1962 – 1963 - The second half

The year was dominated by the Chinese aggression, the north of Indian felt the brunt of the war and somehow the south peninsular India was less affected. True there were a few men who lost their lives and a few dozen who came back with injuries that took long to heal. 1963 was the year of getting rid of the ghosts of how good India was as a nation. It was the time of looking inwards and realizing that a nation so steeped in tradition and history could be humbled so easily.

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Ravindran shook off the lethargy of the afternoon and walked barefoot to the river. Gravel stuck to his hardened soles and occasionally one stone would pierce the toughness to make him thread lightly. The heat of the sun in December was intense and it clung to the leaves and rose in abundance, with it the smells of the ground. The day old carcass of a jackfruit gave off sweet pungency that attracted bottle green flies that buzzed around his head. The smoke from the collective kitchens in the area climbed like tendrils along the coconut trees entwined with the pepper climbers. The green peppers peeked about from the dense foliage. Ravindran out of habit plucked a few off a stem and popped them into his mouth, savoring the immature bite of peppercorns. He carried a bar of Hamam soap and a towel that was white some moons ago, was wrapped around his chest. The river was cool, in contrast to everything around him. He slowly immersed himself into the waters and lazily absorbed the cold water into his tanned body. Dipping his head in the waters he felt his heat sodden head clear and suddenly become breathless. Gasping he rubbed the bar against his body and as the bubbles struck and got carried away to the middle of the river, the air was scented with the spicy fragrance of the soap, a gift from his friend who worked in Bombay in a tyre company.

He returned soon to the confines of his room and rummaged his cupboard for the tin of Cuticura talc. The Orange and white tin held his special memories, those of his mother and his sister who would dust themselves with the talc and then the house would smell of the unidentifiable scent of the powder. He could not locate the tin, he rushed to the next room and asked his stepsister, and she shrugged and continued to comb the gray oily hair of Parvati Amma. He had no permission to go into the room of his brother in law, but the situation was different, he had to find his tin of talc. He hesitated and then flung open the door and straight ahead on the wall stand was his tin. He could feel anger rise into his head and rushed inside to claim it, which made his sister shout at him. Ravindran knew what was coming; after all it was just a tin of talcum powder and not a pot of gold. But how could they do this to him, when they knew that there were very few things that he called his own.

That night he collected his things together, four shirts that were a month old and three trousers that he insisted he wanted. One kaili and a few vests and undergarmets. Stuffing them into the airbag gifted by his friend Chandran of the tyre company fame. He then lifted the false bottom of the drawer and slowly picked out a wad of five rupee notes. Counting them he realized that he had about two hundred worth of money and nothing else. He lifted the bag and walked into the open courtyard of the house. His stepmother slept there, curled under a thin sheet, she looked frail and helpless. It was her helplessness that bothered him; it was this helplessness that he wanted to escape. He suddenly remembered his mark sheet and tiptoed back to his room and removed the booklet, covered in shiny wax paper, again a gift from Chandran. He had barely managed to pass in science but he was a matriculate now. He carried the booklet with reverence and passed the doors of his sister and that of his father, he briefly stood there and then shook the last minute feeling of abandoning the plan and walked out of the door. He would never come back he promised himself; he would go after his dreams in Bombay. He was sure that someday they would look forward to him or at least hear about him and feel proud.

He walked towards the bus stop. At four in the morning there were no buses or scooter rickshaws and he had just two hundred rupees in his pocket, he could not waste them on pleasures like rickshaws. He walked upright and followed the train tracks. Like so many times before when he and his friends walked to the Railway station to see the strikes or political rallies, he walked along, whistling and skipping sometimes the alternate wooden sleepers. The rail gleamed along into the murky darkness almost a beacon guiding him to his destiny. He thought about the days in Thirunathapuram, it was still Thiruananthapuran for him even if it was known as Trivandrum. About the time when he had participated in a strike in school and had scaled the walls of the building to remove the national flag and replace it with the red communist flag with a silver sickle and hammer. He laughed aloud thinking of the whack he and Chandran had received on their backs. The choora sticks leaving red and blue impressions that took so many days to heal. He thought of how he had hidden the mark from his father and finally his over overcome by curiosity had pulled the shirt off his back and discovered the secret. Chandran and Ravindran had been expelled from school and when his father had refused to meet the principal, his stepmother had accompanied him to the school and begged forgiveness to Namboodiripad Sir, promising to ensure that Ravindran would never get into mischief again. He had not been given dinner for three days as punishments and had survived on the small packets of food wrapped in banana leaves that Ammini Kutty stole from the kitchen.