Short Story: Kamala

The dusty train wearily pulled into the railway station. The rushing gray blur slowly came into focus to became a slategray platform, and was instantly packed with a swarming hive of humanity. Porters in red uniforms, chai-wallahs with sooty black kettles in one hand and red-orange matkas in the other, and reedy boys hauling grimy thermocol iceboxes rushed into the train like pirates commandeering a three-Master. On the platform below roamed jaal-muri chefs balancing bags of puffed rice and varieties of spices in reused malt tins, and hawkers vending day-old newspapers in the curvaceous script of the local vernacular. The midday heat was oppressive; the air over the heads shimmered and shimmied. I pushed my way through the crowds blocking the carriage exit, stepped onto the platform and briskly moved away from the frantic eddies of commerce. Beckoning for a chai, I lit a cigarette and sucked deeply. I was beginning to feel myself again. I had been forewarned that the single-gauge locos on these remote routes often broke down and for long periods. Beside the platform ran a short wall with crudely stuck posters of local political parties and rail union factions; I leaned against it warily sniffing for any wafts of stale urine. So far the journey had been a waste. Twenty one days on the move and yet my journal lay untouched. 

From the corner of my eye I noticed a flower girl, around ten, approaching me cautiously. In her arms was a large wicker basket with coils of jasmine, bunches of marigolds, and clusters of loose flowers. 

"For the missus, sir?" she squeaked, offering me her basket. 

"I am traveling alone," I replied, arching to blow the smoke away from her flowers. 

My pidgin Hindi, that had miraculously survived my years in the US, was helping me get by on this journey. Her face fell. She turned and ambled towards the twisting orbs of humanity gathered at every entrance to the train. A brief flash of pink-white from her basket caught my eye. 

"Wait! I will take a lotus," I shouted after her. She swiveled, and smiled. 

The lotus. Kamala. Kamala Cafe. It came into my life when I least expected it; busy as I was smoking pot and chasing undergraduate girls. The idea gripped me, bewitched me, demented me. For four months I wrote, neglecting grades, personal hygiene, and diet. On Pepsi and pizza I wrote about that fantastical cafe in Ceylon where artists and socialites gathered for fine dining, exotic conversations, and illicit affairs. In unwashed slacks I wrote about the tuxedo-clad men and velvet-frocked women carousing and conspiring great mischief in the cafe's dance hall. Bunking classes and examinations I wrote about the occult symbols that appeared in its kitchen and the disappearances of journalists that went snooping. Ignoring friends and family I wrote about Kamala, my heroine, arriving at this eponymous cafe and getting swept into its whirlwind of mysteries behind a thin veneer of lively, yet comforting, stasis. The publishing was easy. The acclaim was universal. Copies flew off the shelves, and awards piled up in my tiny living room. 

"The freshest voice in fiction...", 

"An Indian voice shining through an international prism..."

"The normal and the abnormal twist and turn passionately in this dazzling debut..."

The book agents arrived unbeckoned, each advising to wait a different amount of time before publishing my next. The sophomore slump is crucial to avoid, they all said. Don't wait over two years, they all said. 

Five years passed, and there had not been a second book. The litterateurs that had first turned green with envy, gradually went purple with rage, then orange with vindication, then white with sympathy, and finally colorless with disdain. The agents did not call anymore. Is it better to have had and lost than never had it at all? No. 

"Reflecting self-harm tendencies...", "... uncharitable disposition towards self...", ran the shrink notes. Life became an amorphous blob; days merging with nights, faces merging with bodies, forced starvation merging with gluttonous food binges, extreme loneliness merging with drugged sexual escapades, until the phone rang one day and sympathetic voice from the distant past spoke into the dark recesses of my mind, "You need a change... take a trip... go back to India for a while... chase experiences..." That advise rang true where so many others had failed and I flew to India the next day.

India. Why didn't I think of it earlier? Like a window cracked open in a fetid room that invites in the afternoon sun, the thought of India swept inside my drug-addled mind and filled me with a cautious hope. Even when I flew out of India as a twelve year old, sitting in the middle seat between my parents, I knew my life would forever be tied to her tropical shores and untamed cultures. America, with her plastic gizmos and jingoistic fervors tries to engulf every pitiful Indian immigrant that lands on her shores, but pungent India always emerges from the cracks of the subconscious and reclaims her own. Graft an Indian out of India and eventually he will shed saps of India, bloom flowers of India, and bear the oversweet fruits of India. My amateurish short stories in high school were set in India. My first attempt at the novel, discarded after 40,000 words, was about an Indian searching for India in un-Indian places. Kamala Cafe was set in Ceylon, but its characters, occults, mysteries, and heroine were all taken from India. India, with her teeming masses, and uncountable stories would provide the story for my next book; that I hoped. 

"Wild flower, sir. Very fragrant," the girl said, handing me an unfurled lotus from her basket. 

"Does this grow around here?" I asked.

"Yes sir, in the pond near my village. Full of lotuses this time of year!"

"Can I see this pond?" I blurted before the oddness of the request became apparent. Kamala. Could it be a sign?

"It's half hour by bullock cart, sir. Ask for Ramdaspur village. You can get a cart outside the station else I can take you after I sell all my flowers," she mumbled, her eyes searching constantly for potential customers.

I felt an immense urge to see the wild lotuses in full bloom. The grumbling in the train had suggested the repairs would take all day. Many passengers had stepped out for a walk around town. I could safely be back in time to catch the train or worst case, take the next one; the station seemed busy enough. I picked up my backpack and went hunting for a cart. 

"You want to go to Ramdaspur to see lotuses?" the buffalo cart driver eyed me suspiciously. 

"Yes."

"Why? You don't have lotuses where you come from?"

"We do, but not much."

"Your accent is weird. Where are you from?"

"Doesn't concern you."

He grumbled in his local tongue, and said, "Rs. 200. I won't get a fare back from that shit-place." 

"OK."

I knew I was being swindled; I hoped the lotuses would be worth it.

The ride was bumpy. After his initial interrogation, my driver went silent chewing a stalk of grass. We left behind the trappings of what had seemed a small town and entered into densely cultivated fields. After a long, drowsy ride, a dot on the horizon slowly became a small cluster of mud-brick homes. 

"Ramdaspur," my driver stated, grabbed the cash from my hand and didn't even wait for me to disembark before turning the cart around. Only after he had retreated beyond calling distance that I realized I may not find another cart from this remote village. 

I turned towards the mud homes. The village seemed empty, the men presumably away at their fields. Some faces peeked from doorways and some windows were quickly shut. A dirty boy in tattered briefs emerged from one of the homes and began speaking in his language, gesturing with his hands towards the direction I had come from.

"I have come to see your pond," I said in my slow Hindi which the boy didn't seem to understand.

"Pond. Water," I said gesturing the universal symbol of a drink to convey my search for the village pond.

The boy grunted, went back inside, and emerged with an earthen vessel with some water that had some stuff floating in it. I eyed the water uneasily; afraid of offending him by refusing this first hospitable gesture. Remembering the flower the girl sold me, I took it out from my pocket and held it to the boy.

"Lotus. Kamal. I want to see the lotuses."

Recognition dawned on his face and he gestured towards the other end of the village, down the single street that wound through it. The road led past the village and into a densely wooded cluster of trees that remained cool and dark even in the midday sun.  Within this cluster emerged the small pond. Despite the shade, the thirsty sun had managed to lap up most of its water, what remained was covered – nay, infested – with lotuses. Layers upon layers of the green leaves spread over every inch of the pond, pockmarked occasionally with the most delicate pink-white blooms. I felt hugged by a gentle breeze carrying the heady smells of the flowers and the surrounding vegetation. A few squirrels scurried down from their tree-homes and began lapping around me. From one end of the woods a wave of cawing picked up. Whenever the breeze briefly blowed, the flowers would gracefully glide back and forth on their watery stage putting on a dance. It was a place of incredible beauty – an oasis of small delights amidst a burning world. 

The lotus. Kamal. The Indian obsession with this flower is legendary. When all similes failed at capturing the ethereal beauty of Krishna's eyes or Sita's lips, the ancient bards turned to the humble lotus. When confronted with the daunting challenge of demonstrating detached attachment, a cornerstone of their philosophy, the Vedic philosophers pointed at the lotus and the water on its leaves. 

"Do you like the flowers?"

The Hindi sentence snapped me out of my reveries. I noticed an old man with a flowing white beard in a clean kurta standing behind me. 

"Yes. They are beautiful."

"We don't get many visitors in our village, especially to see our flowers," he smiled revealing several missing teeth. I presumed the boy had informed him about the village's strange visitor on his stranger quest. 

"My train broke down at the town station. I was told the lotuses here are beautiful. I thought I'll make a trip of it." 

"Our lotuses are the most beautiful. Where have you come from?"

"America."

"America?" his eyes widened in shock. Even in surprise his demeanor retained an affability that instantly put me to ease. "What brought you to our country?"

"Just traveling. I am a writer. I am searching for ideas for my next book. "

"Did you find any?" he asked with a glint in his eye. 

"Not really," I paused for a bit and continued, "it has been a while since I wrote anything. I thought your lotuses might help me write again." My honesty puzzled me. Perhaps the thought that I would never meet this man again allowed me to shed my usual filters.  

"If all you needed was a lotus to write your next book, you need not have come all this way. The lotus is everywhere," he smiled. 

I returned his smile, not caring to explain that not every part of the world was tropical. 

"You don't believe me? What is Lord Krishna's eye? A lotus. Where is God? He is everywhere. Ergo the lotus is everywhere," the man burst into halting laughter at his own wisecrack.

"Do you know who planted these lotuses?" I asked, hastily seeking to avoid a sermon. 

"The lotuses were here before we came, and they will be here long after we are gone. They can survive through anything, even humans. Do you know? Every year each plant sheds thousands of seeds to the bottom of the pond. Most get eaten by fishes, providing life to so many. The few that remain wait patiently for the right time to germinate. Some wait for days, some for months, and some for years. A few even wait a thousand years. Why does one seed wait so long while others sprouted earlier? Because it knew that what was right for others was not right for itself. Why rush, it asked."

He walked up to a tree and sat on a large, raised root, beckoning me to sit beside him. I walked up to him and sat on a rock by the tree. 

He continued, "When one seed didn't germinate for so long, while all of its siblings did, did it ever question its location? Did it pick up and travel all over the world to find a better place to germinate? No. It remained where it was, knowing that its time will come. Only a restless mind expects solace in movement. The lotus is calm." 

"It is a lotus's nature to wait and germinate. Perhaps it is not my nature to write, which is why I couldn't do it in America," I interjected. 

"Maybe. No matter how hard it tries a lotus cannot any more of a lily and equally it cannot become any less of a lotus. If you are a writer, you cannot stop from being one even if it takes a long time to germinate. Why the rush?" he asked smiling. 

Both of us sat in silence for a few minutes. The breeze picked up again and brought with it the smells of dung and cooking from the village. Unbeknownst a tear rolled down my cheek. My tummy began to grumble at the smell of food. I remembered the train at the station. I stood up and bid adieu to the old man asking whether he would walk with me back to the village.

"I will stay awhile with the lotuses. Farewell, my friend," he smiled. 

Back at the village it seemed as desolate as before. I began walking towards the town braving the searing sun. The sun beat me into a pulp and I felt myself going dizzy. Suddenly a dot emerged from the distance and progressively grew larger until I could make out the faint outlines of the horns of buffalos surrounded by a halo of dirt kicked up by their trodding feet – it was a buffalo cart! Soon I realized it was the same cart that had dropped me off at the village. Seeing me, the driver yanked the beasts to stop.

"I thought you may not find another cart to come back. I thought I will come and check, but it will cost Rs. 300, sahib," the driver said. 

Handing him a 500 rupee note, I jumped onto his cart unable to control my smile and said, "Keep the change."

Beaming with happiness, the driver turned around the animals and began riding back towards town, "My name is Kamal Jeet, sahib. What's yours?" 

I broke into a smile. Perhaps the old man was right – the lotus is everywhere.

Short Story: Kazhugappan

“Paati, tell me a story, please!”, Vaidy beseeched his grandmother as she joined him in the pyol facing the street after partaking their midday meal. His grandmother sighed from fatigure, she had been up since 5 in the morning but Vaidy knew no patience, “Please! You said you will tell me a scary story!” 

Vaidyanathan (a) Vaidy Gurumurthy was visiting his grandmother in the village for his summer holidays. His grandmother was a formidable lady. Perennially donned in crisp madisar saris she held court in her vast ancestral house in the middle of Big Street. The street, its adjoining Little Street, and a few smaller pathways and bylanes contained the two hundred-odd howels that made up the bulk of the village. Beyond these streets lay a few isolated tenements, the government primary school, the weaving workshop, and the Perumal Temple. Verdant fields stretched in every direction around the village until one encountered the muddy Kapti river lazily meandering around the village in a wide arc. A short distance beyond the river was the small cluster of huts of the others. Vaidy’s grandmother forbade him from visiting their homes or playing with their children. 

Despite being a city-bred boy, Vaidy loved the village. To him, its sights, sounds, and smells teemed with mysterious possibilities. Unlike his parents who seemed perenially occupied with work or chores, the villagers were more relaxed and mostly had time for a precocious nine-year old’s questions and antics. Over a few summers Vaidy had even managed to make a merry group of friends who, despite initial apprehensions about a city boy, had wholeheartedly accepted Vaidy into their games and mischief. Since his grandmother wouldn’t allow him to leave the house until the sun was past its peak the lazy afternoons were always spent at home in their cement pyol facing the street. Its red-oxide coating kept the pyol cool and pleasant no matter the sun’s fury. And on this cool, cement oasis, his grandmother would entertain Vaidy with her stories. 

“Shall I tell you the story of the man who brought a Kaleidascope to the village when I was little?”, his grandmother asked him, pulling Vaidy into her lap. Her madisar sari created a comfortable hammock for him in between her legs. “Hair”, he commanded, at which his grandmother began gently caressing his hair. “Tomorrow I will wash your hair kanna. Do you spend all your time rolling in mud?”

“No paati. You have already told me the Kaleidascope story… you said you will tell me a scary story today.” 

“Won’t you get scared by it? Already you are afraid to pee alone at night…”, his grandmother chided him. 

“That’s because your bathroom is at the far end of the backyard!”, Vaidy countered. 

“Seri, seri. I will tell you a real story today, something that happened in this village when my mother was your age.” 

“Yay.”

“When my mother was your age, a new teacher was deployed at the local government school. He was not a man from these parts; he hardly spoke the language, dressed in ill-fitting, heavy tunics, and was an oddity wherever he went. He stood over six feet tall but was shrunken and emaciated and despite not being beyond thirty, was almost completely bald, which made his head dazzle under the midday Sun. He also appeared to be unmarried despite his advanged age. But the most defining feature of the man was his nose. Oh, what a nose it was! Long like a cobra, it curved like a cutlass to its pin-like tip and then retreated like a wave towards the upper lip. People joked that the nose traveled one day before the rest of him!“

“Like Garuda!”, Vaidy interjected. The eagle-god was the vahana of Ranganatha, their family deity and was one of Vaidy’s favorite gods. 

“Yes, it was sharp like Garuda, but where Garuda’s nose signifies auspiciousness and strength, the school teacher’s nose suggested wickedness and malice. The kids quickly started calling him “Kazhugu” behind his back”. 

“What is Kazhugu?”

“Vulture. The bird eats dead bodies and is unholy.”

“But isn’t Jatayu also a vulture? Didn’t he help Rama?”

“Yes, but Jatayu and his brother were exceptions. Now stop interrupting me or I will lose the flow of the story!”

His grandmother continued, “Despite the nose’s sinister appearance, the school master turned out to be an utter lightweight. He was easily startled and had a fragile constitution that was prone to shivering when agitated. The kids were quick to take advantage of him. Pandemonium would ensue in every class as kids would jump from bench to bench throwing paper balls at one another, while the hapless teacher tried to quell the class, until his shivering would make him collapse in a sweat.”

“I feel bad for him. Why were the kids so mean?”

“Kids can be the cruelest sometimes kanna”

“I am not cruel. When Lata caught a caterpillar during P.T. period and Senthil suggested we dismember it part by part, I fought with them to have it released”, Vaidy demurred. 

“Chamathu. You are my golden boy”, his grandmother rubbed his face with her palms and cracked her knuckles, the magical charm for warding off evil eyes. Whenever her knuckles cracked noisily, Vaidy beamed a little with pride; everyone knew that the louder the crack the more the attention one had begotten. 

“Continue story please!”, he exclaimed. 

“The helpless school teacher tried appealing to the villagers to rein in their wards but the villagers also couldn’t respect a man who couldn’t even control a few small boys. He even wrote to his superiors in the city begging for a transfer, but his letters got sucked into a bureaucratic maze.“

“Exhausted of all other options, one day he broke down to a postman who could understand his language a little and suggested he consult a Tantric sage who had recently taken up residence in the forest beyond the colony of the others. It is known that Tantric sages can only be seen at midnight, so on the midnight of a moonless night, the teacher went to meet the sage, carrying along a live chicken for propitiation. “

“Paati, what is Tantric?”

“It means the sage practised in the dark arts and could communicate with spirits and ghosts.” 

At that time a dog yelped sharply nearby making Vaidy cling to his grandmother’s leg in terror. 

His grandmother chuckled, “Shall I stop?”

“No, no. Continue. I am not scared.”, Vaidy replied, trying to salvage some pride. 

“The teacher poured his heart’s miseries to the sage but unbeknownst to him his sadness had calcified into pure hatred towards the children. Falling to the sage’s feet, he demanded the power to avenge his ill treatment. The sage, pleased with the offering of the chicken, boomed, “Thathasthu. So be it.” Immediately the teacher was transformed into a terrifying bird with a human face, the teacher’s own face. Finally the maleficent nose had a body to match. The teacher had been transformed into a demon! The demon shrieked in pain and took flight into the night sky!”

“Did someone kill the demon?” 

“Wait, you are getting ahead of the story! After that night, truant children in the village started disappearing mysteriously. Boys seen playing in the street corner at one moment were gone the next. A boy fast asleep on a mat next to his mother was gone when she woke up in the morning. A boy drawing water from a well was gone even before the pail hit the water. The only trace left behind were a few dark feathers. Through the postman, the villagers surmised that the teacher had come back to haunt the village and began to call him Kazhugappan. They didn’t allow their children out of sight and permitted no mischiefs. Children continued to be taken but at a slower clip until it eventually stopped.” 

“Was Kazhugappan killed?”

“No one knew what happened to him. But to this day, children that refuse to eat their meals or sleep on time are warned to not incur his wrath. He is always looking for naughty children, including city boys!”, his grandmother concluded in a gravely tone.  

Vaidy stared blankly at the street. He was taking in the sights, but his mind was elsewhere. The village had turned out to be more fantastical than he had ever imagined! Kazhugappan! What an adversary for Vaidy, who always fancied himself to be the hero of every story. At the stroke of three, his grandmother let Vaidy go out to play with his friends to whom he related the Kazhugappan story in complete detail. The group solemnly agreed to actively search for unseemly feathers and other such signs of the demon. But apart from copious quantities of cow and goat dung in various levels of decomposition, their investigations didn’t reveal much else. The story and their mission was forgotten after a few days. 

“Maami, how can you expect me to make a living if I sell you the entire bunch for three annas?”, the vegetable lady wailed. Every morning she would bring a basket of fresh vegetables from which Vaidy’s grandmother would select the freshest wares for the day’s cooking. Busy with his coloring book, Vaidy paid little notice to the negotiation. 

“Maami, did you hear about the new supervisor at the weaving workshop? He has moved into the room behind the workshop. I hear he has come from Karur, but no family nothing. Pah, you should see his nose! It’s so sharp, you can till a field with it.”

Vaidy froze. A sharp nose, a lone man. It can only mean one thing — Kazhugappan had returned!

As soon as the vigilante was allowed to leave home at 3 pm, Vaidy ran to collect his group of friends. The weaving workshop was at the edge of the village and had a one-room outhouse behind it. Such an isolated enclosure seemed like the perfect haunt of a demon. Convinced that no demon can emerge in the bright day and armed with packets of vibuthi which is universally known to ward off any unearthly foe, the group slowly crept up to room through the fields behind it. The room had a single window through which they peeked in. It was empty, the occupant probably still at the workshop. Sparsely furnished, they could only see a few utensils and a chulha in one corner and a rolled up mattress in the other. A shut suitcase lay below the window, Vaidy wonder whether it will have any clues about its owner. Valli, Vaidy’s closest friend, pointed out the lack of any framed photographs of Gods or Goddesses in the room. Vaidy nodded grimly. Just as they were wrapping up their reconnaissance, what was it that Vaidy noticed by the locked door? 

“Look! A black feather by the door!” 

The kids backed away slowly from the window. They had all the proof they needed, a demon walked in their midst. 

It was only when the group were plotting their next course of action that they realized the futility of all the mythological tales they knew. Each one of them knew at least a dozen demons from mythology in every grosteque shape and form, and yet none of the tales prescribed a foolproof way of taking down a demon. The kids neither had Rama’s bow to shoot down Tataka or Krisha’s strength to wrip apart Bakasura. The kids debated at length the pros and cons of various attack strategies; Valli suggested flinging dung balls at the demon, Murthy was all for digging up a trench and trapping him in it, Venkat argued for the slingshot which seemed like their closest alternative to Rama’s divine bow, while Vaidy felt it best to jump on top of the man to crush him while preventing him from taking flight. In a truly democratic fashion, they group argued and debated, breaking for tea and snacks frequently. Eventually a glorious plan was conceived. 

The man had been seen going for a walk around the village every evening after work. When he walks by the large banyan tree, Vaidy will jump on top of him stunning the demon to the ground. Instantly Valli and Venkat will emerge from the other side and fling stones and mudballs at the fallen demon, taking care as Vaidy repeatedly pointed out to not hit him. In case the demon was not subdued by this vicious assault and tries to run away, Venkat would have dug a trench a few yards ahead along the path and covered it with fallen branches, twigs, and leaves. The demon will fall into the trench and the kids will seal him shut! Vaidy beamed with pride. 

The next evening, the kids took up positions. Murthy had dug up the trench and was now tasked with lookout. Vaidy clung to the lowest branch of the banyan tree, directly above the path. The branch was more slippery than he expected. Tensions were high. Venkat had almost given up in fear and had to be slapped into sense by Vaidy. Like a general corraling his troops before an epic battle, Vaidy had spoken eloquently about this fight between good and evil. Mutiny had been abated, but skittishness remained. 

Murthy whistled twice. The demon was arriving. 

Vaidy gripped to the branch tightly, he knew he only had one shot. From the corner of his eye he saw Venkat shivering in fear and mused, “Only some people are born warriors!” 

The demon was now in sight and was steadily walking towards the tree. Vaidy readied himself for the plunge… from the other side, he heard a whimper that turned into a muffled cry that was immediately followed by a full-throated shriek. Vaidy swung in fear towards the sound. A deathly Venkat had emerged from the other side, his eyes brimming with tears and panic. “Aaaaaaaargh”, he screamed at the walking figure and let loose a big stone from his slingshot!Venkat, normally a decent shot on a good day, had become completely disoriented in fear and had aimed the slingshot too high. The meaty pebble flew through the air and struck gold in Vaidy’s cowering rump. 

“Ammaaaaa!”, Vaidy screamed and fell from the tree, landing a few spots in front of the supervisor who jumped in surprise. Vaidy, hurt but not defeated, swiveled towards the demon and cried, “Kazhugappan!”. The war cry energized the startled army as Venkat, Valli, and Murthy descended on Vaidy and the supervisor throwing mud balls, stones, and branches from all directions. Their spotty aims meant Vaidy got hurt as much if not more than the supervisor. The man raised his arm to protect himself from the constant onslaught and approached Vaidy to help the kid up. Vaidy, terror-struck by the demon’s proximity scrambled to his feet and ran. He felt something soft grasping his ankle for a moment, and in the next he plunged into the deep trench dug by Venkat. Vaidy fell with a puff. The army deprived of their general lost all nerve for the fight and scattered helter-skelter into the fields. The supervisor, shaken but not hurt, approached the trench to rescue Vaidy. The boy was badly scratched and bleeding from his knees. Initially grateful to be out of the trench, when Vaidy saw the identity of his rescuer, he prompty fainted. 

“I don’t know what happened Paati-amma. I think someone was trying to attack me. Your grandson was very brave and tried to warn me”, the supervisor whispered. “As I was taking him to the medic’s house, he kept saying, “Kazhugappan” over and over. Do you know what that is?”

Vaidy’s grandmother adjusted the cool compress over his forehead and pulled up the blanket over his sleeping self. She turned towards the supervisor and shrugged, “Who knows what these kids talk about these days? They are always picking up bad influences.”