Thursday 26 January 2012

ശ്വാസ കോശങ്ങളില്‍ തേന്‍കൂട സൂക്ഷിച്ചവള്‍

ശ്വാസ കോശങ്ങളില്‍ തേന്‍കൂട സൂക്ഷിച്ചവള്‍

    മരണത്തിന്‍റെ സാവലോന്‍ ഗന്ധശാന്തതക്കും 16 ഡിഗ്രീ തണുപ്പിന്‍റെ മോര്‍ച്ചറിനിശബ്ദതക്കും ഇടയിലൂടെ
ചുവന്നു തുടുത്ത കാല്പാദത്തിന്റെ അതിദുര്‍ബലമായ ഒരു കിതപ്പ് ഞാന്‍ കേട്ടു............
                   "ഇവര്‍ക്കൊരിക്കലും ഒരു കവിള്‍ കഫം കാര്‍ക്കിചെടുക്കനാവില്ല"
ഊശാന്താടിക്കാരന്‍ ഡോക്ടര്‍ അലെക്സാണ്ടാര്‍ കാര്‍ക്കശ്യം വിടാതെ പുഞ്ചിരിച്ചു.
                   "നോക്കൂ"അയാള്‍ കറുത്ത എക്സ് റേ ഷീട്ടുയര്‍ത്തി....
നീല പ്രഭാതത്തിലെ തണുവിടാ പുകമഞ്ഞു നിറത്തില്‍ രണ്ടു ശ്വാസ കോശങ്ങള്‍...
                    "തെന്കൂട് പോലെ ആയതു കണ്ടോ?"
ഡോക്ടര്‍ നീണ്ട വിരലുകളാല്‍ ആ ശ്വാസ കോശ ചിത്രത്തില്‍ ഉരസി
സ്നേഹത്തിന്‍റെ പ്രാണചിത്രങ്ങള്‍...
അയഞ്ഞ ബലൂണ്‍ പോലൊരു മാംസവല സഞ്ചി..
                     "ഇവര്‍ ഇത്ര കാലം ജീവിച്ചിരുന്നത് തന്നെ അത്ഭുതം..."
കറുത്ത കോട്ടിട്ടു പുറത്തു ഒരു ന്യായാധിപ ഗൌരവത്തില്‍ നിന്ന മരണം, ഏതു നിമിഷവും മുറിയിലേക്ക്
കയറി വരുമെന്ന് ഞാന്‍ ഭയപ്പെട്ടു...
എഴുപതു വര്‍ഷങ്ങള്‍ നടന്നു തീര്‍ത്തിട്ടും  വാര്‍ധക്യം ഉറിഞ്ചിയതിന്റെ  ഗന്ധം ഉടല്‍  ഉയിര്‍ത്തിട്ടും , ഇന്നും ചുവന്നു നിന്ന കാല്പാദങ്ങളില്‍ ഞാന്‍ മുറുകെ പിടിച്ചു...
                       "പോവല്ലേ പോവല്ലേ"എന്ന് ഞാന്‍ ഹൃദയം, പ്രസാദ നെയ്യോളം ഉരുക്കി പറഞ്ഞു...
പെട്ടന്ന് അവര്‍ കണ്ണ് തുറന്നു...
ഇളം ബ്രൌണ്‍ നിറമാര്‍ന്ന കൃഷ്ണമണികളില്‍ ജീവപ്രകാശം നിറച്ചു അവര്‍ രോഗാതുരമായ  പുഞ്ചിരി വിടര്‍ത്തി...
കവിളില്‍ നുണക്കുഴികള്‍ ആഴത്തില്‍ തെളിഞ്ഞതോടെ ഞാന്‍ ഉറക്കെ കരഞ്ഞു....
ശ്വാസ കോശങ്ങളില്‍... രോഗത്തിന്‍റെയും  വേദനയുടെയും സ്നേഹത്തിന്‍റെയും വാത്സല്യത്തിന്റെയും തേന്‍ കൂടകള്‍ സൂക്ഷിച്ച സ്ത്രീ അവരുടെ മൃദുകൈപാതി  എനിക്ക് നേരെ നീട്ടി...
                 "അമ്മമ്മക്ക് ഒന്നുല്ല്യ..... ഒന്നുല്ല്യ..... കരയണ്ട... കരയണ്ട...." എന്ന് പറഞ്ഞു...(from DCs new book "Enne chumbikkan padippicha sthreeyye")

Monday 9 January 2012

ഡ്രാക്കുളയുടെ സുവിശേഷം


                                       ഡ്രാക്കുളയുടെ സുവിശേഷം

                     അറിയാമായിരുന്നോ?
നീയല്ലേ  മുതിര്‍ന്നതിനു ശേഷം എന്നെയതെല്ലാം ഓര്‍മ്മിപ്പിച്ചത്?അത്: ഹൃദയത്തെ അടയാളപ്പെടുത്തിയ നീല മഷിക്കറയായിരുന്നു .എന്‍റെ പാപത്തിന്‍റെ ആദ്യ അടയാളം.ഇളം കരിക്ക് പോലെ മൃദുവായ തോണ്ണ്‍  കൊണ്ട് ഞാനാ മുന്തിരി പഴത്തെ അമര്‍ത്തി കടിച്ചപ്പോള്‍ നെഞ്ചില്‍ പടര്‍ന്ന വയലറ്റ് കറക്ക് നിന്‍റെ രക്തത്തിന്‍റെ യും എന്‍റെ പാപത്തിന്‍റെ യും തീഷ്ണ ഗന്ധമായിരുന്നു.പിറവി യില്‍ ശാപത്തിന്‍റെ തന്തക്കാലുമായി ഞാന്‍ എന്‍റെ ഗര്‍ഭജലസമുദ്രോറ    ഇടതു കാല്‍ കൊണ്ട് എത്ര നിസ്സാരമായാണ് ചവിട്ടി ചിതറിച്ചത്.അമ്മയുടെ നിറമില്ലാത്ത കണ്ണീരെല്ലോ, ഉള്ളവയവത്തിന്‍റെ ആന്തരിക മാസ്മര ഗന്ധം എന്‍റെ ഉടലില്‍ നിന്നും കഴുകിയുലര്‍ത്തത് .
       "എന്‍റെ പ്രഭോ...എന്‍റെ പ്രഭോ..." 

സീമിത്തേരിയിലെ തണുത്ത കാറ്റ് എന്‍റെ കാലടികളെ ഇക്കിളിപ്പെടുത്തുന്നു...ആദ്യമായ്  മണ്ണ്തൊട്ട  ഉണ്ണിയാകുന്നു ഞാന്‍ ....
"മൂന്നു തവണ ..... അമ്മെ എന്‍റെ പ്രഭ്വി ...മൂന്നു തവണ അച്ഛന്‍റെ മുഖത്ത് നീയല്ലേ എന്നെ കൊണ്ട് മണ്ണ് വീഴ്ത്തിച്ചത്?"
         ചുവന്ന  സാന്ധ്യ മേഘങ്ങളില്‍..വെളുത്തു പടര്‍ന്ന പഞ്ഞി കംബളം- ഈ മഞ്ഞു..ഇത് പുകയുന്നോ?എരിയുന്നോ?വിളറിയ പുകയുടെ നേര്‍ത്ത ശ്മശാന ഗന്ധം.....നിന്‍റെ മൂക്ക് അത് ചുവപ്പിച്ചു.. അമ്മെ... എന്നെ അത് കരയിച്ചു...മണ്ണ് ,എന്‍റെ പിതാവിനെ ഒരു അഗ്നി നാളത്തേക്കാള്‍ തീവ്രമായി ,കാമുകിയുടെ ഈറന്‍ ഉടല്‍ പോലെ ആസക്തമായി ആലിംഗനം ചെയ്തു...പാതിയടഞ്ഞ കൃഷ്ണമണിയുടെ നീലിച്ച പ്രേമം മണ്ണില്‍ ദ്രവിച്ചു...
       "അവരാണ് അത് ചെയ്തത്..." എന്‍റെ വിശപ്പിനു മേല്‍ പക പോലെ പടര്‍ന്ന മുലപ്പാല്‍ ക്രോശിച്ചു...
"നിന്‍റെ ആത്മാവ് സ്നേഹരഹിതമായിരിക്കട്ടെ കുഞ്ഞേ "നീറ്റു പകയിലെ തലച്ചോര്‍ കനലുകള്‍ ഊതിയൂതി അമ്മയെന്നെ വളര്‍ത്തി.
അവരുടെ രക്തത്തിന് വേണ്ടി അമ്മയെന്നെ ദാഹാര്‍ത്തനാക്കി ...അവരുടെ മാംസത്തിനു വേണ്ടി എന്‍റെ ഹൃദയത്തില്‍ പട്ടിണിയുടെ പാപക്കുരിശുകള്‍ കുത്തിയിറക്കി...
   "എന്‍റെ മിശിഹായെ...മലിന മാംസകാരിയായ പാപത്തില്‍ നിന്നും വേദനകളുടെ രക്ത വീഞ്ഞിന്‍ വീപ്പകളില്‍ നിന്നും നീയെന്നെ മോചിപ്പിച്ചതെയില്ലല്ലോ?"
               നിന്‍റെ വഴി.... നിന്‍റെ വഴി...വീഞ്ഞിനു പകരം എന്‍റെ അള്‍ത്താര കറുപ്പില്‍, അവരുടെ ഊതരക്തം ഞാന്‍ ഊറ്റിഎടുത്തു.അവരുടെ മലദ്വാരങ്ങളിലൂടെ അവരെ ഞാനെന്‍റെ മരക്കുരിശുകളിലേക്ക് കയറ്റി എടുത്തു.അവര്‍ക്കൊരിക്കലും കുരിശു ചുമക്കേണ്ടി വന്നില്ല...എന്‍റെ കുരിശുകള്‍ അവരെ ചുമന്നു.അവരുടെ കീറശരീരത്തില്‍ എന്‍റെ അപ്പത്തിനുള്ള മാംസം വെന്തു...അവരുടെ ഞരമ്പുകള്‍ചിന്തി ചിതറിയ കൊഴുത്ത രക്തം എന്‍റെ മുഖത്തെ ചുമപ്പണിയിച്ചു .എന്‍റെ കാസയിലെ രക്ത ലഹരിക്ക്‌ പശിമ കൂടി.എന്‍റെ ജീവബലി,വേദനക്കും മരണത്തിനുമിടയില്‍ അതിദുര്‍ഭലമായ പിടച്ചിലില്‍ അവര്‍ കൈക്കൊണ്ടു..എന്‍റെ കറുത്ത ബലി..രക്തം വാര്‍ന്നു,വിളറിപ്പോയ കണ്‍കളില്‍ എന്‍റെ പച്ച മാംസപ്പക ആദിമമായ ഭീതി വളര്‍ത്തി..
    ഞാന്‍ തന്നെയായിരുന്നു എന്‍റെ പുരോഹിതന്‍...
     ഞാന്‍ തന്നെയായിരുന്നു എന്‍റെ പിതാവ്................
    ഞാന്‍ തന്നെയായിരുന്നു എന്‍റെ    പുത്രന്‍....
    ഞാന്‍ തന്നെയായിരുന്നു എന്‍റെ പരിശുദ്ധാത്മാവ് ......

ഹ്ഹാ പ്രിയപ്പെട്ടവളെ എന്‍റെ ആത്മ ബലികളില്‍ പകയില്ലായിരുന്നു.പ്രതികാരത്തിന്‍റെ കൂരംബന്‍ പല്ലുകള്‍ ഇല്ലായിരുന്നു...രക്തം മുലപ്പലായ് ഊട്ടി നല്‍കിയ അമ്മ വിശപ്പും...ഒരു കണ്ണീരിലും നനഞ്ഞു തീരാത്ത ആ ദാഹവുമുണ്ടായിരുന്നു.
    ഞാന്‍ തന്നെയായിരുന്നു എന്‍റെ പ്രഭു ....
    ഞാന്‍ തന്നെയായിരുന്നു എന്‍റെ രാജ .....

വലെഷ്യയില്‍ ഏത് മണ്ണിടമാണ് എന്‍റെ സ്പര്‍ശത്താല്‍ വിത്തുകള്‍ മുള പൊട്ടിക്കാതിരുന്നത്?
വലെഷ്യയില്‍ ഏത് പെണ്ണിടമാണ് ഈ രാജകുമാരന്‍ തൊട്ടറിയാതിരുന്നത്?എന്റെ സ്പര്‍ശത്താല്‍ എതിളം മുലഞെട്ടുകളാണ് ഞെട്ടിത്തരിപ്പോടെ  ഞാവല്‍ക്കാ  തോട്ടങ്ങളില്‍ പഴുത്ത കായ്കളെ പോലെ വിറക്കാതിരുന്നത്?ഏതേതു താമര മൊട്ടുകള്‍ ആണ് ലഹരി മതിര്‍ത്ത ലജ്ജയില്‍ എനിക്കായി വിടരാതിരുന്നത്?
         പക കറുത്ത  ഈ പ്രേമ ചുണ്ടുകളില്‍ കാന്തിക ലഹരി തുളിച്ചവളെ...സര്‍പ്പ സമാനിയായ ഈ നാവിനെ നിന്‍റെ  ഉമിനീര്‍ വിഷത്തില്‍ കുഴച്ചവളെ...
നീ വരുവോളം ഞാന്‍ തന്നെയായിരുന്നു ഈ ലോകചക്രവര്‍ത്തി...
നിന്‍റെ പ്രേമം എന്നെ ഭിക്ഷുവാക്കി...
അശരണനാക്കി ......
നിന്‍റെ കാല്‍ക്കീഴിലെ കാവല്‍നായാക്കി...
                നീ ...നീ...നീ ... തന്നെയായിരുന്നു  പ്രിയപ്പെട്ടവളെ, പ്രഭാത നക്ഷത്രങ്ങള്‍ ചെറു ശിശുക്കളായ് കണ്‍ചിമ്മിയ  ആ മട്ടുപ്പാവില്‍ വച്ച് ,വിശുദ്ധ ബലി പോലെ, എന്‍റെ പല്ലുകള്‍ക്കിടയിലേക്ക്  നിന്‍റെ നീല ഞരമ്പ്  വെച്ചമര്‍ത്തിയത്  ?

     ഹാ പ്രിയേ.. അവിവാഹിതയായിരുന്നിട്ടും നിന്‍റെ രക്തം എനിക്കായ് മുലപ്പാല്‍ച്ചുരത്തിയില്ലേ?നവംബര്‍മാസ തണുപ്പില്‍ പ്രിയേ പ്രിയേ ഞാനോര്‍ക്കുന്നു ......മോണിംഗ് ക്ലോറി പൂക്കളെ പോലെ നീ എന്‍റെ കൈകളില്‍ കിടന്നു ഉന്മാദത്തോടെ പിടഞ്ഞത്...
          ഞാനെന്ന സമുദ്രത്തെ ഒറ്റ ചുംബനത്താല്‍ ഉറിഞ്ചിയെടുത്ത വിശുദ്ധ വെണ്‍ശം
ഖല്ലേ നീ....?
എന്‍റെ രക്ത മാതളപ്പഴം ....നിന്‍റെ ഹൃദയഅറയില്‍ ഏകാകിയായ ശിശുവേ ഞാന്‍ പകച്ചപ്പോള്‍, പ്രിയപ്പെട്ടവളെ പ്രിയപ്പെട്ടവളെ ...നീയെന്തിനായിരുന്നു വിതുമ്പിയത്?
 പതിനായിര കണക്കിന് തുര്‍ക്കികളുടെ രക്തം വീണു നനവാര്‍ന്ന മണ്ണില്‍ വച്ച്....ലക്ഷക്കണക്കിനു പ്രേതങ്ങളുടെ ആര്‍ത്തനിലവിളികള്‍ക്കിടയില്‍ വച്ച്.... പ്രാണനറുന്ന ശാപങ്ങളുടെ നടുവില്‍ വച്ച്...ആ അമാവാസി രാത്രിയില്‍ ഞാന്‍ നിന്നെ, ഭ്രാന്തനായ കാമുകന് മാത്രം സാധിക്കുന്ന പ്രേമോന്മാദത്തോടെ  പ്രാപിച്ചില്ലേ പ്രിയേ?
നിന്‍റെ കന്യാ രക്തം വീണു ചുവന്ന ഭൂമിയില്‍ നമ്മള്‍ രണ്ടാത്മാക്കളുടെ ആത്മബലിയും പൂര്‍ത്തിയായില്ലേ?
     ഹ്ഹോ എന്‍റെ ദൈവമേ ...നമ്മുടെ പ്രേമം...അതെന്തായിരുന്നു...ആത്മാവിന്‍റെ കത്തല്‍....പ്രാണനെ അറുന്നു പൊള്ളിച്ച ചുംബനങ്ങള്‍ ...അഗ്നിയുടെ കാമരോഷ വികിരണങ്ങള്‍...മാംസം മാംസത്തിലുരഞ്ഞു  പരസ്പരം തീ പിടിച്ച ചെറുപ്രേമ സ്ഫുലിം ഗങ്ങള്‍ ...നഖങ്ങള്‍ കൊണ്ട് മാന്തിയും.... പല്ലുകള്‍ കൊണ്ട് കടിച്ചു കീറിയും നാം നടത്തിയ സ്നേഹത്തിന്‍റെ  ഭ്രാന്തന്‍ യുദ്ധങ്ങള്‍....
എന്‍റെ പ്രിയേ ...നിന്നോളം ഞാന്‍ മറ്റെന്തിനെയെങ്കിലും സ്നേഹിച്ചിട്ടുണ്ടോ???
      പ്രിയേ ...എന്‍റെ പ്രിയേ... എന്നിട്ടും നിന്‍റെ മിശിഹാ നിന്നിലൂടെ എന്നെ ചതിച്ചു...ഈ ലോകം ...ഈ പ്രപഞ്ചം ....എന്‍റെ  വല്ലേഷ്യ... എന്‍റെ വംശാ വലി ...എല്ലാം നിന്നെ പ്രതി എന്നെ തള്ളി പറഞ്ഞു....
നിന്നെ പ്രതി ...നിന്നെ പ്രതിയാണ് ഞാന്‍ മരിച്ചത്...എന്നിട്ടും എന്‍റെ കുഴിമാടത്തില്‍ അവര്‍ നട്ട ഗാര്‍ലിക്ക് വള്ളികള്‍ക്ക് വെള്ളമോഴിക്കെ നീ എന്തിനാണ് നിലവിളിച്ചു കൊണ്ടേയിരിക്കുന്നത്?
ഞാന്‍ ഒരു പിശാചാണെന്നു പ്രിയപ്പെട്ടവളെ നീയും വിശ്വസിച്ചുവോ ?
എന്‍റെ പ്രിയപ്പെട്ടവളെ....
      ആത്മാവിന്‍റെ അന്തര്‍ദാഹമൊടുങ്ങാതെ... എന്‍റെ ശരീരത്തില്‍  കത്തുന്ന ദാഹവും കുടല്‍ കീറി പിളര്‍ക്കും വിശപ്പുമോടുങ്ങാതെ നിന്നോടുള്ള കോടാനുകോടിവര്‍ഷ പ്രേമം അടങ്ങാതെ   ഞാനീ പെട്ടിക്കുള്ളില്‍ അഴുകി തീര്‍ന്നുവെന്ന് നീ വൃഥാ വിശ്വസിച്ചല്ലോ?

നിന്‍റെ നീലക്കണ്‍കളിലെ    പ്രേമം അവസാനിക്കാത്തിടത്തോളം കാലം  നീ അറിക....... എന്‍റെ അസ്ഥികള്‍ പൂക്കയില്ല...
എന്‍റെ ചുണ്ടുകളിലെ നിന്‍റെ അന്ത്യ ചുംബനതിണര്‍പ്പ്   മായുകയില്ല....
നീ കേള്‍ക്ക പ്രിയപ്പെട്ടവളെ ...രക്തം രക്തത്തെ ചതിക്കുമ്പോഴാണ്  ചതിയുടെ യഥാര്‍ത്ഥ ഉന്മാദ ലഹരി..
കാലുകളില്‍ നീ വിതറിയ മുള്ളാണികള്‍ തറച്ചു കയറുമ്പോള്‍  ആദ്യമായി നീ എന്‍റെ  മുകളിലിരുന്നു പുഞ്ചിരിച്ചതും...
നീയൊരു മുള്ളാണിയായതുമാണ്  ഞാനോര്‍ക്കുന്നത്..

നിന്‍റെ ചതി....എന്‍റെ വിധി...
നീയെനിക്ക് വീഞ്ഞായി വിളമ്പിയ വിഷത്തിനുമുണ്ടൊരു ക്രൂരലഹരി...
പക്ഷെ അതിനു നിന്‍റെ കഴുത്തിലെ ഇളം രക്തരുചിയോളം  കടുപ്പമില്ല ..രൌക്ഷ്യവുമില്ല പ്രിയേ......
നീ എന്‍റെ മാംസം ഭക്ഷിക്കുന്ന അന്ത്യനാളിലും നിന്‍റെ പ്രേമം എന്നെ ഉയിര്‍ത്തു  എഴുന്നേല്‍പ്പിക്കുന്ന  മൂന്നാംനാളുണ്ടാകുമെന്ന് നീ  മറന്നു പോയോ?

നമ്മുടെ നട്ടെല്ലിനെ നക്കി തോര്‍ക്കുന്ന ഭയം പോലെ തന്നെ ആദിമവും ശക്തവുമാണ് എന്‍റെ പ്രേമം....
നിന്‍റെ ചര്‍മം പോലെ അത് നിന്നെ പൊതിയുന്നു....
ശതകോടി വര്‍ഷങ്ങളായി ഞാനീ ശവപ്പെട്ടിക്കകത്ത്  നിന്നെ കാത്തു അര്‍ദ്ധനിദ്രയില്‍ നിന്‍റെ പിങ്ക് മുല ചുണ്ടുകളെ സ്വപ്നം കാണുന്നു...

നിന്‍റെ മുടിയിഴകളിലെ വന്യ സുഗന്ധ ഗന്ധമാണ്  എന്‍റെ ശവക്കച്ചക്ക്...
നിന്‍റെ  ഉമിനീര്‍ പഴുക്കുന്നല്ലോ എന്‍റെ ചുണ്ടില്‍...
നിന്‍റെ ആലിംഗനത്തില്‍  ഞരുങ്ങുന്നല്ലോ എന്‍റെ മൃതശ്വാസകോശങ്ങള്‍...
നോക്ക്.......... നോക്ക്...
ഞാനൊരു ഘ്രാണ വീറെറിയ    നായ്‌...
ഏത് ജന്മത്തില്‍ ഒളിച്ചാലും ഏത് ലോകത്ത് വളര്‍ന്നാലും നിന്നെ ഞാന്‍ തിരിച്ചറിയും...
എന്‍റെ ആത്മാവ് നിനക്ക് വേണ്ടിയാണിത്രയും സഹിച്ചത്....
പ്രേമത്തി
ന്‍റെ ചതിയെ ...രക്തത്തിന്‍റെ ചതിയെ...നീ മറക്ക...
     എത്ര ജന്മങ്ങളുടെ പകയുണ്ട് നമുക്കുള്ളില്‍? എത്ര ഭോഗങ്ങളുടെ പ്രതികാരമുണ്ട് നമുക്കിടയില്‍?
വരൂ  ... എന്‍റെ പ്രിയപ്പെട്ടവളെ ...
ഞാന്‍ നിനക്ക് വേണ്ടി മുളച്ച ഒരു പൂമൊട്ട്...
എന്നെ പിച്ചിയെടുത്ത്‌ ഞരടിക്കളയുക.......
വരൂ.................. ഞാന്‍ നിനക്കായി പിറവി കൊണ്ട്  പ്രാപ്പിടിയന്‍....
എന്‍റെ കഴുത്തു  നീ ഞരിക്ക..........
ഒഹ് പ്രിയേ............
ഞാന്‍ നിന്‍റെ അപ്പം നീ എന്നെ ബോര്‍മ്മയിലിട്ടു ചുട്ടെടുക്കുക........
വരൂ എന്നെ നിന്‍റെ കാല്‍ക്കീഴില്‍ ഇട്ടു ചവിട്ടി അരക്കൂ ...............
വരൂ..................നിന്‍റെ പ്രേമത്താല്‍ ഈ ശവക്കുഴിയില്‍ നിന്നും എന്നെ മോചിപ്പിക്കൂ...
വിധിയുടെ വിഡ്ഢി  സ്വര്‍ഗത്തില്‍ നിന്നും പ്രേമത്തി
ന്‍റെ ഗംഭീരമായ നരകത്തീയ്യിലേക്കു നീയെന്നെ കൊണ്ട് പോകൂ....
ഇതാ... എന്‍റെ പ്രിയപ്പെട്ടവളെ..ഇത് ഭക്ഷിക്കുക...
ചോരയിറ്റുന്ന ഈ ചുവന്ന പഴം നിന്‍റെ വിശപ്പും ദാഹവും അകറ്റും....
 പ്രിയേ..
എന്‍റെ പ്രിയേ....... ഈ കനി സ്വീകരിക്ക..........
ഈ വിശുദ്ധ പഴം നിനക്ക് വിലക്കപ്പെട്ടതല്ല....
വരൂ ...സ്വീകരിക്കൂ....
ഹ്ഹോ എന്‍റെ പ്രിയപ്പെട്ടവളെ .....

ഈ പഴത്തെ  നീ എന്‍റെ ഹൃദയമെന്ന് മാത്രം വിളിക്കരുതേ........

Sunday 8 January 2012

Sangh Parivar


Sangh Parivar

Translated from Malayalam by Premkumar K P

Though there were only a few passengers, though breeze of February drifted along the platform, Nasirudheen experienced a phobic sweat. The city was fast asleep – the concrete benches in the station, those who huddled on them, the wooden pillars, billboards, tracks and all else. Only the old man was not able to sleep.

It perturbed him; it is quarter to one and there is no clue of the Guruvayur express scheduled to arrive at quarter past twelve. He cursed the sore-eyed signal lights staring at him. He heard the announcement that the train will arrive shortly. The old man puffed a
Kajah Beedi with eyes wide open into the darkness. 

He was scared of making journeys, especially in trains. His vulnerability to asthma when exposed to the wind and his drained out lanky body were not the only reasons. After his last train journey nine years ago, in all his sleeps he used to have nightmares wherein inside the train he alone runs short of breath. 

‘Nasirudheen, it’s a fallacy.’ Even this evening the seventy one year old Kolakkadan Unneen repeated this.

‘If you can’t, I will go,’ Kunimacha ventured impudence along with a sob. ‘It’s that heart-rending.’ She bowed and swabbed her nose with the blue
kacha. 

As though not comprehending anything, he counted the notes in hand. Six hundred and fifty rupees. He obtained that much by selling off Faisal’s transistor. It was the most expensive object in his home. He brought it from Arabia; his boss’ present for Khadeeja’s wedding. 

Before taking it for sale, he and Kunimacha played again that cassette Khalb one last time. That song had turned more pathetic and frail than a wail. Before the last song, its flimsy tape stretched, the wheels circled fast. As he took it out,
Khalb was broken. Never in his life has Nasirudheen seen Kunimacha bursting into tears like this.

“It is for her, na? Poor thing, how much pain!” Kunimacha’s skinny bust drooped.
“Oh, so painful it would be. Allah, give her solace.” Nasirudheen prayed before boarding the train. 

He felt as if he ended up in a hideous dungeon of steel. The fluorescent lamps in the bogie emitted a blue light. The old Nasirudheen sat stunned. Such a luminous room…! He has never, even in his dreams, seen such luminance. Like rolled up stars clung to the iron roof, they spat smouldering light into his eyes. In the brightness, his eyes turned sore. 

Nasirudheen got a seat near the window. The rough tongue of cold dangled in the outer darkness. The wind pierced the ears like a diamond needle. Passengers dozed in diverse postures. He realised how perilous would be the insecurity of someone trapped inside a weird prison. As the train moved, he pressed on to the window like a clever cat. He managed to keep his eyes open into the darkness. He discerned that the train is running along the Khabersthan of Karbala mosque. 

“Oh the great God,” Nasirudheen’s lips trembled. He has trained himself to see in darkness. The black tombs rising unto the sky. Karbala mosque, its minarets glistening in pallid light. Moving ahead further… 

He saw prayers in Arabic for the dead, inscribed on marble. Saw overripe, thorny henna bushes. The lean henna stump planted near Faisal’s tomb came to his memory. By the time, Faisal’s tomb stood perpendicular to his vision, in the windowsill. He felt that his
meezan sepulchres are the fangs of night, and that they are scowling at him. For a solace, he looked at the fellow sitting next.

“Eh?”
“Nothing” Nasirudheen nodded as if he has committed a fault. What did I do to bid such a fierce glare? His body drew in the direction opposite to feverishness. Severe heat and sweat. But more frozen than a shred of iron. He perspired more and more. He guessed that almost everyone awake is observing him. Wrathful eyes. Ungracious lips.

“My dear Muslim brother” he shuddered as if he heard Sait’s call. At the same time, blood circulated through his skinny veins with confidence. Because Sait and himself are Muslims. They are in Nasirudheen’s own salon. In his hand, the sharpened scissors; there is the razor to shave head. 

Could have carried the scissors; for an assurance. Without the scissors, ossan Nasirudheen is frail. An insect or mere shit. But while others sit, surrendering their head, Nasirudheen is the King. A mighty Ossan who has all powers to prune head and to press a knife on neck. A king. 

Only Muslims come to Nasirudheen’s salon. Off and on, one or two strangers came after journeys. He disliked talking to strangers. With his pair of scissors, he would quickly dress strangers’ hair stinking of sweat and dirt; if for lather, even then. To the query “How much?” he would point at the calendar with the photo of Mecca. All Kerala barbershop Owners Association’s board hangs there. 
Cropping – 
Head Shave – 
Shaving –

Whatever it may be, Nasirudheen is an expert barber; the man who has mastered the language of hair and head. When they were children, he used to narrate to Khaddeja and Faisal the language of hair. Some has permed hair, some others flat top, brown, thick, ripping, grey, dyed and black, waxy, blond without dye and some others dread locks. Only the barber can discern the language of the hair. While seated for a crop, the language of some hair would be like “Don’t… don’t cut me…” Some others would dare: “Come on… cut…” On sagging in pieces, one language; on beginning to shave, another. 

Last month it was. Sait came to the salon and stated the mutual relation between cutting of hair and cutting off heads. Barber cuts Muslim’s hair; and they cut off Muslim’s head. Nasirudheen was scared stiff. The razor quivered during the shave. Sait’s chin scratched. 

“Cool down Nasirudheen” Sait swabbed blood drops with his kerchief. 
“They will come to us old people only at the end. Their target is our children and women.” Nasirudheen spouted water on his hair. 
“Yesterday Faisal and Ummer. What’s going to happen to our race is extermination. As per their agenda of 1975 and 76, we the minority…”
Sait’s heavy voice broke with the entrance of a stranger. In a sharp voice Nasirudheen’s scissors talked to hairs. 

Again Nasirudheen looked out. The train has moved from Kayamkulam. Strange route, strange fellow travellers, strange places and strange names. An unusual, fear gripped Nasirudheen. He has the ultimate wisdom that he is never safe in any trip.

“Either they will track us down and then behead. Or they will explode the whole train we travel, by a bomb blast or else setting it afire. But a barber need not worry. Scissors and razor are there to protect him.” Nasirudheen remembered Sait’s words. 
“A barber is a killer artisan too.” Sait laughed out loud. 

Nasirudheen mused. The same barber is an artist too. His sublimity should always glisten at the tip of his scissors, left hand and his comb. Nasirudheen knew the geometry of haircut too. “There is a calculation at heart. If it fails, all is lost. Right?”

Nasirudheen simply stirred his scissors to sharpen it. The music of arms reverberated in the salon. In the former days, Nasirudheen’s scissors had no discretion. It didn’t consider Hindus, Christians and Muslims separate. Gradually the visits of ‘others’ to the shop stopped. “To be precise, it’s since 1996 that the Hindus stopped coming.”

Nasirudheen would shudder at the question about the non-appearance of Hindus. When the cops roughened up asking Unneen, “did you see,” it was Nasirudheen who had a urine block. As he heard the din of beating up, in his dhoti, Nasirudheen defecated in fear. The rest of the day, severe with pain in the stomach, he lay down on the bed pressing a pillow. With Faisal’s death, he started feeling a loss of vigour. With the clamour about Sait’s missing son, Nasirudheen and his scissors showed signs of rusting. 

It was at the nightfall one day, while Nasirudheen was sitting listening to the music of the scissors that Sait himself came by his car and took him home. 
“Crop him clean. Or better shave him off.”
Nasirudheen stared at that man. The look of negation frightened him. His hair had the smell of oil and his beard that of camphor. As the odour of blackened wicks emanated on shaving his arm pit, Nasirudheen’s razor paused for a moment. Said to him in a hush: “Hindu.”

Once again a cool breeze surged into the train. Nasirudheen once again trembled in that memory. The open
kajal duppy of darkness and the tiny circle of light inside frightened him. He placed the stripped hand bag on his lap. Placed his pads on the seat, held his knees and tried to add strength to himself. The insolence of some non sleepers reminded him of that Hindu’s body hair. 

With the clank of a massive weapon, the train halted. “Abruptly the train will halt. They will barge in. The compassion of the crimson colour on their forehead won’t be in their eyes. “Genocide is said to be their agenda,” Sait’s words dragged him down to abyssal waters of fear. Tired, he sank his head onto his knees.

The train got back into motion after three minutes. He lifted his face. Outside, the guard’s flashlight flickered green. “Cherthalai,” with mortification, he read the sign board. If it was not for Khadeeja, Nasirudheen would’ve never set out on such a hazardous journey. He was quite aware that a sacred funeral is an undue demand. 

Nasirudheen himself washed him with cold water. Water taken from the same well from which was he took water for bathing him the first time in life. The same hands of Nasirudheen. Tears rolled down into the red wound on his hairy chest. While removing his worn out blue underwear, he whimpered in distress. 

“What last rites once you are charred? You’ll just be buried near the mosque. On the head’s side they will erect a concrete
meezan stone.” Sait’s words frightened Nasirudheen. “If possible, avoid trains. That’s the only way out.” But Nasirudheen couldn’t help boarding a train. From Khadeeja’s letter, the fair nails of pain had scratched him that much. 

“Cannot eat anything solid now. Only juice. One tube runs inside through the nose. Another one comes out from the belly. You come immediately. While coming, bring ripe grapes; seedless. Am hungry
Uppa. Very very hungry…”

Rubbing her head against Nasirudheen’s lanky chest, Kunimacha cried: “Allah”

“Oh God.” Train is now moving at a howling speed. It is not running; it is flying. The flying Satan. He pressed his head to the window grill. I should hand over the ripe grapes Kunimacha bought for Kahdeeja. Behold her one last time before death, bring her two kids home. It is so important. That’s why he has set out, that too only by train. 

“How long will you stay there?” He looked down before Unneen’s query. 
“At the most, one or two days. Doctors have declared that she would not go further. Just after the
Namaz and cremation I will return. Kunimacha’s indifference surprised even Nasirudheen.

The train stopped once again. Nasirudheen looked out. It is not a station. All around it is glazing river. On its shore, a sandbank luminous likes a carnival. He felt as though all his energy is draining out. Why did the train halt on this bridge? None among the fellow travellers are nervous. They do not fear anything. Might be they are all Hindus. Somewhere in the confronting seat, he spotted an old man smoking a cigar. Alone he sat exhaling smoke, nervously. 

“My dear Muslim brother.” Sympathy arose in Nasirudheen’s heart. “You, me, who are the later preys…?” 

Again the train pulled out. Its movement was mechanical as if afraid of something. Nasirudheen started wondering about the vital being which hitherto has controlled it. Slowly, it ground to a halt. 

Hubbub from outside. The roars and clamour of people. Nasirudheen stared at his Muslim brother. He saw him rising from the seat, dashing to the door and darting out. The noise of slippers rustling. As he peeped to the door, Nasirudheen felt a shiver. Men and women. On their forehead, burning marks of blood. Women’s blouses were red. The dense crimson colour of gore. All of them wore
kasavu dhotis. The radiance of the cheap dhoti border reminded him of the sharpness of veiled weapons. 

Women too were there. With crimson sindoor and clothes. They barged in like passengers. As the train moved on and reached a desolate spot, they pulled the alarm chain. As Sait struggled to breathe, Nasirudheen too got tired. Some women glared at Nasirudheen. Fear made his hair stand on end. 

“Tell that mappila to stand erect.” In the rough voice of men, Nasirudheen recognised the rattle of arms. I am the first target. He felt like pissing. 

“Next?” Nasirudheen asked to himself, looking at the throng in the compartment.

He thought it was for self-defence that the Muslim brother got down earlier. His eyes dilated. How to escape? He looked out. The train is still. He got to his feet quickly. 

“Hi,” a heavy palm fell on his shoulders. He shuddered once again. “Hand bag.” The ferocity seen on his face while saying this turned him more scared. He felt his throat parching and feet shivering. 

There is one way; one and only one. Stand at the foot board. Afraid to touch the sandal scented bodies, he kept on standing near the window. “Jump when the train moves. Jump and escape”.

Scared of these, Nasirudheen flustered. The train jerked once. All of a sudden, startling all, Nasirudheen flung the bag out. Pushing aside those standing with gaping mouths, he scurried in fright toward the door. Closed his eyes. With prayers, jumped out. 

‘Tup.’ Nasirudheen felt the pain of bones splintering. As if in a nightmare, he discerned the blood fanged train speeding up just behind. He saw people gaping at him through doors and windows. 

“Escaped!” He heaved a sigh. With delight, he stroked the blood oozing from his lanky, twig like elbow. “Escaped” Nasirudheen raised his head. 

“What happened?” People swarmed around him. They are double the number of those inside the train. “These many Hindus?” He sprawled out on the platform, terrified. 

“Get up you…” A railway policeman grabbed him. 
“What’s the problem?” The station master rolled the green flag. “Jumped out to die.” The station master’s beard, calloused forehead and loose khaki brought Nasirudheen to the presumption that he is a priest. 

He narrated everything. About the attempt on his life, about his jump for life from the train…
“Please rescue me…” 
First, the station master broke into laughter. Then the police man. Then all those assembled there. 

“What nonsense are you talking? None of them are manslayers. They are returning after the
Shiv Rathri festival.”

A moment. Nasirudheen had tears and titters together. A banner unfurled wide in the station pooh-poohed at him. This is what Nasirudheen read over there: 

“Maha Shivrathri. Believers, Hearty Welcome to Manappuram.”
A Shivrathri breeze from Aluva sand bank cooled him down.


Notes:

Kacha…. A type of dhoti usually worn by Muslim women.
Khalb The Arab word for heart
Uppa Muslims use it to address their father.
Namas One among the sacred Muslim rituals saluting the dead.
Kasavu The golden bordered sari, a typical dress of upper class Hindu women.
Sindoor A saffron pigment used by Hindus to adorn their forehead. 
Mappila Slang for ‘Muslim’
Manappuram A place near Aluva, famous for Shivrathri festival

A Lesbian Cow


A Lesbian Cow
Indu Menon

A column of sunlight, resembling smoke in its movement, had fallen into the bathroom through the glass ventilator. While taking her bath, Mehrunnisa often squirmed like a child. And every time she did so, the ray of light, awakening her curiosity, aligned itself with her navel like an umbilical chord.
At other times, it lay submerged in the cold water in the orange bucket like a light- filled submarine pipe. Or it left a ring like glitter on the cracked wall tiles.
Sometimes Mehrunnisa would stop it with her hand. Or, she would let it reach up to the dripping ends of her wet hair. Barring all these, she might even keep watching the millions of dust particles moving in the circle of light. That was precisely why it took her long to finish her bath.
But that day Mehrunnisa started to wash herself in a hurry. She had forgotten about the ray of sun light. Yet, as she drew the last dipper full of water from the bucket, she realized that the transparent finger of sunlight had not arrived to touch the water.
It was with a start of surprise that she raised her face toward the ventilator. Screaming, “Oh!”, she held the washing to her body. Two eyes were calmly watching her; one half of a face was slowly drawing itself away.
Mehrunissa trembled with fear when she came out after putting on her clothes. It was her- the lesbian cow!!!
When Mehmood Khan arrived on his moped at her rented house to call on her, she was doing the washing. The changes that had come over his daughter in three years took him by surprise. He realized that she had become quite a mature woman and that time had spared no sign of her childhood in her.
On the other hand, Mehrunnisa’s sister Eid, as she got older, was getting more and more prone to mischief and prattle and also to playing childish pranks on Mehmood Khan.
Eid had shown no signs of becoming a mother even after ten years of marriage. Since theirs was a Rowther family which followed matriliny, Eid Kamal’s husband also lived with the family of Mehmood Khan’s wife. The public was of the opinion that Raftas Junish had not divorced his wife because of this cosy arrangement but their love, like fever and its heat, was inseparable. Yet Mehmood Khan considered his daughter’s childlessness a permanent blight on his family.
The auspicious news that his younger daughter Mehrunnisa has managed to conceive in the third year of her elopement with her lover melted his wrath away.
Mehrunnisa saw the sight as she turned away after wringing the clothes and putting them on her shoulder. She broke out in a cold sweat. At first sight she took him to be the lesbian cow that was in the habit of coming in past the gate. Ever since it became known that Sreehari Venkatesh had left on tour, the lesbian cow had grown rather bold.
Mehrunnisa was taken by surprise. Her Atha stood near his moped, six feet tall and looked like a rock- hewn figure. She pulled down the hitched up ends of her sari. After three years Atha was smiling like a noon-day dream. Mehrunnisa too smiled back. She smiled, showing her gums, opening her brown eyes wide and fluttering her copper brown lashes.
Despair and disappointment suddenly assailed Mehmood Khan. He had longed to hear Mehrunnisa cry, simply because he had never known another girl who could cry so enchantingly as her.
But Mehrunnisa invited her Atha in with a smile. As he climbed the steps to the rented house, she saw him step on the Lakshmana Kolam that Sreehari Venkatesh had drawn three days before. After three years she coaxed her father in mock exasperation, ‘Move over please, Atha’
Mehmood Khan screwed up his face at the too-sour Suleimani. She started to cry when he told her that a Rowther girl who couldn’t make a good cup of suleimani did not amount to much, whatever heights she reached in life.
‘Is he an artist?’
Mehmood Khan looked at the kolam relishing Mehrunnisa’s tears.
‘No’
‘What is his name?’
‘Sreehari Venkatesh Pai’
‘When will he be back?’
‘By evening’
Mehmood Khan nodded his head gravely
‘Any photos?’
‘I don’t have any’
‘What about your wedding album?’
Mehrunnisa cracked her knuckles in discomfiture.
‘We are not married’
Mehmood Khan kept nodding as if he had not heard anything unusual.
‘Did you change your religion?’
‘No’
Mehrunnisa watched his face grow red and glow like an ember with rage. The gray hairs of his beard lashed against the front of his kurta.
‘You could have changed your religion. At least it would have been more decent than what you are doing now.’
He placed the cup of suleimani on the parapet.
‘I didn’t even know you were living in such damnation.’
He stood, planting his pointed shoes firmly on the kolam. The smell of thick laundry starch filled the air. ‘There’s something called pride, Mehru.’ He started his moped.
Mehrunnisa was startled. She stood stock still as one lost in a dream.
It was the ever-wakeful fluorescent lamp in the verandah that showed Sreehari that his kolam had become a mess. Foot- prints lay on sugar- fine grains like marks of sin. Even though he was tired from his travel, he went into the kitchen and made tea. The code of conduct that Sreehari and Mehrunnisa had laid down for each other was ever so fixed and immutable. There was a kind of seriousness and discipline even in the courtesies they extended to each other.
Sreehari made up his mind to speak to Mehrunnisa while drinking his tea. For he happened to believe in signs. The marks that he had come across upon his arrival indicated the presence of three persons.
‘Who were the guests?’
‘Atha’
‘Atha!’ Sreehari felt ashamed. He knew that Mehrunnisa’s Atha was the richest gem merchant in the city. Sreehari felt that he might have viewed his daughter’s shabby rented house with derision.
There was another reason too. An aunt of his used to drop in at their rented house once in a while. Mami was fond of Mehrunnisa, who wore a diamond nose- ring on her right nostril and who was tall and nicely proportioned, and delicate like a white water lily. Even her religion did not exasperate Mami. She even used to trot out reasons for her liking. One was the Konkani language, which Mehrunnisa wielded with even better skill than a G.S.B. woman. It was beautiful bird song –Konkani with the hint of a lisp in it.
Still the termite - ridden doors and rat and spider infested cobwebby roof of the rented house both frightened and put her off. And Mami used to quarrel and also worry about the house all the time.
He did not ask her for Atha’s news. Without ever having actually laid down rules, they were in the habit of observing all kinds of rural and urban etiquettes that might be observed between a man and a woman.
Even before Sreehari asked, Mehrunnisa started to tell him about her dream of slugs. ‘Around ten in the morning yesterday I dreamt of slugs which do not have thick outer shells. I saw the thick body fluid that they expelled into the water and also the many eggs floating in the fluid. The slugs kept pushing their fleshy bodies out into the water and went on laying eggs. The same slug kept passing into the water the white fluffiness of its fertile eggs that will not easily be swept away by the flow. It was holding a flower vase of glazed china clay that I sat on the bank, watching with interest the slugs laying their eggs and collected their eggs with a spoon made of a jack -tree leaf and deposited them in the vase. I saw tender rice saplings moving about in the water like tentacles of green octopuses. It was when Atha called me to start for home, that I accidentally stepped on the slugs, which were crossing the narrow bank between the paddy fields. The eerie ‘krruk’ sound disturbed me.’
Sreehari scratched his head in wonder. It was the first time since they started living together that Mehrunnisa was describing a dream as if it were a real life experience.
‘This is not just a dream that I had in my sleep, as you seem to think, Sreehari.’
‘Then, what Mehru, a noon-day dream?’
‘No. I think it was day before yesterday that I started to feel a kind of uneasiness. I vomited. By yesterday morning it had become something of a gesture. Only yellow bile kept coming out as if my body had nothing else to throw up. While I was washing my face by the well I stepped on three slugs and crushed them to a pulp. It was the very same moment that the cow pressed me to herself from behind and I fainted away. The dream is the one I had during my fainting fit.’
‘Mehrunnisa,’ Sreehari called insistently. He could not suppress his joy. He placed kisses on her forehead and her eyelids.
Mehrunnisa lay on the cot like an organic clock. Her eyes shone in the dark like the dial of a digital clock.
Sreehari felt happy as if he were back in his father’s watch repair shop. Sreehari’s bappa was Venkitesh Pai who kept studying the needles and tiny cog- wheels of time- pieces through his magnifying glass till his death. Sreehari always used to fancy that there were needles in his father’s extraordinarily sharp -sighted eyes. Moving his irises up and down, he kept his clock-like eye always in movement.
Pai had built a clock tower with the inscription ‘sponsored by Pai’s Watch Works’ in the Gowda Saraswata Brahmin Street in Andhra Pradesh. The giant clock, which never showed the wrong time or chimed the wrong hour, had stopped one fine morning and hit the ground with a terrifying peal.
At the same time at Pai’s Watch Works, Venkitesh Pai was lying spreadeagled on a chair like a clock that had stopped ticking. A magnifying glass was screwed to his right eye. Only the ting-tong sound of a pocket watch that he had repaired filled the place.
The villagers were disturbed when Sreehari Vernkatesh and Mehrunnisa started their ‘cohabitation’. People kept discussing whether it was right for two people belonging to two different religions to live together out of wedlock. Mehrunnisa and Sreehari had simply shifted to rented accommodation straight from the hospital leaving a note explaining that they were going to live together.
At sixteen years of age, Mehrunnisa had made the acquaintance of Sreehari Venkatesh at the complaint redress committee of the Ayurvedic hospital. Apart from being the social welfare officer, he was also a handsome young man with bluish stubble shadowing his face. His face with its faint tracings of blue and green veins used to shine because he put too much oil in his hair.
It was a very complicated affair. Mehrunnisa’s small teeth and her smile which revealed her gums created a certain amount of interest in him. He was about thirty six at the time.
The accused, a nurse, stared at him like a belligerent cow. She could not bear it when he looked at Mehrunnisa.
Mehrunnisa had come to the hospital seeking treatment for paralysis. Even the hardest of treatment regimens had not scared her. Sreehari came across a sentence like this in the copy of her complaint: Ever since the accused has been assigned to look after me, instead of massaging my body, she has been indulging in caressing it.
‘She smells like a cow, sir. She has a face like one too. The soles of her feet are just as hard as the hooves of a cow. She used to stare at me all the time. Do you know how much I hated the creature just because of that?’
As soon as she heard the word ‘hate’ her face became hard. Sreehari kept watching the accused.
Her eyes were like an antique battle ship. Sreehari saw water spattering from her eyes as though an aquatic pageantry of gun smoke and cannon shots had taken place in them. Like the bullet of a gun, like an ocean wave, like a molten piece of glass, the tear drop stuck to her cheek.
‘She trampled on this chest of mine with iron horse- shoes.’ Mehrunnisa placed her hands on her chest.
‘From the beginning I felt there was something wrong. She used to kiss my daughter while she slept. How can this woman behave like this to my daughter who is ill?’ Nihad begum deposed before the committee.
‘My body had become more pliable than wet clay. At the end of each massage session, like human flesh sizzling in oil, I would toss and turn in semi –sleep. Then each and every one of the nurses used to bathe my body. And all of them had shown my sick body the compassion and respect that one must show to one. Everyone except this dirty cow.’
‘I was worshipping your body, Mehru’, the nurse said in a rush of passion, ‘Just as one cow loves another cow.’

Even Sreehari paled at her shameless revelations.
Hailing from the Gomatha family, her name was Nandini Gomatha. The punishment she got was a three- month suspension from work and a life-long banishment from Mehrunnisa’s ward.
‘After that she used to come to my room on the sly. Once when I woke up, she was kissing me passionately.’
‘Sreehari,’ Mehrunnisa opened her eyes. ‘When I came to my senses, the dirty cow proposed to me.’ Frowning , Sreehari sat up . So the third guest was her.
Sreehari was startled out of sleep when flame –bright stars and resplendent moonlight rose in the sky. They always slept with the windows open. He was not afraid to do so. Yet he fancied that bovine ears and battleship eyes appeared on the face of darkness. A stone wrapped in a piece of paper landed in front of him. Someone disappeared into the darkness behind the wall. The forlorn lowing of cattle rose from the dairy farm. Scribbled on the paper was this message: ‘Leave Mehrunnisa to me.’
The next day when Mehmood Khan, Nihad Bejgum, Eid Kamal and Raftasunish called on him, Sreehari Venkatesh, in his agitation, even forgot to welcome them.
‘I have come to talk to you about something very serious.’ When he took off his spectacles Mehmood Khan’s bleary eyes with their cataract rings were revealed. The sharp pendulum of old age discordantly swinging in them haunted Sreehari.
Mehmood Khan explicitly asked him to marry Mehrunnisa and promised him ample dowry, ornaments in the Pathan tradition, property and some movable assets. But Sreehari responded in an unexpected manner. So long as he remained a feminist, he said quite candidly, there was no question of his recognizing the institution of marriage.
‘Give women plenty of freedom. Mehrunnisa richly deserves it.’
Khan fidgeted in perturbation and hid the long needle of tear that crept down his cheeks with his hand. Sreehari recalled his father who had told him ‘There is a clock in every human organ.’ He touched Mehmood Khan’s feet. ‘Bappa, please forgive me. This is a question of certain positions I have taken in life. Don’t take it for impudence.’
At the same time Nihad Begum was anxiously enquiring about the lesbian cow. Mehrunnisa had not thought of her even once since moving into the rented house. The five- acre dairy farm next door or the huge cows that came past the gate to eat the flowers of the crepe jasmine plant in her garden had failed to remind her of Nandini Gomatha. And recently, the lesbian cow had taken to visiting her garden along with the other cows to browse on the flowers of the crepe jasmine plant and hungrily peep at Mehrunnisa while she took her bath.
‘Come, let’s get married’ was what she keeps saying.
Nihad Begum was scared. She had of course heard tales of forlorn lovers who madly pursued married women, who rolled on the ground on which the shadow of their beloved had fallen. But she failed to understand why a woman should pursue another woman claiming to love and desire her.
‘Some nights she can be seen observing our rented house from her room at the top of her dairy farm. Before I close the window at night, I see her skin rough like the hide of a cow and her face crumpling up like shrivelled hide ripe for tanning.
‘Maybe she’s a witch, dear….’
Mehrunnisa and Eid were disturbed.‘It’s alright, Mehrunnisa. For one thing, your Atha and I have once stayed for about five months in a village, which had a lot of such people. The villagers used to call them panas. They used to shun them because they ate beef. The cow was considered sacred in the villages. It was the panas who used to look after them. If a cow went down with some disease, its caretakers would happily drag the carcass to their hovels. They would roast the meat and eat it. If somebody elected not to eat the meat, I have personally seen the villagers punish him by flogging him.’
Mehrunnisa felt faint.
‘I believe these panas acquire whatever is divine in the cow. So they become sorcerers and magicians. They have the wonderful power for performing odi. My dear, the one who knows odi can acquire any shape. But they will be naked. Mostly they assume the shape of a cow. And the odiyan thus avenges himself on those who have done him wrong’
Mehrunnisa felt her head bursting. The terrifying peal of thunder rang in her ears. The angry snorting of a cow.
‘These odiyans, in the shape of a cow, stalk women to whom they have taken a fancy. They are said to avenge themselves by trampling on the bellies of pregnant women.’
Mehrunnisa tried hard to believe that the odiya tale of belief and disbelief and blind superstition was a myth. She feared the lesbian cow that violently shook the iron gates of her house once Sreehari left for work. Did it have two protuberances on the top of its head? Two large protuberances hidden by its horns?
The sound of a hoof followed Sreehari that evening, on his way home from the market after buying milk. The lesbian cow! Sreehari watched her intently.
She was wearing a dress made from cotton that was coarse like cow- hide. The ends of her dupatta moved up like a cow’s ears. She wore slippers with high heels, which reminded one of horse- shoes. Her eyes were like battle ships. Her pink skin was softer than freshly churned butter.
‘Please leave Mehrunnisa to me. Give her up. Since your relationship is not legal, it will be easy to part. She is not even your wife.’
Sreehari Venkatesh lost his temper. ‘Don’t you ever disturb Mehru. If you do, I’ll call the police.’
‘Look Sreehari, it’s no use getting angry. Listen to me. I have a better claim on her than you do. I have touched her breasts twice as many times as you have done. I remember each and every atom of her body awakening to the touch of my finger- tips’ she concluded her passionate outburst.
‘Get lost woman!’ Sreehari Venkatesh screamed at her. He pushed her away.
Her demeanour changed suddenly. Instead of the heat of lust, resonances of anger worked up her face. Heated blood coursed through her veins to her face. The smell of gun powder emanated from her.
Swearing at him, she butted him on the chest with her head. And kicked him hard with her horse shoe clad long legs when he lay sprawled on his back. Pressing her feet down on his face, she cried as if she were mad, ‘I’ll kill you.’
Sreehari Venkatesh decided to marry Mehrunnisa as he lay like meat on the threshold of the butcher’s shop in the market place, which smelt of cow’s urine and its dung. As for the lesbian cow, she turned and stormed out. And Sreehari Venkatesh saw that her plaited hair was just as skimpy as a cow’s tail.
Sreehari Venkatesh married Mehrunnisa according to both Hindu and Muslim rights. It was on the very same day that the lesbian cow breached the walls of the dairy farm. More than two thousand cows broke into the village through the ruined gate.
The rumour that the cows had been let loose due to the mad cow disease spread. Villagers ran helter–skelter. Children kept away from school. The village sank into a post bellum stupor. Some young men, to guard their place from this calamity, took to patrolling the village, armed with stout wooden sticks and bamboo poles studded with nails at the ends. They ganged up to beat the cows and set upon them with stones and tins and thus killed them.
The very same evening, as if to settle a score, Sreehari married Mehrunnisa at a civil ceremony too. On their way home from the Register Office, they came across the carcasses of cows dumped in various places.
Sreehari feared that a clash might break out between Hindus and Muslims. As in a riot torn place, there were no people or vehicles on the streets. Cows, half dead and injured and with broken skulls, crawled on the streets and lowed piteously.
Mehrunnisa and Sreehari saw people thronging the west of the dairy farm. Stopping the vehicle, Sreehari rushed anxiously up to them. The lesbian cow lay sprawled face down on the road. She was naked. Blood, oozing from her chest, had flowed on to the midnight black of the tarred road and not having dried up,bubbled.
He felt that the air was redolent of the smell of cow’s milk.
‘Since she was gored by a mad cow, people stoned and beat her to death with bamboo sticks.’
Sreehari felt a curious relief. ‘Oh, she’s dead.’ Sreehari spoke in the same light tone that he would use to talk about a cow.
‘Who are you talking about?’ Mehrunnisa wanted to know. ‘Nothing. People beat a mad cow to death, that’s all.’
Sreehari slammed the door of the car shut.
The next morning, Sreehari stopped Mehrunnisa who was trying to read a news item about ‘ People stoning a dairy farm owner to death suspecting her to be a witch.’
‘Go and bring me a cup of coffee, you!’ he said and sat back in the arm chair, preening himself with all the pride and ego of a husband.
Translated from Malayalam by R.K. Jayasree.
Translator’s Note
Indu Menon is the bright young face of Malayalam short fiction, ‘ A lesbian cow’ is the kind of story that would have had the morality brigade out in full force after the author had it been published a decade earlier. That it has not done so might mean a number of things. One of them , hopefully is that the average reader of Malayalam short fiction has come of age.The restraint with which someone so young (born in 1980 she is barely 24) has handled a supposedly incendiary theme is commendable.
R.K.JAYASREE : Teaches English at the Maharaja’s College, Ernakulam. Has translated fiction from Malayalam to English. A committed feminist activist.