My Writing

My memoir: As Fathers Go

As Fathers Go

1st May, 1918

In the little town, Thalassery, on the shores of the Arabian Sea, the Southwest Monsoon rules as usual, and life is determined by its rhythms and the widespread death and devastation it brings every year. A World war is raging in Europe and parts of Asia, India is a reluctant participant and the Congress Party has had enough. It wants Swaraj now.
Raghavan, the young lawyer, is determined to bring up his daughter, Anandam, himself, having lost his child-bride to Tuberculosis when she was eighteen years old. According to him, the school cannot do enough to educate her for the twentieth century, and the women of his extended family are mired in superstition. So, he decides what she reads, teaches her to speak English fluently, introduces her to the religions in India, its music and history, and keeps her close. He fends off all the marriage proposals that come from the time she is fifteen years old. She is not going to be man-fodder like his wife.
Raghavan is also one of the Congress Party leaders, in their non-violent conflict with the British rulers, and goes to jail for two years, when Gandhi asks the Raj to Quit India. During this period he is reduced to sending heavily censored letters from jail to his daughter.
However, as she grows up, falls in and out of love, he loses his confidence. She, on the other hand, with all her reading, knows there is a world out there she wants to claim and the books are no longer enough. She gets married to get out of the little town and ends up in an empty relationship, in far off Ceylon. Eventually she finds her way out of the system and goes to Nigeria to start being part of that huge, magical world she has only known in books.
In a hide-bound Nair community, this odd father-and-daughter relationship is one that puzzles and annoys them.


Monday, 26 March 2018

Educating Daughter

When I was about fourteen years old, my father decided my school was just not doing enough; there was so much the school could not teach me. it was part of his mission to fill that gap, to educate, improve, and generally make me fit to manage the twentieth century, (and totally unfit to marry a local Nair man). I resisted that mission vigorously when he was not looking; I just wanted to be like all the other girls around, relaxed, uneducated man-fodder.

One of his original ideas was to train me to speak fluently and lucidly in public, in both Malayalam and English. Mmm. On a lazy Sunday morning when I should be picking green mangoes from the compound behind our house, he would summon me.

The lesson would begin on the front veranda of our house -- one prong of a many-pronged attack. This involved me standing six metres from him, on our walkway to the front-gate, and speaking on a topic he would set. He would stand on the veranda and instruct. I had five minutes to prepare. He was a demanding teacher, teaching me to ‘throw’ my voice, slow down, look at him, not mumble… Topics included Freedom, Non-violence, Books I liked and Why…

Father dictated what I read and supervised that process. When I finished reading a book he had instructed me to read, I had to do a little review in a note-book and show it to him. I often tried to copy the blurb at the back, but he found me out very quickly. ‘I am not looking for second-hand opinions,’ he said. ‘I want you to think for yourself – not trust others.’

With poetry, he was more demanding. I had to memorise four lines of the book of that week and recite it to him. Karuna by Kumaran Ashan was his favourite. Karuna was the story of Vasavadatha, a beautiful prostitute in Madhura. I enjoyed that story in verse; she sounded feisty. In Memoriam was another matter. For the rest of my life I have kept a safe distance from Tennyson. Including the bewildering Lady of Shallot.

Interestingly my reading speed in both Malayalam and English grew exponentially, and my memory blotted up anything that came along, without discrimination.

Our walk-way was a public place, and when I had to perform, passers-by would stare. For audience, I generally had the crows on the coconut tree, the ownerless cats going from house to house at the time the fish parted with their heads every morning, and two or three children from around the neighbourhood, who would stand and gape at this unusual girl and her even more unusual father. I hated all of this, but there was no escape. In school and college later, however, I became the star debater.

My father enticed me into his activities (all except swimming) and now, in my eighties, I find I have a variety of diversions to call upon when time hangs heavily, and I am looking to escape my writing. In old age, I have a large savings account of varied activities that I have banked, under duress, for my old age. Not to mention a greedy reading speed.

Gardening, which is a favourite occupation of mine, works every time. Though, at the time, I joined in the gardening, reluctantly. Achan usually planted red spinach, green spinach, aubergine, beans and Okra. There were also the climbing beans, the centre-piece of the garden. He and his best friend had an ongoing competition about whose beans did the best each year.

My father would send me out to water the vegetable-patch every evening in the summer. Water had to be drawn from the well and carried in pots to the garden in front of the house. I was supposed to join the young boy who was our gofor, as it wouldn’t be fair to expect him to do it all on his own; also, I should spend hours weeding with him, when I would rather just be. I was a teen ager then, but Achan made no concessions to the alternate world of teens, which my granddaughter, Asha, now inhabits with such panache.

I would hitch up my ankle-length skirt, along with my reluctance and draw water from our well, tugging at the rope-and-pulley system. Physical exertion was meant to be ennobling!  But, all it did for me was drench me from waist down. My skirt would start getting entangled in my legs; periodically, I would need to stop and wring the water from the bottom of it. Neighbours and family looked on in astonishment in those years at this father-and-daughter team; girls were not meant to be going everywhere with fathers. And fathers, as the alpha males in the house, were not meant to take any notice of daughters. Also, digging, weeding, watering, were not occupations of middle-class females. You had maids and helpers for that, didn’t you? What was Vakil’s daughter doing, joining in with the garden-boy?

The garden boy, was a priceless urchin. He could disappear into thin air if he heard my father’s footsteps approaching, with what he imagined was instructions about the watering. I knew where to find him though he changed his hidey-holes on a regular basis.

                ‘Don’t want to get your skirt wet, do you?’ he’d ask innocently. ‘We could do it early tomorrow morning before your bath.’

There were in fact a few rules in our house regarding house-boys. No shouting at them and don’t ask them to do anything you are not willing to do yourself. If they were young they had to be fed when the children of the house were fed. I believe he adopted all of this from Mahatma Gandhi; in practice the women who ran the kitchen ignored him with impunity because he never went anywhere near the kitchen. He had a little hand-bell near him to summon the kitchen for tea or coffee and electric bells strategically placed on the veranda and bedroom walls to do the same.

My Child-Mother

In 1933, my mother, Janaki, all of fourteen years old, got engaged to my quicksilver father, Raghavan. Quicksilver, because of his sudden changing moods and incessant pursuit of goals he set himself – reading, swimming in the sea, gardening, walking… My achan (father) was somewhat older than my Amma and better educated, naturally. She barely reached standard nine before she was offered to my father’s family. What did education have to do with females? Achan started in the local Government Brennen College, which provided for only two years of post-school education after matriculation, then called school-finals. F A, the qualification was called, Fellow of Arts.  About the standard of British A levels.To most men in that small town, Thalassery, finals would have meant just that. Time to stop all that school nonsense and start earning a living. The women, in those days didn’t get that far. The Nairs lived off their lands and didn’t aspire to do much with their lives. Malayalam enjoys a phonetic alphabet, which meant once you learned to read and write the fifty-four squiggles, you were literate by definition. Men and women attended the first two or three years in local one-room primary schools and became ‘literate.’ All the women in our family, of my father’s generation, could read and write. But ‘educated’ they were not.       My father and a few others also attended these thatched, one-room village schools where one teacher taught all the children, cane in hand. The only difference with my father and two of his friends from the same village was that they decided to walk the four miles to town to attend the next level of education, and then the next.        These three were the first three young men from his village, Kodiyeri, who graduated. (In my father’s family, I was the first woman who went to college.) He would therefore have been considered a good catch in the marriage market. There were a few hiccups – Achan was the kind of man who would instigate hiccups whatever he did and wherever he went.        At the time, early twentieth century, most of the lecturers in Brennen College, Thalassery, were British, mainly Scottish. The story goes that my father took umbrage at an imagined insult, made by the lecturer, which involved the phrase, ‘your father.’ I gathered my father was late to the lecture. The lecturer, from another culture, would have had no way of knowing that you simply did not use that phrase ‘your father’ contemptuously, as part of an admonition, anywhere in Kerala. When my father tried to explain why he was late, the lecturer retorted, ‘I am not interested in your father or your grandfather.’ My father apparently staged a walk-out, and being who he was, it would have been a dramatic exit. Whereupon two of his friends also walked out behind him, in support. They had started an incident, which would lead to life-changing events in all three lives. Indeed, one of them never went back to his studies.          All three, to begin with, were suspended from the College. They could be reinstated if they offered a public apology. Two of them refused, the other apologised and returned to his studies. Later, my father admitted to me in passing, that in that atmosphere of nascent and aggressive nationalism, the young men were looking out for anything they could represent as a grievance.  The institution was a Government College and no other college in the State of Madras would offer my father a place to continue his studies. (This Brennen college was established by Edward Brennen, an Englishman, who worked in Thalassery Port and made his home in Thalassery in the late nineteenth century.) It took my father a long time, to be accepted by any college, and in the end, it was a private institution in far off Madanapalle, in Andhra State, which offered him sanctuary, and hope.The Theosophical College in Madanapalle was established in the name of Annie Besant. (Annie Besant, an Irish woman, devoted her life, fruitlessly as it turned out, to the idea of a caste-less Indian society. She helped establish the Benares Hindu University and worked tirelessly to promote Indian culture. She was also the president of the Congress Party in India in 1917, a century ago.)  Here, my father completed his degree in History. He told me it was a harsh life; he had to go to College, far from home, in a place where he had to rent accommodation, and pay for train-travel to and from his home. He went home only for the summer holidays, once a year.He settled into a corner of the veranda of a local house for a small rent. They let him cook his daily rice and dhal in that corner, and he bathed by diving into the well in the compound. Apparently, he would put his rice and dhal in one pot, which was all the kitchen utensils he possessed, and go off for a bath while the food cooked. He told me a story of how, once, he got winded in his dive and couldn’t surface for a while. His food was burnt to cinder by the time he managed to come up and get to his pot.His education was hard come-by. There is a story in the family that he went on hunger-strike for a week to persuade his impecunious parent to fund his law degree. Apparently, Achachan (paternal grandfather) had to sell his ancestral home to finance my father’s ambitions. Apocryphal or not, I could imagine his relentless pursuit of his goal; he was a stubborn man.            After he graduated, he did a law degree in Madras (now Chennai in Tamil Nadu). There was also professional training in Thiruvananthapuram, in Kerala, for a year, before he could practise law in his hometown. He was then twenty-six years old. Malayalam was his mother-tongue, as is mine, but in Madras and Madanappalle he learned a smattering of Tamil and Telungu and became fluent in the English language, representing his college at many debates and winning silver medals and other accolades.When I was about sixteen years old I came across a horde of medals in a tin box in his chest of drawers; Achan said I could pick one and put it on a chain if I wished. I got the local goldsmith to attach it to my necklace and displayed this heart-shaped medal proudly on my person.‘Why do you spoil your nice gold chain with this cheap pendant?’ my friends asked. I described with pride how I came by that silver locket. I still have it in my jewel box and the medals.The languages my father acquired in Madras and Madanapalle would stand him in good stead when he was in prison in Vellore, and later Tanjore, in the war years. The freedom fighters immured in those prisons were from all over India and he had to become polyglot in a hurry. It was British policy to send the men as far away from their homes as possible, preferably to another state – this would prevent them from fraternising with the warders and other prisoners. None of this worked of course. When Andaman Islands were occupied by the Japanese, the prisoners were informed by the warders. The prisoners sneaked newspapers into the wards when something momentous happened, so the inmates knew all about the course of the freedom struggle, as well the armed struggle going on the Far East and in Europe at that time.





http://anandnair-fireflies.blogspot.co.uk/2018/03/..


.This post is going to be a little difficult -- and different. These are the first few pages of my memoirs, which I have provisionally titled AS FATHERS GO, because the most significant person in that time of my childhood, 1935 - 1950 was my unusual, effervescent father who loved the whole world.

 And made me into a different kind of Malayalee girl.


A few pages will be posted at the end of each week. Here we go:




1



Thalassery -- A verdant, little, coastal town, tucked away in the South-Westerncorner of India along the shores of the Arabian Sea. If you walk a long, long way north, hugging the coast you will finally reach Mumbai (formerly Bombay.) If, instead, you walk in the opposite direction, you will end up in the Indian Ocean, quite quickly, somewhere near Sri Lanka

I always thought that Kerala, our state, was where the rain was born. When I travelled from Chennai to Thalassery, by the old Madras Mail, (so called because it delivered our mail -- why else! -- all the way from the east coast, at just after mid-day, every day) I would see how the terrain changed from barren brown to rich green as we came out of the tunnel, through the Western Ghats. I’d press my eager head into the horizontal bars of the train window, and breathe deep of that familiar smell of wet vegetation and home; with it I would also take in the particles of soot and ash that came out of the front of the steam engine, making my eyes itch and my hair gritty.

Well before the fears of global warming and consequent flooding, the monsoons arrived with predictable regularity each year, at the end of June, and swept away a few houses nestling precariously on the top of river-bunds. There was no welfare state as such, so the community, neighbours, had to step in. After several days of unrelenting downpour, the waters would rise and spread.

My father’s sister would have spent the whole month of Karkadagam, ( the Malayalam month that falls between the middle of July and the middle of August known for disease, death and devastation,) chanting prayers to ward off the disasters. During this period, the streak of bhasmam (sacred ash) on her forehead got a little longer and thicker, just in case her devotion was in any way, inadequate,

Generally smallpox, chickenpox, typhoid and plague, arrived in the rainy season. The old women in the house, whose duty it was to guard against all evils that could be fended off with prayer and incantation read out of the holy book, Bhagavatham, at dusk and dawn, in front of the nilavilakku, the sacred lamp.

But, of course, chickenpox ignored the holy chants and spread through the house and went. No one was too concerned as chicken pox didn’t usually kill. It lingered with one person or another and all of us in the house waited for it to strike. It was a community illness in that it generally spread through a whole neighbourhood before moving on.

Our extended household had three children: myself and my father’s brother’s children, Mani and Appu, Mani six months older and Appu four years older. My father’s niece, Nani, father’s sister whom I called Ammamma  (mother’s mother) and father’s mother, Achamma, also lived there. So Chicken pox had quite a haul.

Achamma always organised her second line of defence when disease got close – as in next door. She kept coconut shells filled with a cow-dung solution along both sides of our walkway to the front gate. This was supposed to ward off Mariamma, the evil goddess of smallpox. Maybe the same Goddess did duty for chickenpox too. I had a mental image of this vile witch, grotesque and pock-marked. She haunted my dreams. She was always hanging about our front gate, working her way up to the house.

Early in the morning every day, I would see Achamma, bent like a question mark, making her way slowly down the walk-way to the gate, checking the coconut shells. Her hair, in old age, had become scant and short, just shoulder-length, and it was nearly blonde; it looked golden when it caught the sun, and sometimes I would tease her calling her ‘Madamma’ (white woman) because of the colour of her hair.

Achamma had very little energy – she was close to seventy-five years old at a time when people in India celebrated shashtipoorthy, the birthday when you reached sixty years. Indians, in those days had no durability beyond forty years. Thirty-five was middle-aged, fifty was old. So whatever she was doing would consume all her effort and she would not see anything else. She didn’t take any notice of me anyway; she was totally devoid of humour. Also, she had no time for girls, only boys counted.

In any case, Achamma had lost her eldest son to smallpox when he was twenty-one years old. So she couldn’t be reassured. She inspected the chickenpox rash on Nani’s forehead daily and declared some of them were in fact smallpox pustules.

Smallpox actually kept its distance from the house because we had all been vaccinated, with those long-handled pen-shaped needles, the prick of which was pure agony. The end was shaped like a sharp circular screw, and it had to be turned through an excruciating three-hundred-and sixty degrees as the vaccine was released.  It would leave an angry, round wound in the forearm where it was administered, which hopefully would suppurate and declare the vaccination effective.  And we, children, would examine the mark daily, praying for it to get inflamed; if it didn’t we would have to be vaccinated again. Achamma had no faith in any of that and refused to be vaccinated.

Smallpox died out in India gradually as the vaccinations reached the villages and all the schools. In my generation, no one died of smallpox. My uncle and a few women in our family had pitted faces from smallpox; the deaths were random – some in any household survived with scarred faces, others died. Of my father’s two brothers, the eldest died and the younger survived with a pock-marked face.

In the period, 1941 to 1947, I got measles twice. Measles was taken lightly, probably because it didn’t kill as many people as the other diseases did. If you lost an eye, it was probably because you had neglected the strict diet prescribed by the local medicine man. The second time a rash appeared on me, Ammamma kept saying it could not be measles, measles never strikes the same person twice.

The vaidyan (the local medicine man), came to look at my measles-like rash and confirmed measles; he prescribed a herbal remedy called a Kashayam.  He wrote a long list of herbs and roots, which would be boiled in water and left overnight to steep in a clay pot. I had to drink it three times a day; getting it down was quite a feat. It tasted like boiled, pulped tree, mixed with clay. Ammamma, my father’s sister, would give me a block of vellam (unrefined brown sugar) to help it to go down.

And then there was pathyam – a rigorous protocol of ‘don’t eats.’ Anything cooked in oil was taboo; indeed the household was discouraged from cooking any food in fat because it would slow the cure and help the disease to spread to others.

During 1942, there were rumours of cholera in town. There did not appear to be any treatment for it. Cholera killed large numbers, mainly from the poorest parts of Thalassery. Nobody boiled drinking water in those days. Our water came from the well in our house, which was home to several frogs. Occasionally a rat might die in there, and we had to sterilise the water with crystals of Potassium Permanganate. Our water would be light pink water for a few days, and after three days the well would be declared harmless.

When I went to Sierra Leone, on behalf of the British Council, in 1983, the initial briefing document insisted I had to boil every drop of water I drank, and all vegetables, including salad leaves, had to be cooked. Needless to say I found all this a bit extreme. (But then, they also asked me to attend a weekend of pre-post briefing in a holiday home in Kent, to learn about how to live in the tropics. A woman who had spent some years working in Africa would be there to induct us. I had half a mind to go for the break and a laugh, if nothing else, but my conscience was stern, so I didn’t.)

I boiled the water as I had been instructed, but definitely did not cook my salads. Today, I drink water out of the taps in England, but many of my friends remind me about lead in the old pipes. When the quotidian life gets too complicated, my instinct is to simplify. I am a disciple of Thoreau, who taught me to ‘Simplify, Simplify.’

 As I was growing up in Thalassery, in the forties, it seemed to me that every household lived with various illnesses; children were falling ill frequently and whether they would live or not appears to have been a matter of luck. When a child is born in Kerala, the time and day are noted down by the astrologer in what is known as a charthu. A horoscope is then developed from this initial note after five years, the assumption being that a child’s existence until then is so precarious, fate should not be tempted with an assumption of a long life.

In the house to the right of ours, there were many children and there was always illness of one kind or another. In one year, when I was eight years old, a child in that house coughed for long spells in the night, when the neighbourhood was asleep. I knew that boy because his older sister was my age and I occasionally played with her. We could hear him clearly in the night when the little traffic in that small town ceased. It was an agonising cough that went on for hours keeping me up in the small hours of the night; it would stop for a minute sometimes, making me believe the little boy was now over that coughing fit; then it would start again. That disease lingered in our neighbour’s house for many months going from one child to another.

Appu, my cousin, contracted typhoid, when he was eleven years old. He was ill for three weeks, recovered, and had a relapse. Appu was prescribed a diet of loose-jacket oranges and pears when he stared recovering and this was good news for me. We girls, Mani and I, were meant to keep our distance and respect the quarantine, but the fruit was there to take. Appu handed it to us through the wooden window slats.

When Appu had a relapse and became rake thin, Achan (father) took to going into the sick-room straight from the Courts after work, dumping his gown on the floor outside. He cried, which was the most frightening thing of all, and Appu cried with him. There were no antibiotics then. Appu, recovered after a long two months and the rest of us escaped.

When he recovered, Appu was a shadow of himself. A wraith-like boy with the prominent front teeth even more prominent on his skeletal face. For many months after, Appu had to drink tonics to return him to the sprightly, naughty boy that he had been.

The scourge of those times, however, was Bubonic Plague. It was rare. Across from us was a large, half-finished house set in a big garden, with a pond next to it.  The man who started building that ambitious house had gone to Malaysia just before the beginning of the Second World War in the Far East and didn’t return till the fifties. In his absence, vagrants took the place over and used it for all the chicaneries usually indulged in by young men looking for easy excitement with not much money. During the period when the owner was languishing in Singapore, someone had hung himself from the rafters of the porch, so locals, other than the young gangs, gave the place a wide berth, saying the ghost of the man who committed suicide haunted the house.

Plague, when it came, lingered in that shell of a house for many months. A family of migrants lived there when the vagrants abdicated for other pastures; they lived in the porch, cooked on three-stone fires and washed in the pond in the compound. There were two men in the family, who looked like brothers, two young women and many children, all under the age of ten. Often the women came to our house, making signs asking for old clothes, sometimes food. Clearly, they were Indian, but they didn’t speak our language and we couldn’t guess where they had come from.

Mani and I were strictly forbidden from going to the house because of the pond, but we couldn’t resist; we would sneak off when no one was watching and stare at the group. The women would smile and call out to us, but the language frustrated us, so we just hung about. However when the family started dying the women would chase us away.

Plague killed off the family one by one. There was no money for funerals and no place to bury the dead, so the municipal shit cart would come and carry the bodies away; Mani and I watched through our windows and cried when the municipal cart came to take the little bodies away.

Those children never had any kind of life. They didn’t look that different from us, except that their faces and clothes were dirty and the children didn’t seem to go to school. When the family had been reduced to just the father and a young girl they abandoned their broken clay pots and their infected clothes and just walked away. One morning they were not there. A few days later, a man from the Municipality came around to spray Phenyl on the premises. The cart had T M C in large letters on its side – Thalassery Municipal Council. We called it theetam, moothram, kashtam --  shit, piss and rubbish.


I Write Blogs-- whenever, and only whenever, I feel strongly about something. 

Born and bred in Kerala, I am left-of-left in my political and social attitudes. But for me, the end does not justify the means.

I am a Corbynista and await the time when an honest politician is at the head of our benighted government.

My latest blog, A SHORT HISTORY OF WASTE  was on WASTE, obviously -- plastic waste. You can read it on the blog page here or on my blog site anandnair-fireflies.blogspot.com

I write the odd short story or flash fiction, more by way of flexing a different set of writing muscles. 

You can find one titled Fragments on this page.

More to follow if this goes down well.



Fragments

Anand Nair

I wish they wouldn’t come; dinner will be late again, because they’ll sit and talk --  and talk.

     Who are these people anyway? The man has an enormous belly above his dothi line. The dothi is white and starched, making a swishing sound as he walks. The leg showing is hairy like a gorilla, and he is panting slightly.

     The young girl with him is looking around. She catches my eyes and smiles. There is mischief behind that grin, as though she knows what I am thinking.

     I don’t know what I am thinking a great deal of the time. So how can she? My brain is splintering.

     And then, most days, I can’t get to sleep. I stare at the cobwebs on the ceiling till the muezzin from the mosque, from the other side of the river, begins his call to prayer, early in the morning.

     All the sorrows of the world are in his song, drifting in on the wind and the waters. It is still dark when he finishes. The temple nearby will soon follow with its devotional chants. Almost in competition. Then I know our household will wake up soon and Seetha will bring me my morning coffee in a steel tumbler. I will feel less alone…

     Forget all that; I’ll look at the visitors. And that girl behind, she reminds me of something or somewhere. It will come to me in a moment. I feel I might like that girl.

     ‘Amma’ my daughter-in-law, Seetha, says, ‘Kamala is here to see you. With Raju.’

‘Raju, who is that?’

‘Your son.’

The fat man sighs and sits down near me. I wish he wouldn’t get so close. I can smell cigarettes on him. And Bryl Cream.

‘Something is wrong and the wrong is me.

‘I don’t know a Raju,’ I say. ‘Who is this old man?’ I ask turning to Seetha.

     ‘This old man is not my son,’ I say firmly. What nonsense! ‘I have a son called Raju, but he is young.’

 ‘Ammey,’ the man says; he seems sad. ‘Not anymore,’ he mumbles.

‘And this girl?’ I ask.

 Pretty girl, I think. Reminds me of someone.

‘Like you, Ammey,’ the old man says. ‘Your granddaughter --  looks like you.’

     And then I get it -- briefly. Hers is the face I used to see in the mirror every morning. Long ago, when I looked close to put that thing in my eyes. That black thing, which made my eyes pretty.

Seetha is hovering, I see.

‘Bring some…’  I say. Best not to name things these days.

‘Tea, she means.’ The man says. Why does he sound so sad?

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 I Write Blogs-- whenever, and only whenever, I feel strongly about something. 

Born and bred in Kerala, I am left-of-left in my political and social attitudes. But for me, the end does not justify the means.

I am a Corbynista and await the time when an honest politician is at the head of our benighted government.

My latest blog, A SHORT HISTORY OF WASTE  was on WASTE, obviously -- plastic waste. You can read it on the blog page here or on my blog site anandnair-fireflies.blogspot.com

I write the odd short story or flash fiction, more by way of flexing a different set of writing muscles. 

You can find one titled Fragments on this page.

More to follow if this goes down well.

Fragments

Anand Nair

I wish they wouldn’t come; dinner will be late again, because they’ll sit and talk --  and talk.

     Who are these people anyway? The man has an enormous belly above his dothi line. The dothi is white and starched, making a swishing sound as he walks. The leg showing is hairy like a gorilla, and he is panting slightly.

     The young girl with him is looking around. She catches my eyes and smiles. There is mischief behind that grin, as though she knows what I am thinking.

     I don’t know what I am thinking a great deal of the time. So how can she? My brain is splintering.

     And then, most days, I can’t get to sleep. I stare at the cobwebs on the ceiling till the muezzin from the mosque, from the other side of the river, begins his call to prayer, early in the morning.

     All the sorrows of the world are in his song, drifting in on the wind and the waters. It is still dark when he finishes. The temple nearby will soon follow with its devotional chants. Almost in competition. Then I know our household will wake up soon and Seetha will bring me my morning coffee in a steel tumbler. I will feel less alone…

     Forget all that; I’ll look at the visitors. And that girl behind, she reminds me of something or somewhere. It will come to me in a moment. I feel I might like that girl.

     ‘Amma’ my daughter-in-law, Seetha, says, ‘Kamala is here to see you. With Raju.’

‘Raju, who is that?’

‘Your son.’

The fat man sighs and sits down near me. I wish he wouldn’t get so close. I can smell cigarettes on him. And Bryl Cream.

‘Something is wrong and the wrong is me.

‘I don’t know a Raju,’ I say. ‘Who is this old man?’ I ask turning to Seetha.

     ‘This old man is not my son,’ I say firmly. What nonsense! ‘I have a son called Raju, but he is young.’

 ‘Ammey,’ the man says; he seems sad. ‘Not anymore,’ he mumbles.

‘And this girl?’ I ask.

 Pretty girl, I think. Reminds me of someone.

‘Like you, Ammey,’ the old man says. ‘Your granddaughter --  looks like you.’

     And then I get it -- briefly. Hers is the face I used to see in the mirror every morning. Long ago, when I looked close to put that thing in my eyes. That black thing, which made my eyes pretty.

Seetha is hovering, I see.

‘Bring some…’  I say. Best not to name things these days.

‘Tea, she means.’ The man says. Why does he sound so sad?



I Write Blogs-- whenever, and only whenever, I feel strongly about something. 

Born and bred in Kerala, I am left-of-left in my political and social attitudes. But for me, the end does not justify the means.

I am a Corbynista and await the time when an honest politician is at the head of our benighted government.

My latest blog, A SHORT HISTORY OF WASTE  was on WASTE, obviously -- plastic waste. You can read it on the blog page here or on my blog site anandnair-fireflies.blogspot.com

I write the odd short story or flash fiction, more by way of flexing a different set of writing muscles. 

You can find one titled Fragments on this page.

More to follow if this goes down well.


Fragments

Anand Nair

I wish they wouldn’t come; dinner will be late again, because they’ll sit and talk --  and talk.

     Who are these people anyway? The man has an enormous belly above his dothi line. The dothi is white and starched, making a swishing sound as he walks. The leg showing is hairy like a gorilla, and he is panting slightly.

     The young girl with him is looking around. She catches my eyes and smiles. There is mischief behind that grin, as though she knows what I am thinking.

     I don’t know what I am thinking a great deal of the time. So how can she? My brain is splintering.

     And then, most days, I can’t get to sleep. I stare at the cobwebs on the ceiling till the muezzin from the mosque, from the other side of the river, begins his call to prayer, early in the morning.

     All the sorrows of the world are in his song, drifting in on the wind and the waters. It is still dark when he finishes. The temple nearby will soon follow with its devotional chants. Almost in competition. Then I know our household will wake up soon and Seetha will bring me my morning coffee in a steel tumbler. I will feel less alone…

     Forget all that; I’ll look at the visitors. And that girl behind, she reminds me of something or somewhere. It will come to me in a moment. I feel I might like that girl.

     ‘Amma’ my daughter-in-law, Seetha, says, ‘Kamala is here to see you. With Raju.’

‘Raju, who is that?’

‘Your son.’

The fat man sighs and sits down near me. I wish he wouldn’t get so close. I can smell cigarettes on him. And Bryl Cream.

‘Something is wrong and the wrong is me.

‘I don’t know a Raju,’ I say. ‘Who is this old man?’ I ask turning to Seetha.

     ‘This old man is not my son,’ I say firmly. What nonsense! ‘I have a son called Raju, but he is young.’

 ‘Ammey,’ the man says; he seems sad. ‘Not anymore,’ he mumbles.

‘And this girl?’ I ask.

 Pretty girl, I think. Reminds me of someone.

‘Like you, Ammey,’ the old man says. ‘Your granddaughter --  looks like you.’

     And then I get it -- briefly. Hers is the face I used to see in the mirror every morning. Long ago, when I looked close to put that thing in my eyes. That black thing, which made my eyes pretty.

Seetha is hovering, I see.

‘Bring some…’  I say. Best not to name things these days.

‘Tea, she means.’ The man says. Why does he sound so sad?