Savithri's Special Room and Other Stories

By Manu Bhattathiri

Named after the black river that flows through it, Karuthupuzha is a sleepy little town in the interiors of south India. But wait till you meet its inhabitants. A stingy accountant who wants to be a philanthropist, a godman with a strange fetish, the owner of an old age home who trades in pornography, a rationalist brought down to earth by an orphan's curse, and Savithri, a kind-hearted grandmother filling her secret room with delicacies: there's a surprise waiting at the turn of every page.Told in a fresh new voice that's wry yet humane, these tales will remind you of R.K. Narayan's Malgudi stories, full of life's little ironies and delicate wisdom

• Language: English
• Publisher: HarperCollins
• Release date: May 10, 2016
• ISBN: 9789351778509

Manu Bhattathiri

Manu Bhattathiri was born in a small town in southern Kerala in 1975. Having worked as a journalist and a copywriter, he now runs his own advertising agency in Bangalore. His work has appeared in various magazines, including The Caravan. This is his first book.

Book preview

title

For my grandmother, whom nobody noticed.

Contents

fish

The Cold

The Man Who Knew God

Paachu and the Arrogant Tuft

The Wife’s Leg

A True Liar

Savithri’s Special Room

Music and Love

The Rationalist and His Wife

The Scandal

Acknowledgements

About the Book

About the Author

Copyright

The Cold

fish

As with almost all the forty-two winters of his life, Kunjumon wondered in this one too how a cosy south Indian town like Karuthupuzha could grow quite so cold. Why, your breath blew in clouds and your teeth chattered like bolts in a box. And Eeppachan Mothalali, the owner of the rice mill where Kunjumon had been working for most of those forty-two years, eagerly cut salaries if you were late because of the cold. He would grow chillier than the season and say, ‘Work times cannot change with the weather. Be on time, or take a cut!’

Luckily, Kunjumon had a pashmina shawl and a woollen cap given to him by a cousin who was a nurse in the army. Clutching the shawl around him, he wondered if she might bring him some woollen socks when she next came on her leave. Maybe he should just call her and ask. Anyway, her gifts only balanced the big jars of salted mango, pickles, papads and condiments she took away each time she left. Being an accountant, Kunjumon liked it when things balanced and figures tallied.

As he walked by the big jackfruit tree next to Karuthupuzha’s only theatre, the tree shook a little and suppressed a giggle. It knew Kunjumon since he was a boy. And so, now, it also knew the meaning of his stealthy glances at the rundown theatre.

For you see, the owner of the theatre was Varghese, the younger man for whom Kunjumon’s wife had left him five years ago. To add insult to injury, she promptly became pregnant a few months after she had left Kunjumon. Both he and his mother had often insinuated that she was sterile, not having borne him a child in their seven years of marriage.

God bless them, he thought grandly, seething inside. Funny how insults hurt so much worse in winter. He always thought he would avoid this route but returned to it nonetheless like a dog to a rusty old vehicle’s tires.

Shuddering, he walked on. Soon he came to Chamel’s Old Age Home, usually a blind spot for him. But today he glanced at it unwittingly. He took in the Home with its mossy, stripped-to-plaster walls, rotting windows, dilapidated roof, and the lone old man in the cane chair in the front garden. The old man was lost in a tattered magazine, oblivious to the mucus running freely down his nose.

Suddenly Kunjumon had an idea. Maybe it had been cooking in his mind without his knowledge for a while now. Maybe it was the solution to all that hurt, and a way to turn a new leaf. Yes, maybe he would do something he hadn’t done in all these forty-two years. Maybe he would do some charity.

Kunjumon was preoccupied the rest of the day. The fat account ledgers didn’t absorb him into their endless columns as they usually did. The vendors who took away bags of rice to shops saw possibilities of cheating him a little. Eeppachan Mothalali noticed this and wondered if absent-minded employees deserved a pay cut.

By lunchtime, Kunjumon felt a strange excitement creeping into him. It was as if he was standing on a threshold, beyond which nothing would matter. He would make a generous donation and rise up – way above cheating wives, their shameless paramours, petty bosses, and this unchanging, ungrowing, unhappening little town.

Maybe he would make charity a habit. Of course, only to the extent that he could afford it. Look at it like an investment, he told himself, giving away a bottle of buttermilk to a worker in a fit of initiation. The returns on this investment would be the deepest joy and peace of mind. It would lift him in the eyes of people who hadn’t so far given him the respect he deserved. People who didn’t even know he existed. Yes, he would donate as often as possible. Maybe he would even keep aside some money from his salary every month for donations!

Under the censorious eyes of Eeppachan Mothalali, Kunjumon left the mill early that day, walking stooped and lost, out into the cold again. But either the evening was less cold than the morning or Kunjumon’s teeth too had become so involved in his new idea that they forgot to chatter.

His heart beat faster as he reached Chamel’s Old Age Home. He stood in front of it for a while, a strange conflict in his heart, like two opposing waves in the same pond. Years of being an accountant told him that he needed to think twice, thrice, endlessly, before taking a step that would cost money. But the day’s thinking had made it clear that this was one idea that could change his estimation of himself. It could turn him from a sore loser to a man of great depths.

Hesitantly, then more resolutely, Kunjumon opened the rusted old gates. This time there was an even older man sitting on the same cane chair with a small fire burning in front of him. But Kunjumon didn’t see him.

At the dirty, cracked glass window, he could see Chamel’s massive frame perched on a tiny steel chair, legs up on a table. He was reading a magazine that was almost certainly pornographic. Indeed, Chamel had the largest collection of cartoons, illustrated magazines, story collections, novels and adult videotapes in all of Karuthupuzha. The astute businessman that he was, he even charged a rental fee if you wanted to borrow any.

Of course, this made him a hot and forbidden topic among the women. The younger ones were scared of him and crossed the road hurriedly if they saw him approaching. The middle-aged housewives scorned him and glared from afar. And the elderly steadily spread the rumour that he was a pimp and that the old age home was just a guise to keep the authorities in the dark. The men thought he was a good sport but warned their women to keep away. Either way, no one could ignore him.

Chamel completely ignored them. He kept to himself, busy getting funds from god knew where, keeping and feeding his old folk, god knew how. The squirrels who ran along the moss-covered fence of the home could have told you that Chamel periodically got some grants from kind-hearted souls from surprisingly faraway places in the form of money orders that Kunjhali the postman delivered.

So this was Chamel – cynic, recluse, supplier of pornography – who now sat precariously on a tiny steel chair, making no move to hide his magazine as Kunjumon entered. Kunjumon was oddly relieved to note that the magazine was India Today, albeit one with a sex scandal as its cover story.

‘Kunjumon the accountant!’ Chamel exclaimed in his gruff, tobacco-hardened voice. ‘My friend, brother and fellow sufferer of this insufferable town. So how’s your wife’s husband?’

Kunjumon decided he hadn’t heard that last one, but his teeth suddenly started to chatter embarrassingly. ‘Chamel, I came t-t-to ask you s-s-something …’

‘Ah, I thought you never would. I have some latest Russian incest videos. You have a VCR, right?’ And he waved him to another steel chair, which wasn’t so small after all when someone less than Chamel’s size sat on it.

‘It’s not t-t-that. I wanted to make a donation t-t-to this home.’

‘Oh,’ said Chamel, disappointed. ‘Well. What do you want to give? These old rascals seem to have everything, actually. Considering I even let them in on the adult stuff.’ He closed his magazine and lit a cigarette, not bothering to keep the smoke off his visitor’s face.

‘Well, how about a lunch or a dinner this weekend? I could arrange for a good caterer from the city.’

‘Kunju, don’t get me wrong,’ Chamel said delicately, ‘but these old half-deads, you won’t find them drooling over food. Their taste buds have been to places yours and mine haven’t dreamed of. They can no longer really taste anything. Besides, I have enough food here. How about just some money?’

Might as well buy him some more porn, Kunjumon thought. ‘Er, Chamel, I would be really happy if I could give them something in kind, you know. Something they really need.’

Chamel leaned back and appeared to meditate for uncomfortably long minutes. His cigarette held aloft, he sighed, exhaled and shook off the ash. Then he opened his eyes and said, ‘Blankets! Yes, give them blankets, can you? I don’t know if they play tug-of-war with their blankets, but all of them are in tatters.’

The opposing waves in Kunjumon’s pond clashed violently. ‘How many people do you have here?’

‘Twenty-one. You will need to buy twenty-one new blankets. But can you afford it? You are just an accountant, not the owner of a cinema,’ Chamel sniggered.

This last remark Kunjumon didn’t quite hear. For his mind was already in a tizzy, figures furiously multiplying themselves by twenty-one, cutting themselves off his savings, and forming giant whirlpools upon joining Eeppachan Mothalali’s possible salary cuts. The waves of conflict became tsunamis, principles of accountancy contradicting the impulsiveness of philanthropy. But he just had to do it, he told himself. But could he afford it?

Kunjumon mumbled something to Chamel, who had already picked up the India Today again, and walked out in a daze.

On his way home, he failed to notice the theatre for the first time since his wife had left him. He walked past the snoozing jackfruit tree, thinking that the first step was to go to the two or three shops in town that sold blankets. He had to get a rough estimate, he told himself firmly, a powerful sneeze lurking over his thought. Tomorrow, he thought, cooking up reasons to vanish from work at lunchtime and sneezing thrice violently.

But when tomorrow came, Kunjumon couldn’t get up from bed. He sent word through a friend that he wouldn’t be in for work. His old mother made him hot peppered black coffee for his sore throat and a cold pack for his burning forehead. She realized there was something on his mind, but she didn’t bother him by asking. It was at such times that her Kunju badly needed a new wife, she mused. The old one was a bitch anyway.

The next few days passed in feverish delirium as Kunjumon, covered in layers of blankets, dreamed of the definite salary cut now that he couldn’t go to work, of his donation, and tattered blankets. He decided he would make a donation. The only question was, could he afford twenty-one blankets? Once he dreamt he was serving rice to the old people at the Home as the townsfolk watched in admiration. His wife was there beside Varghese and Eeppachan Mothalali, Bhaskaran the milkman, and an unidentified face whom he somehow knew to be Joby, the town drunk, because he was swaying. Chamel was playing a blue film for his old folks on a huge screen, which was an old blanket full of holes.

When he woke up, Kunjumon’s head seemed to have cleared a little. He didn’t know how long he had been sick. His mother brought him some hot rice soup. ‘Ma, how long have I been sick? What day is it?’ he asked.

‘Lie back, Kunju, and relax. It’s been a week and a day. Here, drink this,’ and she pushed the bowl to his lips.

A week! Eeppachan Mothalali would really perform an amputation on his salary. How was he to make his donation with such a huge pay cut? Didn’t the gods really want him to become a new man then? Why this silly flu now, just when he was about to take the most important step of his life?

Kunjumon fell back into troubled sleep. When he woke up, it was late evening, but he felt much better. He even had the energy to mutter aloud, ‘Alright, just put away the blankets for a while. Why blankets?’

The old woman came running from the next room and moved his blankets aside. ‘No Ma, not these blankets. I’m not talking about these,’ and he pulled them back over himself. She gave him a worried look, felt his forehead to see if he was feverish again, and went away. Kunjumon made a note not to think aloud again.

But why only blankets, he asked himself. After all, Chamel had said they did have blankets for now, right? Maybe he could buy them walking sticks instead. Twenty-one shiny new walking sticks. Sounded grand. But no, they would already have some support to walk with. How about utensils then? Same old food in new utensils. Nah. Not exciting. Maybe some dried fruits from the city? But they could hardly taste anything, remember? Kunjumon felt weak and lost. He also felt a sudden rush of anger for the old folks, whom it seemed practically impossible to help! Then he bit his mind’s tongue and resumed being kind.

By the time he was well enough for work, almost two weeks had passed. Half a month’s salary cut, going by Eeppachan Mothalali’s glances and body language.

One evening, as he walked by Chamel’s Old Age Home, Kunjumon decided to at least go and check out some blankets. The next day, fortunately a Sunday, he went over to the three stores in Karuthupuzha that sold blankets. He found that the lowest quality he could perhaps afford, provided Eeppachan Mothalali was unusually kind. The slightly better ones were just out of reach, though they were good blankets. The very best Kunjumon couldn’t afford even for himself.

Doodling on his account ledger one morning, he debated telling Eeppachan Mothalali about his plan so he could request him not to cut his salary despite his two weeks’ leave. Then he almost laughed aloud. What would someone like the Mothalali think about charity? The only person he had ever been kind to was himself. No. Eeppachan Mothalali would consider him, Kunjumon, a fool to give dying old men blankets. Besides, there was a certain frisson to doing such things without discussing it with anyone.

Soon, it was time for that part of the year when festivities forced Eeppachan Mothalali to give his employees a bonus. Of course, the amount was usually so paltry that if you ever thought of giving it to a beggar you would probably risk getting slapped. But Eeppachan Mothalali did not care. However, that year, a golden ray from between two dark clouds shone directly into his heart and sowed some seeds of unprecedented kindness there.

On payday he called Kunjumon aside and said, ‘Kunju, you’re my oldest employee. So even though you didn’t appear for two weeks and I had to do all the accounts myself, I don’t really have the heart to cut your pay.’ Kunjumon looked at him, wonderstruck. ‘It’s a clean case of partiality, so please don’t tell anyone that I’ve been so generous to you. And just so I don’t feel like I’m discriminating against the others, I’m cutting your bonus. Okay?’ And he simply started counting out the money, making it clear he wasn’t at any point asking for his oldest employee’s consent.

Kunjumon didn’t know whether his bonus was more shameful or his salary. But a few quick calculations on his way home told him that had his salary really been cut, it might have been a bigger chunk to forgo. Think positive Kunju, he told himself firmly. And in any case it wasn’t as if he was counting on the bonus to make the donation, right?

Kunjumon somehow started to believe the heavens were supporting his decision. Why, getting a full salary out of that Mothalali when he had worked only about half the month was an unprecedented feat! And so, when one day Eeppachan Mothalali asked him to go to the city to discuss finances with some of their customers, Kunjumon saw the hand of god in the offer. For now he could check out the rates of blankets in the city. He was sure it was a very different story there. If he bought in bulk, there would be places that would offer him huge discounts.

Before setting out, he went to Karuthupuzha Provision Store, one of the most thriving shops in their little town. As he was buying some toiletries, a familiar smell of sweat and tobacco wafted from behind, and he didn’t have to turn around to know who it was.

‘Ah! Who but my favourite donor! So where are the blankets, Kunju?’ Chamel thundered regrettably loudly as his large hand descended heavily on Kunjumon’s shoulder. Fortunately, only the toothless old shopkeeper was there to overhear this exchange, and he went inside his shop just then.

‘I am going to the city to get them,’ Kunjumon feebly replied, half-annoyed, wondering why in god’s name he must feel so guilty.

‘Okay, okay, just asked. Can’t force someone to do good, you know.’ Chamel grinned, motioning for the toothless man to bring him a sample from a sack of rice. Then leaning even closer, he whispered into Kunjumon’s ear, ‘The incest videos are waiting. I know how it feels without a wife, you know.’

Blushing and furious, Kunjumon left the shop, deciding he would buy his toiletries once he got to the city.

Kunjumon loved these rare but regular trips to the city in Karuthupuzha’s only bus. Once he got there, he checked into the usual decrepit lodge near the bus stop, where thousands of bedbugs had already checked in knowing he was coming. They particularly liked his country blood and his permanent rice smell. That night they