Mirror of Malice

By John George

A closely knit farming community in a little known hamlet in the southern part of India, renowned only for its picturesque beauty sets the backdrop for this poignant novel which follows the life of the main protagonist who is the son of a poor farmer struggling to feed his wife and seven children.

• Language: English
• Publisher: John George
• Release date: Dec 1, 2012

Book preview

Foreword

I dare say I knew little about this story and its characters when I started out. But slowly I became one of the characters and the story became one of my own. From there on, it took but little time to develop the theme and the characters for this novel. Because, this story is not an unusual or uncommon one; our everyday lives are witness to it in one way or the other. Nonetheless, I believe, it has its own novelty and originality. There are honest and unselfish sons and daughters who are willing to sacrifice their entire life for the well-being of their family even in our modern world today. We may say, they are naïve but I would say they are simply a rare breed of loyal and genuine people. This is the story of such a son who sacrificed his entire life to bring up his younger siblings and look after his mother when they were down, helpless, rotten and rusted. The characters, I have attempted to portray in this story, are mere reflections of our modern society. They are, unbelievably, greedy and rude; cunning and cruel and conniving and cumbersome. When I began working on this story, words slowly came alive with emotion and started to breathe. I went along with the characters with empathy and emotions, frustrations and despair, as they were generated flawlessly and genuinely from each of them. I was agitated at times, but reasoned that they are the product of our generation.

This is the story of a young man who struggled to survive from the pit of poverty and carry the burden of a large family along with him when unexpectedly, his dream crumbled, with the untimely death of the sole breadwinner of his family. The obstacles, seen and unseen he had to face in his journey to achieve his objectives, his unambiguous and unselfish motives to uplift the life of his siblings along with his beloved mother and his agonizing pain from the total and unscrupulous rejection from the same siblings, at the end, are being told with the same gravity and emotions. If the readers could cry and share the pain of the main character and feel agitated with the villains of this story and frustrated with the thankless siblings I would say I accomplished what I set out to do. If not, I would graciously admit, I have not succeeded. But I would not be discouraged; rather, I shall try again.

To some down-to-earth people, such stories and characters may simply be imaginative creations. They would even be skeptical about such events and characters in this day and age and ask, would this happen? But sadly, we have only to look around in our own communities and neighborhoods to see such events and characters because our small world is full of such people and they would weave the stories with a much sadder thread than what I used to convey this story. Human hearts should not be maligned nor should it be mired in mud to such an extent where the degree of difference between humans and animals would be reduced to nil. If my fellow human beings could express their deepest gratitude to those who would do good to them and alter their selfish and cunning motives, this world would be a better place. If this novel could motivate even a single human being towards a more noble direction, I would be greatly gratified. A thousand gods and a

thousand religions may not change nor would save the world but a small incident, a true story, might inspire a few. I truly hope it does.

Much has been said about my story but the last best note is not yet scripted, that is, my heart-felt thanks and appreciation to my niece, Miss. Andrea Johnson. She encouraged me to write my story, edited my manuscript and assisted me in every step. Without her my story would have remained just a story, unscripted! The fact that she is my dear niece does not minimize the depth and breadth of obligation and gratitude towards her. She deserves all the attributes and accolades that would come along but I shall bear the criticism.

Best lines are yet to be written in this script, that is, my deepest and sincere thanks to Mrs. Marion Huffman who scrupulously and studiously weighed and measured every word, line by line, and tried to perfect my manuscript. I am glad that I sought her help and she complied with my request. Thanks, Marion.

When all is said and done, there will always be something left to be undone. The words of my imagination and creativity furnished this story; but had it not been crafted into a book I wouldn’t have something to hold in the palm of my hands. Hence my sincere and heart-felt gratitude goes to Br. James of Maryvijayam publishing house who perfected my manuscript in to this book. He led me through labyrinth of the publishing world. If there are imperfections let me console myself as well the readers by saying that there is nothing perfect. Above all this is my maiden attempt in the English literary world. That alone, would be a sufficient excuse, I believe.

Table of Contents

1. Misery Inherited

2. The Wormwood and the Gall

3. Miserable Comforter

4. Reverend’s Bungalow

5. Married in Haste

6. Two Hearts Pondered

7. Exodus

8. Toil and Tears

9. Dreams Never Die

10. Agony behind the Glory

11. Swindler under the Roof

12. Tumble weed in desert Wind

13. My Home, My Castle!

14. By Fire or Ice!

15. Roses and Thorns

16. Lord Tried my Heart!

17. Candle without Flame!

18. Son of Perdition

Synopsis

A closely knit farming community in a little known hamlet in the southern part of India, renowned only for its picturesque beauty sets the backdrop for this poignant novel which follows the life of the main protagonist who is the son of a poor farmer struggling to feed his wife and seven children. The story begins with the funeral of the farmer in a Catholic cemetery and his son’s overbearing thoughts on his family’s uncertain future. His inheritance was just misery. Pursuing his studies on one hand, and taking care of the family on the other, he carried out his responsibilities but he had to confront a much bigger task. His own grandfather was trying to retake his father’s inheritance, a small piece of land by making up a debt that included the funeral expenses of his own son.

His grand-uncle, the Reverend, naïve but dubious, unexpectedly, took a self-imposed retirement from active priestly duties. He paid a casual visit to his family and expressed his intention to stay with them for a short period of time while undergoing some medical treatment. However, later he expressed his intention to stay with the family indefinitely to play the role of ‘guardian’ to them. The pretext was a ploy at its best. The Reverend had fallen victim to a scam about a non-existent treasure chest. He required a hideout to conduct his mysterious dealings and found the perfect place in the mud thatched house. To distract him from the obsession of ‘treasure chest’, the son diverted his attention to build a small house for the family. By a streak of good luck and with a tinge of ‘serendipity’ the son managed to build a small house with hard work, a bit of financial support from the Reverend and a pile of debt.

Still unemployed, he desperately tried to make a living for himself and carry on with the responsibilities of the family but it never materialised. At a fortuitous moment, he received a marriage proposal from a family whose daughter was working in Canada. He accepted the offer and decided to leave for Canada to join his wife. The empathetic wife offered him her dowry for the marriage of his sister before he would leave for Canada but entrusted the dowry with her brother. Cunningly, the brother duped him without giving him a dime thus jeopardising the marriage of his sister. Annoyed by the turn of events he left for Canada with a bagful of worries and responsibilities. With subdued enthusiasm he set out for his ‘maiden’ flight to Canada. The bitter life experience tempered his will and ambition to survive in a foreign country. Without wasting much time he managed to find a low paying manual job to earn his own ‘silver’ so that he could help his struggling family at home. He secured a loan and arranged the marriage of the eldest of his five sisters; however, his unfettered loyalty to his family was slowly straining the thinly woven relationship with his wife.

The birth of his son made him a proud dad but added more responsibility. He paid off the loan by living a frugal lifestyle and soon accumulated enough money to get his second sister married. The Reverend manipulated his illiterate mother and scooped the entire amount from the bank to feed the ‘Treasure Chest’ swindler and walked away, leaving the family in turmoil. Helpless, the mother borrowed the money from an in-law to avoid the ‘bungling’ of another wedding but added one more straw to the camel’s back! The Reverend continued his charade and this time it ended in a foreclosure of the protagonist’s home. With prudent and swift action the son sent enough money to retrieve the property and to secure it in his mother’s name.

Four years later, following the birth of his daughter, it became necessary to leave his cramped apartment and scrape together enough money for a small downpayment on a house. Not too long after that another streak of misfortune struck: termination of his job due to a health problem related to work. He decided to upgrade his education to pursue a better job. He was tested constantly either by fire or ice!

His younger brother, unaccomplished, without a decent education, shamelessly enjoyed a carefree life style and soon became a burden and annoyance to the family. To keep him occupied, a small business was set up for him and in due time he was married. He provided nothing to support the family but chose to fill his own piggybank with the pennies his brother earned. The young lad assumed that he would get the entire wealth, by ‘hook or by crook’ though his mother had already written up a will bequeathing the Reverend’s bungalow and half of the family property to the older son.

The streak of misfortunes continued to follow the older son, one thing after another. His wife was diagnosed with lung cancer but luckily she recovered fully from it; but then, by a tryst of fate, he was diagnosed with cancer. Thankfully, he too was blessed with a speedy recovery. His mother suffered a major stroke leaving her partially paralysed and speechless. The story concludes with the protagonist preparing for a much awaited holiday after his retirement, but as he reaches home, he realizes that there were no angels to welcome him but a brother frothing with pure greed for what he had earned and built over the past decades. Exploiting the ‘silence’ of the mother the young brother wasted no time to open up the ‘Pandora’s Box; He demanded the entire assets of the family. Unapologetic, the son of perdition spewed just hot air and malarkey. Disgusted with the verbal assault, in the middle of the night, grabbing his suitcases he walked out of his own ‘sweet home’. At the end, with a broken heart and teary eyes he left for the journey back to his adopted land.

1

Misery Inherited!

The sun tried to peak through the dense clouds all day long but it failed to embrace the moist fragrant soil of mother earth. The tall Bell Tower and the majestic steeple adorning that old magnificent church with its grandeur and mere presence almost dwarfed the rest of the buildings in the community. Actually there was not a single building in that village that would match or rival the grandeur and architectural style of that edifice.

That sacred House of God is the only place where the faithful of that village can go and complain to God the Father about their miseries and the unfairness of life and ask for their daily bread and forgiveness of their sins! Sometimes they would find peace because they felt God was listening; other times they felt lost and unattended to, because they felt that God was being oblivious to their cries of despair. Either way they found themselves at the mercy of the Almighty; willing to trust and surrender to God`s will for them. Bound by the threads of faith and hope, they are such God-fearing members of the community. That good old mother church has witnessed many triumphs and tragedies.

The church is situated on a large parcel of land in the middle of the village, surrounded by decorative coconut palms and mango trees with lush green leaves. The sun bestows its radiant light over the church from the eastern horizon. In the distance, a vast paddy field is spread like green carpet as far as the eye can see, and like a pearl necklace adorning a young bride, a fresh water stream winds through that field as it flows to join the sea. At dusk, the sun seems to turn its bright face to bid farewell to that House of God before slipping away into the ocean. There is nothing to block the last bright golden rays of sunset falling upon that House of Worship.

The land displayed a certain air of serenity and tranquility which deemed it fit within its confines, to house a magnificent place of worship.

On one side of the church is a beautiful flower garden and on the other side, the cemetery. The symmetry of the garden and cemetery seems somewhat paradoxical and perhaps, philosophical; on one side is the panoramic beauty of life and on the other side, the tragic end of it! In the garden the beautiful plants bloom, flower and in a short while, wither and decay. In the cemetery, the cycle of life is much the same: human life that once bloomed and flowered is now withering and decaying! It shows the fragility of life: a philosophical and realistic expression!

I am not sure if the designer planned it that way, however, the common village folks were

wise enough to see the comparison and make it a topic of conversation during their leisurely rendezvous after mass.

It is a heart wrenching Tuesday evening of a soggy September that is so bitter in grief, that even the beauty of the otherwise picturesque landscape appears dull and lifeless. The wide and ornately carved entrance gate of the church is left wide open, for the passage of a funeral procession; the final journey of a soul on earth. I’m carrying the coffin of my father along with other members of the parish, walking slowly down the quiet street, remembering how often my father walked the same path to attend mass, to profess his faith in God and pray for a family he so loved. Come rain or shine, he devoutly held to this routine, and the day before his death, wasn't an exception! This time however he's on the same path but he is not going to worship, because his soul has already gone to his heavenly abode, leaving behind a helpless, widowed wife and mother of seven children, who`s lives had forever changed.

For me, the walk down to the church carrying my father`s coffin seemed like the longest walk I`d ever taken. Time stood still in those moments of utter despair and sorrow. Neighbours and friends lined up along both sides of the street to pay their honour and respect for the deceased as they watched the sombre procession. They pondered over the sudden demise of a familiar friendly face that greeted them every morning on the way to mass.

As we approached the main gate, the church bell tolled against a steely silence that was only growing deeper and deeper in the depths of my heart and soul. It is an old ritual perhaps to announce the funeral to the parishioners and to show due respect to the deceased.

Passing through the gate we entered the hallowed ground of the cemetery. No reason to be frightened; no evil spirits nor devils staring at us. But still there is an eeriness hanging in the air, a grave silence!

We have gathered at the cemetery to bury our father! There was nothing extraordinary: just a close gathering of family, relatives and a few friends who loved and cherished this man. But the emotions that ran through my young mind and body felt extraordinary, burdened now by thoughts of a responsibility I wasn`t sure I could fulfill.

For over twelve centuries the cemetery held within its confines the stories of all those souls who made the cemetery, the home for their decaying physical bodies; and it continues doing so to this very day. Its sacred ground; a strange, ethereal aura surrounds it like a halo. An intricately designed fence demarcates the periphery of the cemetery from the church compound. Two renaissance styled pillars grace the entrance gate of the cemetery, with an

angel perched atop each of the pillars, as if to welcome the souls to the spiritual passage that leads some of them to their Eternal paradise, while some others to the very depths of hell.

Thorny bougainvillea plants have crept along the neatly laid fencing, sprinkled with pretty pink blooms, creating a visually delightful sight, but also symbolically implying that the pathway to paradise is one that is filled with prickly thorns. Lush fragrant bushes of snow like jasmines filled the empty gaps left by the bougainvillea, which glistened and drooped heavily with rain droplets and dew when the first rays of the life-giving sun kissed them. This is where my forefathers rested, in peace and the parishioners knew well enough to maintain the sanctity of it by tending to it, with both respect and care.

My great grandfather died at the young age of forty eight in a tragic accident that left behind six young children, making it seem like fate had bestowed tragedy upon our family lineage. He was standing in his designated place when the lumberjack was making his final cut at the tall coconut palm that was wobbling and twisting under its own head weight. In a direction that was miscalculated by the lumberjack, the tree toppled, killing my great grandfather instantaneously. A century later, it still seems like that accident was a death wish. His bones lay within the rich soil of this hallowed resting place. My great grandmother joined him in their heavenly abode a few years later at the ripe old age of ninety one; my paternal grandmother, died of cholera at a young age when my father was just a six month old infant. I didn't know either of them alive but cherished their memories with the little I've learned about them. There’s a long list of family members and relatives whose remains are cradled here in this graveyard; some I’ve had the privilege of knowing, others I recollect only by what I've heard about them in the years that followed their death; but all of them live through me vicariously.

For someone whose family ancestry lay within this grave, the cemetery radiated all the sanctity it possibly could; it gave an eerie feeling of their very presence around the gravesite. At the very least, I was sure at that moment, they were watching from the heavens above. In the short span of my mortal life, I witnessed many funerals, but none as personal as this one. It's a son's moral duty and right to bury his parents, in the context of the Indian culture, irrespective of the religion you observe, but not so early in life, not so unexpectedly and definitely, not so tragically. I stand grief stricken and stoic, with the blood drained from my face, as I prepare myself to witness a life-changing, sombre ceremony that a son should never have to carry out, under any circumstances.

The sacristan set up the ivory white pillar candles at the four corners of the freshly dug gravesite, as is the tradition in burial services. He then filled the censer with incense, which gently began to billow wisps of fragrant smoke into the air, drifting up eagerly to the heavens above. Witnessing this, I wondered if God really needed the incense or the gentle

light flickering from the candle's wick. Rituals and age old customs never made any sense to me, not then, not now. Muted sighs and whispers occasionally broke the curtain of silence that hung deafeningly in the dense evening air. The candle flame flickered and wobbled with the chilly monsoon wind, but was not extinguished.

The priest who is to preside over this funeral happens to be my grand-uncle. Grief and heartache was etched into his prominent features today; he had been compassionate and helpful towards my family's predicament, the unexpected tragic death of my father moved him greatly, but he made an effort to disguise all those emotions under his priestly duties. Wearing the usual black garments he began by initiating the ceremony with the sign of the cross. The faithful gathered around the grave to pay their last respects to a dearly departed soul. The priest recited the prayers for the dead, and chanted hymns in his familiar baritone voice. He paused occasionally for the gathering to respond 'Lord hear our prayer'. He continued reciting Psalm 23

"Lord is my shepherd; I shall not want.

He maketh me to lie down in green pastures: he leadeth me beside the still waters.

He restoreth my soul: he leadeth me in the paths of righteousness for the name’s sake.

Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,

I will fear no evil; for thou art with me; thy rod and thy staff they comfort me.

Thou preparest a table before me in the presence of mine enemies: thou anointest my head with oil: my cup runneth over.

Surely goodness and mercy shall follow me all the days of my life:

And I will dwell in the house of the Lord forever." He paused,

The gathering said: Amen!

As a child, I memorized these verses and today, I recite them for his burial. It was irony at its darkest self. My father wasn't a highly educated man; he barely managed to finish his middle school. He met with a careless accident during middle school that changed the course of his life. He broke his right arm while playing soccer, an all-time favourite sport of the village boys during those days. Grandpa didn't bother much with the mishap, providing him only with a sling made with rags to support his broken arm. His arm healed over time resulting in an awkward twisted shape, due to the lack of a proper cast. Father paid dearly

for this accident, and suffered well into his adult life. However he learned to write with his left hand while trying hard to regain the ability to use his right arm. Being the only child, my grandfather encouraged him to become adept in farm work and domestic chores rather than study any further. Eventually, father worked hard and became dexterous with both his hands. His middle school education was good enough to tutor me through my junior high days. He managed to secure a clerical job in our church, with his basic education. His salary didn't amount to much, but was enough to sustain us with the bare necessities of life. A job that was a service to the church, was mostly seen in the light of doing service to God, and was therefore excluded from any demands for increased wages. Anyone who had the audacity to ask for an increase in wages set himself liable for being 'excommunicated' from the church. It was considered an anathema.

Poor father worked twelve to sixteen hours a day, including Sundays, when most of the church activities would take place such as Council meetings and auctions and he was expected to be there at all times. With the little salary he earned, mother, myself and my siblings continued to live a bare existence. It was common in those days to have catholic families with six to ten children or more. As the number of children increased in our family, he had to stretch the pennies even more thinly. He could not afford to buy new clothes for us let alone buy school textbooks and stationeries. Church festivals would come and go but our little home didn't display a trace of festivities. Our family struggled but endured together. The one acre property that was dotted with coconut palms, which father inherited through a partition of the family estate, barely met the demands of a growing family. Father even pawned his wedding ring to pay my admission and tuition fees for high school which was situated a few miles away in a different village. When I finished middle school he beamed with pride as he managed to provide me with a high school education. Unfortunately, my father never had the same opportunity.

A sudden sprinkle of water droplets on my head shook me from my reverie. The priest was sprinkling holy water on the coffin, continuing the ritual with utmost sanctity. The liturgical service was conducted in Hebrew- the ancient language Jesus spoke. While I didn't understand the meaning of the prayers, everybody seemed to understand the unspoken significance of the words used in the service. A language that I barely understood, managed to stir my heart and soul, and soon my eyes filled to the brim. My thoughts wandered back to the not so distant past that was now evolving like a river course I wasn't fully equipped to navigate.

I clearly recollect the day my father came home announcing to my mother that he quit his clerical job at the church. He had dared to ask for an increase in his wages, because he worked there for ten years without any raise in pay. But their reply was cold and unyielding like the stones that were engraved in its foundation. He was told 'If you are not happy, you are free to leave``. Father left the job out of sheer disgust. They didn't bother paying him a

lump sum either, in appreciation for the services rendered through all those years. Our family was devastated on hearing the news. The monthly yield of a few coconuts and a few bushels of rice paddy from the annual harvest (after giving more than half of the yield to the landlord) was scarce and could hardly fulfill the family's needs, and father's decision to quit the clerical job didn't help things one bit.

After a few months of careful deliberation, he embarked on a venture that had failure written on its very face right from the start. He opened a small fabric store with some borrowed capital in the premises of our village. Father lacked the business acumen for undertaking such a venture, and the scope for such a store in a little hamlet such as ours, was very limiting. Local folks purchased items, mostly on credit, and half of them seldom paid back the full amount. The business steadily declined and at the end of two years, when he was left with a ledger book filled with names of all who owed money, he decided to give up. He was left idle again, with no work and no income .The family struggled to get its share of three square meals. The capital borrowed from the local bank was long overdue, so father decided to sell off the paddy field to clear the debt. The left over money from the transaction gave us a much needed respite. Mother, however reminded him that the purse grew lighter by the day. Father had to come up with a plan for a source of income other than the coconuts.

This time, he came up with an idea that wasn't bad at all. He decided to purchase two milking cows, and sell the milk in the neighbourhood. All that was needed to go ahead with this venture was a small capital to purchase the cows and construct a temporary barn. He was optimistic this time and managed to carry on with a sense of purpose.

***

I smelled the incense heavily.

The requiem service continued.

The priest was walking around the grave with the incense-burner. I looked at my father’s face in the coffin, for the last time. Two weeks ago he bade farewell to me as I was getting on the bus that would take me back to the college. Little did I know then, that was to be a final farewell.

***

Dawn arrived with the promise of hope, but little did I know what awaited me and my family on this day; a tragedy that left scars which were to never heal again. Yesterday morning, after breakfast, as usual he took his cows for pasturing in the nearby field. He would usually leave the cows secure and then come back home. The clock struck 9 am, then 10, and 11. The church bell chimed at 12 noon. He wasn't back home yet, and lines of worry and

concern traced themselves visibly on my mother's gentle face. Father was not one to go anywhere without letting her know about it. She scurried along the route to the cow pasture and stopped anyone and everyone en route to ask about father's whereabouts, hoping that someone would tell her that they'd seen him return. Nobody saw him return. Her hands and feet trembled; she kept looking until she reached her destination, the desolate grazing field. The cows pastured quietly; had they been blessed with the ability to communicate, they'd have let her know what happened. But they couldn't, and now she had to find out for herself. Fear was filling her up in the very depths of her heart as she looked around helplessly. The pasturing field held a deep dug out pit that was to be used for irrigation purposes. A narrow bund lined the pit, but it didn't have a levee to regulate the water levels, and as a result, it was now overflowing with rainwater. Father never learned how to swim. Had he slipped into the pond while walking around the bund, nobody would have seen him struggling in the water.

No one would have heard his cries for help; no one would have been there to throw in a lifeline and save him from otherwise inevitable fate of drowning. He would have surrendered to death, fighting against the waters that threatened to overwhelm his body by its sheer force and with emotions of helplessness, fear and sorrow flooding his mind when he thought about his wife and children one last time. Mother tried to remain oblivious to this heart wrenching possibility and hurried back home in the hope of finding him there.

The midday sun was starting to descend in the west, readying itself for dusk. Anxiety and fear had overwhelmed Mother and she decided to inform my grandparents, our closest cousins, neighbours and me. By evening, all of us had gathered, and there was no news of father yet. The grim possibility of him drowning in the pit was at the back of all our minds, and it had to be confronted. Had he accidentally drowned back there? The only way of determining a future course of searching him out, would be to eliminate the 'possibilities' that lurked around. All of us agreed. Mother decided to stay back with my siblings. The rest of us embarked swiftly to the pasture field. We looked around, observing footprints, pebbles, the items that lay adrift in the water at the top, any signs of friction, and the flow of water, everything, that constituted a basic search. But it didn't take too long for the observing eyes. 'There it is' someone shouted, pointing out to the water in the pit. As I peered through the muddy rainwater, a chill ran down my spine. It was the scapular of Jesus and the Virgin Mary, which my father wore around his neck. It was a piece of evidence that foretold the inevitable. Everyone was shaken. The reality was sinking in, the blood seemed to stop running through my veins and I felt my heart pound heavily against my chest. I felt dizzy as I sat on the muddy ground. My little world had gone dark, never to shelter light again.

All of us returned home, with our eyes and emotions betraying the news without using any words. Mother sensed it, and read our faces. My face was drained of all its blood. No words

came out. Somewhere amidst the silence in the depths of my heart, I could hear the breaking of her own. She stood there, motionless and frozen, to her very core while warm tears made their way out of her sorrowful eyes to embrace her young face and a grim new reality; that of being widowed, with seven little children to raise; seven little mouths to feed. The lunch that was waiting for my father had gone cold, and was left untouched. He didn't return home! The beginning, the end and the life in between has all been written in the maker's book, and therefore predetermined. His death announced a tragic end to a saga of misfortunes and miseries.

Life's not fair. The thought had crossed my mind many times before, but as I bid my father goodbye, it had resonated more firmly than ever. I heard myself whisper in the ghostly silence of the grave, ' I shall meet you again, in the unseen realms of the heavens above'. He was a man of faith, with a character that epitomized the Good Samaritan in every way. God would never forsake his soul. I believed that.

The grave digger was preparing to close I breathed in the incense deeply while observing the priest who was now walking around the grave, gently helping the soft wisps of perfumed smoke penetrate the coffin and the priest was reciting the prayer of commendation as