were more like Susan auntie or Tessy auntie.

They all had a good time. While they were playing Hamid’s mother actually came down with a large tray with glasses of lime squash and a large plate of banana chips. ‘Who is this new boy? she demanded when she saw Rohan. Rohan smiled at her and waited for Manjith to introduce him. ‘He is my cousin from Delhi.’ Nothing more needed to be said. Hamid’s mother knew Rohan’s family. She knew that Chacko, Rohan’s father, had a job in Delhi where he lived with his family.

By the time they got home, it was quite dark. Rohan’s mother was almost hysterical. Rohan’s father had gone to the river to look for the boys and not seeing them there, had come home and announced to Rohan’s mother, ‘None of the boys are in the river. They could not all have drowned. They must have gone off somewhere to play.’ With that his mother had to be satisfied. Tessy also assured her. ‘Manjith does that very often. He goes to the river with the boys and then they have a game of cricket somewhere.’

Rohan’s mother made him take off his shirt and wipe off his sweat. ‘Don’t sit under a fan immediately,’ she ordered him.

His grandmother told his mother, ‘give him something to eat. As long as he eats properly, he will be alright.’ They had made kumbalappams, which Rohan liked a lot. He ate two of them and then he sneezed. He sneezed again after a few moments. It seemed that he had a running nose.

His mother gave him a Coldarin and went about the task of boiling some water, a bit of Vicks ointment in it, and getting Rohan to inhale the steam, with the air of someone who was about to witness a disaster she had warned everyone about. That night during prayers, when Rohan recited his quota of Hail Marys, his voice sounded hoarse. Even his father looked worried after that. ‘Well, don’t go bathing in the river tomorrow. You’ll be better in a day.’

‘If only he hadn’t gone today, he would have been alright.’ She then turned her fury towards Rohan. ‘Why did you go and play cricket after that? Did you have permission to do that?’ Rohan was silent. He was now too weak to respond to his mother. ‘Now how will he go to Kochi?’ his mother wailed.

‘Even if he is ill, he can still travel to Kochi.’

‘Or you could leave him behind. We will look after him,’ his grandmother informed his mother with a twinkle in her eye. His mother was too furious to respond.

When she calmed down, she said ‘the same thing happened last year. It was Rosie’s wedding and ….’

‘Well, nothing has happened so far,’ Rohan’s father silenced her. Did you give him a Coldarin?

‘Yes, it hasn't had any effect.’

‘Don’t be so pessimistic,’ his father said.

That night Rohan went to bed with a couple of handkerchiefs by his side to blow his nose into. The next day was a Friday. Rohan did not have permission to step out of the house into the warm sunshine. He watched some TV and then sat near his mother as she gossiped with Tessy auntie. He pretended not to listen, but drank in details of how Tessy auntie’s husband Jose had come home drunk once. Apparently his father, Tessy’s father-in-law, had cracked down on him and he had not repeated his misdemeanour.

‘I almost forgot,’ Tessy auntie told Rohan and his mother. ‘I have something for Rohan.’ She opened a cupboard and took out a couple of tee-shirts, a pair of jeans and a pair of sneakers. ‘Manjith grows up so fast, …’ There was no need to say anymore. The passing on of handouts from one child to another was a time honoured tradition and Rohan’s clothes would be passed on to his cousin Tony at Kochi after he out-grew them.

Rohan continued to sneeze and blow his nose until Saturday afternoon. A few more Coldarins did not make any dent in the cold. He did not get better, but he did not get worse either. And then he started coughing. It started as a mild cough, but soon became a harsh and rib-wracking roar. His mother immediately switched from Coldarin to Corex syrup, which made Rohan extremely drowsy. During evening prayers, Rohan could not complete his quota of ten Hail Marys. He broke into a bout of incessant coughing after the fourth one and Manjith was asked to take-over and complete the decade.

After the prayers were complete, Rohan’s mother told his father, ‘he better not go to Church tomorrow.’

‘Why not?’ his grandmother demanded, who claimed to have never missed Church on a Sunday.

‘All that incense will make his chest congestion much worse,’ his mother explained. Rohan was quite disappointed. The Syrian Catholic mass they attended at Simhapara was quite different from the Roman Catholic mass they had in Delhi. At Simhapara, the priest wore a much more colourful robe, he faced away from the congregation for most of the time and there was a lot more incense and smoke.

‘I’ve never heard of a person fall ill after going to Church,’ his grandmother argued. This time Rohan’s father took his wife’s side. ‘No Ammachee, it is true. All that incense might make his cough worse.

The next day morning, all the elders, Simi and Manjith went off to Church, squeezed into the rickety jeep, which Mathai uncle drove. Rohan was left under the charge of their domestic help. He coughed his way through Sunday. His appetite was a lot less and when his grandmother made some Ethakka-bolees in the evening, he only manage to eat a small piece. They were to travel to Kochi the next day. They would catch a bus to Kottayam from the bus stop in front of their house and the Venad express would convey them from Kottayam to Kochi in an hour’s time.

That night Rohan and his parents were in their bedroom packing up for the trip to Kochi.

‘Let’s take a taxi to Kottayam,’ his father suggested.

‘We took a taxi when we came here. That’ll be another thousand rupees.’

‘We took a taxi when we came here because you were so exhausted.’

‘I am not saying anybody is to blame.’ Rohan’s parents were oblivious to his presence.

‘So, shall we take a taxi tomorrow morning?’

‘We don’t have a choice, do we?’ Travelling by bus would expose Rohan to dust and could possibly exacerbate his cough and bring about an attack of bronchitis.

‘We should take him to Dr. James as soon as we reach Kochi tomorrow.’

‘I don’t think so. It’s only a cough. What’ll Dr. James do? Prescribe antibiotics right away in all probability!’

‘I think we should take him to Dr. James even if it is only a cough. If we delay it, he won’t be able to do much for him.’

‘Last year, what was the antibiotic which Dr. James prescribed? Aminomycilin? Aminotycilin?’

‘I have the prescription in my handbag. I’ll get it.’ Rohan’s mother fetched the prescription, which was all crumbled. She handed it to Rohan’s father. ‘Why don’t we buy this and have the boy start a course right away?’

No! Let’s don’t give him antibiotics at this stage for a cough. Maybe he will not develop a wheeze! You know, maybe the cough will go away. He is basically a healthy boy.’

‘If only you didn’t allow him to go bathing in the river, this wouldn’t have happened! The same thing happened last year.’

‘Go on, blame me. Let’s keep our son all wrapped up and protected from everyone and everything!’ Both of them looked at Rohan and then turned away simultaneously to face each other guiltily.

The next day morning dawned bright and clear. The summer was at its zenith and there was no sign on the impending monsoon or of the light summer showers they had had a few days earlier. The taxi drove up as they were finishing their breakfast. It was a rickety ambassador and looked likely to be as dusty as a bus. ‘Let’s have a short prayer before you all leave,’ their Grandmother reminded them. She shepherded them into the drawing room where a large garlanded picture of Jesus Christ was kept, an electric candle glowing underneath it. Before she could start, Rohan’s father reeled off an Our Father and a Hail Mary. ‘Oh God, please protect us and take care of us as we travel to Kochi. ‘In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.’ They all intoned ‘as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be, world without end, Amen’. Their luggage was quickly loaded into the taxi. There was a flurry of goodbyes.

‘You’ll be back the day-after, won’t you?’ Rohan’s grandmother asked his father.

‘Oh yes! And they’ll be back in two weeks’ time.’

‘Rohan, give me a kiss,’ Ammachee demanded rosary in hand. Rohan duly complied and was rewarded with a muttered blessing and a cross drawn on his head. Tessy auntie and Susan auntie also gave him a hug each, unaccompanied by any prayer. Mathai uncle patted him lightly on his back and told him, ‘as soon as your cough gets better, make sure you go bathing in the sea at Kochi.’ Rohan’s mother grit her teeth. ‘Yeah, a bath in the sea is exactly what he needs now!’

The taxi rolled off. Rohan turned back to see the Lion-Head recede in the distance. A short while after that, he started wheezing.

By: Winnowed

Published earlier in Epic India Magazine

© Vinod George Joseph

The Islamist: Why I Joined Radical Islam in Britain, What I Saw Inside and Why I Left - By Ed Husain

Unlike the Reluctant Fundamentalist which I reviewed last week, the Islamist is a true story, the story of Muhammad Mahbub Husain, who became an Islamic fundamentalist, saw the light and then went back to civil society.

Husain's main thesis which runs through the entire book as he tells his story is very simple. There are two types of religious Muslims. The ones like his father who are extremely religious, but have the sense to keep their religion private and never let it influence their political views and outlook. And there are others – the fanatics – who believe that Islam is a complete solution which teaches men how to pray, govern themselves, conduct wars, dress, interact with others etc. The second group is much smaller than first group, but is a lot more vicious and has been spoilt by democratic and tolerant Britain. Democracy, or people's rule, is anathema to fundamentalist Muslims since only Allah should govern (and the Koran contains Allah's words and will). Using the democratic institutions they seek to subvert, Fundamentalist Muslims have wreaked havoc within Britain, especially within the Islamic community in their quest for a global Islamic state. Husain calls upon the British authorities to crush the fundamentalists, for the fundamentalists cannot be reformed. Fundamentalists Muslims will always try to subvert democracy and civil society, even if they are allowed to preach and practice their version of Islam. It is incorrect to say that past injustices against Muslims have given rise to Islamic Fundamentalism of the type preached by Omar Bakri, the erstwhile leader of the Hizb-ut-Tahir.

Husain's book was released in May 2007 at a time when the British government was facing a great of criticism for having invaded Iraq and fuelled the growth of Islamic fundamentalism in Iraq and elsewhere. This book was gratefully seized upon by many people as proof that growth in Islamic fundamentalism is not the result of the Iraqi invasion or any foreign policy mistake.

Husain has a straightforward style which makes his book easy to read. However, Husain's story is not as straightforward as his style.

Husain claims to have had a happy childhood, surrounded by his doting family and caring teachers. His father came to the UK in 1961 and is an ex-restaurateur. Husain doesn't tell us what his father did after he stopped running a restaurant. Husain's family lives in a three storied Victorian terraced house at Limehouse. Young Husain spends a lot of his time with his father's spiritual guru, Shaik Abdel al Latif, who hailed from Fultholy (is it a place in Bangladesh?) and preached a benign version of Islam. Husain addresses the Shaik as ‘Grandpa’ and learns a lot about Islam from him, an Islam based entirely on piety, devotion to God, love for the Prophet, and which does not try to influence an individual's politics.

Later his parents move him to the boys-only Stepney Green School, contrary to the advice given by his primary school teachers. He is in a classroom full of boys from Bangladesh who watch Bollywood movies, indulge in gang warfare and have little in common with mainstream Britain. On his own initiative, Husain starts taking extra lessons in religious studies along with another student Falik. It is not very clear why Husain would want to do that. I assume not many 15 and 16 year olds would opt to spend a few extra hours at school learning about religion. But Husain and his friend do exactly that. They start with Gulam Sarwar's book on Islam which apparently is taught in British schools even now. Gulam Sarwar talks of the political system of Islam. An impressionable Husain is led to believe that religion and politics are one and the same. Islam is a complete way of life. Sarwar tells his readers that currently there is no pure Islamic state, but wants his readers to try and create one.

Husain’s study-mate Falik is a member of the Young Muslims Organisation, the YMO and very soon, before you realise what’s happening, Husain is a YMO member. The YMO is a front organisation for the Jamat-e-Islami, a fundamentalist outfit started by one Abdul Ala Mawdudi. Mawdudi is a man who wanted to create a global Islamic state. The tactic advocated by Mawdudi for doing this is the gradual infiltration of political systems and the takeover of sovereign states, especially in the middle-east.

So, by the age of sixteen, Husain is a full-fledged member of YMO, distributing pamphlets and sticking posters on walls. Husain takes great pains to explain how he had to hide his ideology from his parents, especially his father, who never approved of Mawdudi. Later when his father finds out about Husain's work for the YMO, he is very angry. Husain actually leaves his parents and lives in a mosque for three nights before his father takes him back, such is his pious father's hatred for political Islam!

But Husain does not stay with the YMO for long. He switches to the Hizb-ut-Tahir, an even more virulent organisation run by the notorious Omar Bakir. Unlike the Jamat-e-Islami, the Hizb-ut-Tahir advocates a violent overthrow of governments for the establishment of a global Islamic state. By now, Husain is a student at the Tower Hamlets College. They persuade women to wear the hijab, convert non-Muslims to Islam, break up meetings of rivals and aggressively promote their brand of political Islam. Husain's parents are very upset with Husain, but there is little they can do about his activities. Husain is slightly troubled by the fact that Hizb activists are not spiritual at all. They spend little time in prayer. And when they do, they pray bare-headed. Ordinary rules of Islam don't seem to apply to them. Husain is troubled with all that, but he stays on as a member, mainly because he likes the idea of a global Islamic state.

Husain meets Faye at the Tower Hamlets College. Husain does not detail the courtship, but we are given to understand that after a period of cold-shouldering by Faye, Husain manages to win her heart. Faye accepts Husain’s marriage proposal, but tells him that the nuptials can take place once after they complete their studies.

One day, things change all of a sudden in Husain’s life. There is a knifing inside the college campus and a Christian Nigerian is murdered by a Hizb activist. In Husain's own words, 'that murder – the direct result of the Hizb-ut-Tahir's ideas, served as a wake-up call for me.' This is very interesting in that, till then Husain has been working for a global Islamic state, to be achieved by the violent overthrow of sovereign states by military coups and the like. And then, when blood is spilt for the first time, he is distraught. Husain is all of 20 years old when this happens.

Husain’s grades suffer as a result of his Hizb activities. But after he becomes disillusioned with the Hizb-ut-Tahir, he works hard and manages to clear his A levels. Faye and Husain join the University of North London. Husain cuts himself off from the Hizb. But Husain is still not ready for a purely spiritual Islam even though he wants to 'flush out the Hizb within him'. He joins the Islamic Society of Britain and starts learning Arabic. He hopes that reading the Koran in original Arabic will teach him more about spiritual Islam. But he does not last very long at the ISB which has ties to Hamas and the Muslim Brotherhood.

Husain wants to lead a normal life. He votes in the 1997 general elections (for Labour and Tony Blair) despite a Hizb injunction that democratic elections are haram. At the age of 22, he applies to HSBC and gets a job. Within two years, he is managing portfolios worth half a million pounds. But Husain is not very happy with the way the Bank makes its money. Though HSBC does nothing illegal, Husain finds it to be too greedy, not always acting in its clients interests. Money making is given priority, something Husain cannot stomach.

In August 2000, Husain and Faye get married. They go to Turkey for their honeymoon. Husain admires the Sufism he finds in Turkey, but describes Kemal Ataturk a ‘secular fundamentalist’. Clearly, Husain is not in favour of a situation where religion is kept totally private and the separation between the Mosque and the State is absolute.

In the middle of 2001, Husain quits HSBC and downgrades to a clerical job in local government so that he can focus on his Koranic studies. In early 2002, Husain and Faye register themselves for part-time Arabic studies at the School of Oriental and African Studies at London University. They make plans to go to Syria to study Arabic. After 2 years in Syria, they move on and go to Saudi Arabia where Husain’s disillusionment with Islamism is complete. Between the time Husain arrives in Damascus and the time he leaves Saudi Arabia to return to England, he is totally transformed. It is as if a genie from Arabian Nights decides to make over Husain so that he is acceptable to mainstream British society. Husain talks of how in Damascus he and Faye start to prefer the company of non-Muslim Britons to other Muslims. Islam can only be a spiritual community, never a political bloc, Husain declares. Husain speaks approvingly of Tony Blair in a couple of places. He is happy when in August 2005, the government prosecutes an array of Islamic organisations. He cannot understand why Arabs hate Jews. The distinction between Zionism and Jews, which many Arabs make, is dismissed. Suicide bombings have only brought misery in Israel and Palestine, Husain emphasises. The flaws and injustices in Arab society, especially in Saudi Arabia, makes Husain open his eyes and realise how wrong he has been all along.

At Damascus, Husain and Faye teach English at the British council, which helps them support themselves. Syria is full of surprises. Husain is shocked to find Syrians travelling to Iraq to fight the coalition troops. Why should there be a Jihad in favour of a military dictator such as Saddam? Husain wonders The Islam practised in Syria is to Husain's liking. Women have a lot of freedom. Christianity is tolerated. Sufism is widely practised. When Husain spots a couple of Hizb activists at Damascus university, he actually tips off Syrian intelligence. The biggest surprise for Husain is when he realises that there is nothing like a global Muslim community. Regionalism dominates. People question his about his origin. He is brown skinned and can't be an European. He is not Arab. So what is he? He can't be just a Muslim. The Syrian's hate the Turks who once ruled over Syria. Syria and Egypt had once formed a single country – the United Arab Republic, which hadn't lasted very long.

In Saudi Arabia, racism is rampant, but luckily, Husain is able to pass for an Arab since he can speak good Arabic. Black Muslims are treated like dirt. Foreigners can never become Saudi citizens. Most Saudi men are lecherous and nasty towards women. Students at the British Council download pornography from the computers there, something not possible outside the British council. Many Saudis support Osama bin Laden, condone attacks on western targets and hate Israel. Husain quite rightly blames the policy of segregation practiced in Saudi Arabia for this state of Saudi society. At Mecca, the Wahhabi guards are abusive. They are unable to make a distinction between worshipping the Prophet (which is forbidden) and showing love for the Prophet, as a result of which they kick anyone who as much as bows at the Prophet's tomb.

When Husain returns to the UK, he starts missing Arab society. He is not entirely happy with the state of British society. How does one integrate into a society where the pub is the centre of all social life? Husain wonders. Not for Husain a society where he is forced to hide all traces of his religion as is done in Turkey or one where, even an iota of spirituality is treated with contempt, as in the UK.

Husain ends on a positive note. Each country has its version of Islam. Husain definitely approves of the milder versions practised in Malaysia and Syria and hopes that a British version of Islam will evolve soon.

It is hard not to feel some sympathy for Husain when one finishes the book. However, I will not be surprised if Husain writes another book where he talks of how disenchanted he is with a writer's life, how the publishing world is full of hypocrites and how he looks forward to a world where writers get published and sell their books without any hype or unnecessary marketing and publicity.