BENGALURU: For some time now, I had been preoccupied by thoughts about the incomparable life of a local man, Vavachan. His life enticed me, much more than the lives of Papillon or Raskolnikov or Chanthrakkaran, and held my attention like the stories of the blue fox or of Gulliver. Much later,
I took a bus back home, sat on a side seat, and opened the window shutter. It was drizzling outside. The other passengers sat huddled into their seats with the shutters closed, their faces reflecting the emptiness of their minds. Why else would they not insist on sitting on the side seats and, like little children, watch the scenery outside? If a person cannot enjoy the world unfold as they travel by bus, wonder why the trees, houses and people run backwards, it means they are bored with life, and are waiting for the arrival of the man riding the buffalo – Kaalan, the God of Death.
As the bus crossed Mannanam Bridge, my excitement increased. The scenery outside was something I saw on a daily basis, but I loved watching the rain-drenched contours of my local landscape. The bus stopped at Kuttomburam, and there he was in the bus shelter: Vavachan, the man with the big moustache. He had a folded towel over his head to keep the worst of the rain away. I had never seen the old-timer travel by bus. He walked everywhere, barefoot, no matter how far he had to go. The bus started moving. I shouted for it to stop and jumped out, making my fellow passengers lift the shutters and look out. Good, at least they were alive!
I persuaded Moustache to accompany me to the nearby toddy shop. We sat across from each other at a corner table, and ordered bottles of toddy fresh from the evening’s tapping, and a plate of fish gravy to lick between mouthfuls. ‘Tell me about the old days,’ I said. ‘What to say,’ Moustache said, smiling. ‘If folk from my childhood were to come back to life, they’d go crazy! Girls are riding scooters. People are going to Ernakulam in the morning and coming back the very same day. Night is like day with so much light in the houses and on the roads. And no one has kanji for their morning meal. They make special snacks!’
‘Indeed ... Everything has changed.’ ‘You know the bus road by the side of the canal near your house? That used to be a skinny little ditch.’ Moustache brought his hands close together. ‘And the pond – it used to be thrice its size. I used to catch snakeheads in it.’ ‘Really!’
I had to urinate, so I stepped outside, and stood looking at the fields swallowed by darkness. The toddy shop was almost empty. A devotional song played softly in one of the rooms. It was quite late, but I did not feel like taking out my phone and checking the time. I resolved to continue talking with Moustache even if it was past midnight. By listening attentively to someone else and getting to know their experiences, we get an opportunity to live another life, to cheat the director of the play that is our life who sent us on to the stage with just one role. Extracted from Moustache by S. Hareesh, translated from Malayalam by Jayasree Kalathil, with permission from HarperCollins Publishers India.