Ghosts Galore
“Sundaram, our uncles have decided to put up the Ramanathapuram (RNP) house for sale, and request us to empty our household items stored in the attic before the house changes hands. Can you travel to South and handle it please?” asked my elder brother. There were the items with which we migrated to our maternal grandfather's house in RNP when our father's flourishing textile business collapsed.
“Sundaram, our uncles have decided to put up the Ramanathapuram (RNP) house for sale, and request us to empty our household items stored in the attic before the house changes hands. Can you travel to South and handle it please?” asked my elder brother. There were the items with which we migrated to our maternal grandfather's house in RNP when our father's flourishing textile business collapsed.
Chudamani, my friend in the village,
accompanied me to the house. He checked the rooms on the ground floor
while I surveyed the attic. I went upstairs and tried to climb the attic
with a jump-start. It was too high. I found the table and chair that stood by
me in my school days still there. I placed the chair on top of the table and
just managed to climb.
The attic was poorly lit, and the twilight
added to the darkness. I felt the dust-ridden items one by one, unfettered
by bats, lizards, centipedes, and scorpions around. First I chanced upon the
set of ten king-size Tanjore paintings (kept one on top of the other upside
down so that the glasses were safe). I knew they were embossed with gold. A
solid few lakhs, to begin with.
Still groping, I touched a large utensil
with ‘ears’ to hold by. It was used in the bathroom for the maidservant to fill
water from the well for all of us to bathe. Suddenly my paternal grandfather,
attired in pancha-gachham and uttareeyam, bright vibhooti on forehead, presented
himself from out of the utensil, smiling at me. My father wasn’t even
married when he passed away. So when he addressed me, “So you are Sundaram,
aren’t you, my child,” I was both stuck with fear and drawn in by his
affection. “Yes, I am. And from the photo I have seen at home, you are my
Kunjanna Thatha, aren’t you?” “Yes, I am my child. I used regularly this and a
host of other utensils that you see around here for poor-feeding, until in your
father’s time this particular one found its way to the bathroom. Promise me you
will donate all these utensils to the RNP Grama Samooham for use at Saastha
Preeti and Thiruvathirai feasts.” “I shall, Thatha,” I reassured him. He
vanished into the thin air.
With pimple-like sweat all over my forehead,
I looked up through the solitary glass-tile on the roof for light. The branches
of the mango tree above were dancing gently to the late evening breeze. As I
tried to enjoy more of it, I saw Krishnan Kutty, the handyman of the village
sitting on a branch plucking mangoes. Every season he plucked from all the five
tress at the backyard. In return Patti gave him a basketful of mangoes and a four-anna
coin. He never grumbled, but he was hard-pressed for money. His eyes fell
on me casually. Instead of extending the customary smile at meeting someone
after ages, he stared at me, followed by a volcanic eruption. “Did you know why
I had to commit suicide, Sundaram?” I was ill at ease at his calling me by
name. I wished he didn’t place me after ages. But he did. “But you are alive,
plucking mangoes,” I retorted. “No, I am his ghost. You villagers gave me a raw
deal for my work, and I could hardly subsist, let alone get married. That is
why I had to take that extreme step.” “Sorry friend, I didn’t know it.
You know I have been away for many years. Anyway, tell me what can I do for
you,” I asked him off-guard not realizing that there is very little I could do
to a dead. “I have borrowed several times from your grandmother koduval,
vettu kathi, spade, axe, the entwined rope for climbing the coconut tree,
the multi-hooked trap to dig out kodams from the well-bed. Look around
the attic. You might stumble on them. Hand those over to the President of the
Grama Samooham, and instruct him to…No, he might change his mind and keep them
for the Samooham. Better still, give them to Chudamani and ask him to donate
these to Velu who visits the village regularly looking for odd jobs. He can
hardly afford to buy these.” “I shall, Sir,” I added the salutation
unwittingly. But then they say the dead are to be treated with more respect.
Enough of it. From top to toe I was now wet
with sweat. Let me get down; let the buyer of the house take it all, I said to
myself, and headed down but found the chair missing. “Oh my God, what elemental
force is loitering around here? Is it the neglect of daily puja in the house
for years that is causing this?
No sooner did I utter the word puja
than I heard the drumbeat of Chendai from beyond our backyard. It was Friday,
and the time 7. I guessed Ponnu Thai, the midget, maidservant for many houses
in the morning, and an ardent Devi devotee otherwise, is still kicking and
continuing with her Friday pujas. Yes, as children, we dreaded most Friday
evenings with the drumbeat, sound of the oracle wielding his sword, and
occasional screams.
With a full-blown bright red sindhoor,
Ponnu Thai confronted me, fully in trance and wielding the oracle-sword.
She smeared Vibhooti on me, and asked me how on earth could we think of selling
the house. I clarified that it was not mine; it was our grandfather’s. “You...
telling me?’ she asked me feeling rather offended. I pacified her
saying that it would in all probability be sold to someone from within the
village. “Well that is somewhat heartening,” she said a little pleased, and
asked me to continue the good work I was doing. I reassured her. I am
still figuring out what that is.
Hardly had I got over another bout when I
saw a chair all by itself climbing its way up the stairs in slow motion. This
terrified me to the hilt till I saw Chudamani’s head underneath - struggling to
balance the chair. “Where did you take the chair to?” I asked him in desperation.
“I wanted to check something in the small cellar in the kitchen store-room. The
opening was at four feet high. Why? Anything happened?” he asked. “No nothing,
just like that,” I said regaining my composure. With utmost care we brought down
the ten Tanjore paintings and took them to his house. On checking them we found
all the gold pieces having been removed, and the hapless paintings staring at
us toothless.
I shared disposal instructions with
Chudamani exactly the way I received, but as though my own. If I had left out some
items in that state of mind, I asked him to feel free to decide.
V.V. Sundaram
31 January 2012
