Books Read in 2025.

Hello, a happy 2026 to everyone.

Continuing the habit, here is a list of books I read in 2025.

1.    Postwar – A History of Europe Since 1945 (Non-Fiction) by Tony Judt; This must rank as one of the best books I have read. Ever. I have not been this impressed by a book since The Rise and Fall of the Third Reich. As a matter of fact the two books must be made compulsory reading in every curriculum. The book seamlessly and in an easily readable way, documents the shape of Europe after the second world war. The initial shock, the slow rebuilding, the loss of Eastern Europe to communism (what the author calls as " Communism was the wrong answer to a right question"), the recovery, the setbacks, cultural transition and cultural appropriation, fall of communism, the gaps between the rich and the poor, internal conflicts, needless wars, glaring discrepancies, doctored history that each nation found suitable to remember (or conveniently forget) its past, how collaborators played victims, and how long it took for the Jews to get acknowledged. A massive read. The scope and research is daunting to even contemplate. And he has delivered them all in such elegant prose. Superlative work.

a.    Started on 24^th November 2024 and finished on 4^th March 2025

b.    Recommended by Self

2.    Orbital (Fiction) by Samantha Harvey: A decent read. But am not sure if it is a booker prize material. This one statement was wow “ Companionship is our consolation for being trivial”

a.    Started on 5^th March and finished on 7^th March

b.    Recommended by Self.

3.    Freezing Order (Non-Fiction) by Bill Browder; Having read Red Notice, this was on the list for a long time. Bought it while traveling and ended up starting the book immediately as I finished Orbital while on the road. Fast read and it comes as a surprise that someone like Putin is still free in this world. Though, at times it does appear that Browder comes across as someone who slips into hyperbole while describing the Russian depravity.

a.    Started on 7^th March and finished on 13^th March

b.    Recommended by Self

4.    Invisible Women – Exposing Data Bias In A World Designed For Men (Non-Fiction) by Caroline Criado Perez; A pertinent book. We all know about the disservice to women in society and in medicine. This book delves deeper and exposes so many atrocities. From badly designed cars, ignoring women’s needs while designing solutions, disaster relief (hilarious and sad account of kitchen less homes built after a Gujarat earthquake), sexual exploitation, the Catch 22 situation of ignoring women, downplaying them, and marginalizing them after making token concessions. How women who can’t swim, or climb a tree are victims during the routine Bangladesh floods, and often they not only wait for men to come and escort them to safe places, but they need them to come and tell that there is a cyclone coming! The situation needs to change and now! They have been ignored for long and it is time to change the default human from a male. Not to forget the sarcasm dripping from every page. If women are angry, they have a valid reason to be angry.

a.    Started on 13^th March and finished on 20^th April

b.    Recommended by Self.

5.    Sarajevo Marlboro (Fiction) by Miljenko Jergovic; A nice collection of short stories. First hand experience of having gone through the war. The story Diagnosis is certainly the best in the collection. One can relate to the absurdity and admire the capacity to slip into humor in the middle of all that sadness. These statements from the collection will live rent free in my mind forever. “ If it wasn’t for faithlessness, there probably would not be so much unhappiness in love” and "Everyone knows the speed of light, but few know that of darkness"

a.    Started on 22^nd April and finished on 26^th April

b.    Recommended by a Sarajevo shopkeeper

6.    Beloved (Fiction) by Toni Morrison; A huge disappointment. Expected a lot from the book and the disappointment is complete.

a.    Started on 27^th April and finished on 15^th May.

b.    Recommended by self

7.    Migrants – The Story Of All Of Us (Non-Fiction) by Sam Miller; A disruptive book. Throws a new idea that sedentarism is the outlier and the migrant is the norm. The current world’s polarized version of demonizing migrants and equating them with problems is laid bare for a thorough introspection. Written in an easy to read manner, and flitting between ancient Athenians to modern Mexicans, a timely read for the time we live in.

a.    Started on 16^th May and finished on 9^th June

b.    Recommended by Shilpa

8.    The Wager – A Tale Of Shipwreck, Mutiny and Murder (Non-Fiction) by David Grann; I had to check once again to see that it indeed is a Non-fiction. Imagine a shipwreck account written by Robert Ludlum and Desmond Bagley, this is one such. Fast narrative and it painted each scene as if you are watching a film already. The end – the deviousness of the Brits! A compelling read. Almost Lord of the flies in places and the scene where Byron’s dog is killed will leave you sleepless.

a.    Started on 10^th June and finished on 17^th June

b.    Recommended by The Guardian and Mihir.

9.    The Covenant Of Water (Fiction) by Abraham Verghese; Ever since I gifted this book to Mihir in 2023, I have been waiting to get my hands on the same. Bought one for myself in 2024 and got around to reading it now. A fan of his writing since the exemplary Cutting for Stone, this one did not disappoint either. Vast in scope and captivating prose. The last 5 chapters where everything comes together and the shattering climax that no one saw coming! A master at work. The dog Caesar is the only slip in my opinion.

a.    Started on 18^th June and finished on 22^nd July

b.    Recommended by Self

10. Mao – The unknown story (Non-Fiction) by Jung Chang and Jon Halliday; A must read to anyone interested in history. Butchers like Kang Sheng and Mme Mao; acolytes like Lin Biao and Chou En lai who traded their souls and paid the price. Countless others who were all used by Mao, elevated to impossible heights and then sacrificed to fuel his growth. Everything he touched turned to ashes. Only he could have converted unmitigated disasters like The Long March, The Great Leap and the Cultural Revolution into monumental milestones. Impossible to believe how heartlessly he created wars and famines, used USA against the USSR and the USSR against USA. Even more difficult to believe that those were naïve to assist his ambitions. A real MONSTER! Even if the authors do come across with an evident bias which reveals itself in many places, the full context can’t be faulted. If you are holding someone accountable for 70 million deaths, what could be the margin of error?

a.    Started on 23^rd July and finished on 23^rd November

b.    Recommended by Arko

11. Estuary (Fiction) by Perumal Murugan (Translated by Nandini Krishnan); We were shifting from Bosnia to Poland and the prompt packers packed away the Mao that I was reading and I started this while waiting for our luggage to arrive. An unusual Perumal Murugan book. Light hearted and with humor! The last three chapters blow your mind away. This man can write so real life, you often wonder if he spends his life observing someone else’s life as an invisible man. He is so spot on. The parody of the coaching institutes was hilarious. I found a new Tamil word for cheers. The translator has done a magnificent job in translating the words and the spirit. Perumal Murugan keeps delivering one stunning work after another.

a.    Started on 15^th September and finished on 27^th September

b.    Recommended by Self.

12.  Mother Mary Comes To Me (Memoir) by Arundhati Roy; Was traveling and having finished a book that I was reading, and with the luggage yet to arrive, it was an easy decision to pick this one up. A satisfying and a wonderful read. Such a complicated mother-daughter relationship. On reflection, I do feel that most relations are more than unidimensional. Her writing is so effortless and so “in-your-face”. She writes clearly conveying she owes nothing as an explanation to anyone. Already gifted it once. There will be a few more recipients for sure. Now, time to get back to Mao.

a.    Started on 28^th September and finished on 9^th October

b.    Recommended by Self.

13. Gods, Guns and Missionaries – The making of the modern Hindu identity (Non-Fiction) by Manu S. Pillai; What a precocious talent. And at such a young age! A book daunting in its scope but executed so effortlessly. The language is top notch and the wit, precious. Tracing the modern Hindu identity is a daunting task as one has to tiptoe carefully around potential landmines. Tracing them in a scholarly way, jumping between political movement and social movements (often against each other), starting from how missionaries identified an opportunity as well as how the same came to unite the Hindus later, gradually building the base and reaching conclusively to Tilak and Savarkar all have been done in an impeccable fashion. A historian with an eye on the details and wit at his disposal. Exceptional read.

a.    Started on 23^rd November and finished on 25^th December.

b.    Recommended by Self

14. A short history of tractors in Ukrainian (Fiction) by Marina Lewycka; It has been a long time since I read a good comedy novel. This one was hilarious. Read an article about it on The Guardian, found it on Allegro and it was delivered the next day. Outrageously funny, cleverly mixed Ukraine / Stalin / and family secrets. A satisfying read. This is not just a comedy novel but a clever laying of a complex history and another proof that laughter is often a means of tackling a complex family history. And in just 6 pages of War Baby and Peace Baby, the author explains more than volumes can possibly do. “ You see, Nadezhda, to survive is to win” is said so effortlessly towards the end, and it captures so much so beautifully.

a.    Started on 26^th December and finished on 29^th December.

b.    Recommended by The Guardian

15. The story about Vizier’s elephant (Fiction) by Ivo Andric; Bosnia is a lovely country, with a complex history and interesting people. I happened to spend 8 months of 2025 in that country exploring its many mountains and waterfalls. Ivo’s much acclaimed bridge on drina is bought and waiting to be read. This one is a sweet little book. He is a great observer of human behavior. A short and a quick read. This one description about people in general “those invisible multitudes who represent nothing, possess nothing” is so apt and timeless. Applies to any nation.

a.    Started on 29^th December and finished on 31st December

b. Gifted by Armina and hence counts as her recommendation.

This year too I merged my hobby of sketching to give an additional layer of personalization to my blog. The idea was given by my daughter who in fact picked it up from a random Twitter post. Thanks to Akshaya and the twitter handle @mrs_g_rider. Spend some time and zoom in on those names and sketches and characters……

See you all again in 12 months’ time.

 

 

 

Take Your Chance, Baby!

There is a scene in the movie, Life of Pi, towards the end, where the camera zooms in on Irrfan Khan. He is looking slightly to your right, eyes welled with tears, as if he is about to cry, a clean shaven face, locks of glorious but unkempt hair falling over his forehead, his fingers absentmindedly touching his lips, shirt casually unbuttoned at the top and he says “ I suppose in the end, the whole of life becomes an act of letting go; but what always hurts the most is not taking a moment to say goodbye.” When he says the word “goodbye”, his eyes drift back and looks at you.

Art mimicking life!

Mr. Khan, you have spoken for all of us.

In advance.

Screengrab from YouTube

This is EXACTLY what we felt on the 29^th of April, five years ago. You were (it still feels unreal to use the past tense when I have to write about you) a rare breed. An exception. A popular meme says “You can’t please everybody, you are not a Nutella.” They did not know about you.

Can one imagine any other actor playing the role of Ashoke Ganguli? How many fathers have inscribed “ Remember that you and I made this journey together to a place where there was nowhere left to go” inside books gifted to their children! Jhumpa Lahiri made sure that the quote was powerful enough in the written form, but you gave it life.

You were born to essay serious and intense roles. Be it the loyal gangster caught in an emotional conflict in Maqbool, or the haunting presence in troubled Kashmir in Haider, or as an investigating officer, unperturbed by media glare in Talvar.

But when it comes to the pinnacle of biographies, your tour de force, it has to be Paan Singh Tomar. You did not act. You lived that role.

While I will forever miss all of them, what I would certainly miss are the other genres, the comedies and the offbeat roles.

I fell in love with Saajan Fernandes. You just sat there, and read and wrote letters. Your letters were not to Ila Singh and the letters you received were not from her. It was us. I was in awe of Morgan freeman when it came to voice overs, a love story that started from The Shawshank Redemption, and I changed my loyalty when you came along.

No film journey is complete without a rags to riches story and you encapsulated that in a nutshell when you said “ I did not have money to buy a ticket to go watch the first Jurassic park, and here I am acting in one of its sequels”

I have kept the best for the last. Your comedy roles. I pick two that are my favorites.

Rana Chaudhary, “ no no, not a Bengali, from Bihar, a Thakur”, from Piku. Your deadpan dialogue delivery, outshining all others whenever you were on screen, not a mean task when the “others” on the screen in question were a delectably beautiful Deepika Padukone and an absolute Bengali caricature played with such sheer audacity by Amitabh. Two scenes standout as the best, in my opinion. The first, where you lecture Deepika about how selfish the old man is, and advising her that she should find a life for her without the “selfish old man” Amitabh in consideration. After giving her own explanation in her defense, Deepika asks you “ will you marry me?”. Your look, taking a pause from nibbling on your roll, and that dialogue “ Mata kharab nahin hai mera”, was so out of the stereotype, it was simply mind-blowing. And the famous Bengali bedlam that unfolds in their household where everyone discusses everything in a rising crescendo and your initial detachment, then a look of resignation and finally an exasperation that compels you to outshout them all and shout “ Arre, chup, CHUPPPPPPPPPP! Kahaan hai Tulu pump”, left me grinning and made me rewind and play that scene again and again.

To finish the list, I choose Monty. “I am 35, ok ok, am actually 38, but tell everyone that I am 35” and lines like “mera friend mera jaisa, matlab, kya matlab” delivered in trademark Irrfan Khan style, those scenes of having lunch on the office terrace, boasting your bargaining powers and that scene seated on the tetrapod along the Marine Drive (or was it Bandra?) where you break down and cry imagining what you would do if your future wife forbade you to meet with Shruti (Konkana Sen Sharma). And from an apparently meaningless drunken gibberish, how you stole the scene with that brilliant “Take your chance baby”

 

Video Link Courtesy YouTube.

I thank YouTube for all those videos of yours through which I console myself that you are still around. Then I realize that you are not here with us anymore and I hum Don McLean to myself

“This world was never meant for one as beautiful as you”

 

 

 

 

Lost in Catchwords: On the Erosion of Thought.

How often have you heard people using or you yourself have used labels like neo-Nazi, Jihadi, Bhakt, Zionist, to name just a few. It is easier to use those labels because that label is expected to explain in one word that you would need otherwise to elaborate in multiple sentences. If the label covers a wide swathe, blankets a lot and crushes nuance, then so be it. Who has the patience to explain in detail when a single word can do.

Add insensitive (or vested) groups who use the label to stereotype.

- All blacks are untrustworthy

- Immigrants are a law and order problem

- Crime goes up with lack of border control

- All terrorists are Muslims

- 90% of scam calls are from Nigeria

Such easy labeling is a boon to politicians. The diminishing attention span of the current generation coupled with the need to get a quick digested opinion is a lethal mix. If one wants to understand history or complex geopolitical situations one needs to invest time, understand various points of view, decipher nuances, acknowledge that most issues, especially history and people, are never black and white and one has to account for the gray in between.

Here one must tackle the minefields of fake news, misinformation and propaganda. There is a general tendency to believe that anything in print to be true. This was relevant “maybe” about 80 years ago. When newspapers had a conscience and a spine. The current generation is at a disadvantage because they are bombarded non-stop with information.

Viet Thanh Nguyen said in his Pulitzer winning novel, The Sympathizer    “ Nothing………..is ever so expensive as what is offered for free.”

When so much of information is available for free on your phone screen, it is tempting to digest what is offered. The algorithms further make sure that you get to see what someone wants you to see or what you regularly crave. When a particular theme is played endlessly, on loop, on your screen, that is all you read. WhatsApp has lent this whole quagmire an additional layer of depravity as the “Big brother” has finally found a channel to address to you specifically with contents tailor made to form and then boost your biases.

Add AI assistance in the form of ChatGPT or Gemini or Grok or several others in the market which prompts you when you open a document with “This document appears quite large, shall I make a summary for you?”.

So, now you are left with not only propaganda nonsense, but also a tool to help you digest it to a few bullet points. The whole exercise is engineered to make sure that one does not use one’s intelligence or independent thinking to form a balanced opinion. Fake news and Deepfake were already a menace. AI now makes it immensely more catastrophic. (It is such a pity, because as in any other new invention, AI is such a powerful tool when used where and how it must be used, by experts)

- Hatred was whipped up between two factions of Sinhalese and Tamils in Sri Lanka with doctored videos and unsubstantiated news circulated via WhatsApp.

- Scores were killed in Myanmar where it was a child’s play to whip up a frenzy against the Rohingya Muslims

Extreme intolerance and a complete unwillingness to engage in a discussion has become the norm among those who absorb these convenient ready made opinions.

- If you try to highlight the atrocities of Israel post Oct 7, you are branded Pro-Hamas and you become an Anti-Semite.

- If you expose Hamas you are a Zionist.

- If you have voted for Mamdani you are a communist who is pro-immigration and you will be the reason that the nation will collapse.

- If you voice your concern over institutional Islamophobia in India, you are branded an anti-national.

- Should you support LGBTQ and participate in a Pride march, then you are a deviant and you are here to destroy our culture.

- If you question God and religion, chances are you may not be alive to weigh the consequences.

History is so easily altered, doctored and distorted. Nothing is sacrosanct anymore.

Be it the 1903 Protocols of the Elders of the Zion, or a nearly 60 year old ongoing opinion that the moon landing was fake or be it the Weapons of Mass Destruction narrative used to invade Iraq.

The above instances were before Social Media exploded.

After the triumvirate of the Social Media cesspool – Facebook, WhatsApp and Twitter/X – the following have become new battlefields between the rational and the rabid. No points for guessing who is winning.

- In India the main victory has been in driving a deeper wedge between Hindus and Muslims and for additional variety it has become quite fashionable to demean Gandhi and Nehru. History books are ACTUALLY being rewritten. A different, often unverified but popular, narrative is given a fresh lease of life.

-  Every mosque is where a temple had been.

- In USA, the “election was stolen” was enough to lead an insurrection.

- Covid time was beyond the imagination of even the wildest. Origin theories, cures, news about sections of the society that willfully spread the virus,………

- In every country, the constant propaganda to blame one section of the society for all the ills prevailing today is a never ending exercise.

- The secret cosmic wavelength sound is “OM”

- Ancient Hindu temples have carvings of people using a tablet, and a cell phone.

- Missile interceptors were in norm during Kurukshetra

- Ramsetu is real

- Plastic surgery originated from ancient India. (Lord Ganesha)

- Then there are doctored quotes attributed to people who never said them.

- Post a quote with a picture and if you can find it on google, it is the gospel truth.

- ….……..

Controlling the traditional media and perpetuating these false narratives make it easier for leaders to control the masses and abuse their powers.

Not that traditional history or news has been without a flaw. There is  merit in the saying that History is written by the victors. How many know about Unit 731 compared to Auschwitz – Birkenau? How many know Holodomor compared to the Holocaust? The silver lining is, if one is willing to dig deep there is a possibility to find the truth.

In today’s world it has become impossible. No one has the time or the inclination to read, analyze or investigate. Hence, opinions are no longer formed. They are taken in fully formed shape from the supermarket shelves.

The Bedouins are a traditionally nomadic or semi-nomadic Arab tribes, who have lived for centuries herding camels, goats and sheep. Moving with the seasons in search of grazing land. They wore practical clothing – long robes, loose garments, and the Keffiyeh to protect from heat and sand. They are known for a strong code of honor, hospitality and tribal loyalty.

After 9/11, the media succeeded in presenting every single Arab through a narrow and negative lens. Stock images of armed men in desert settings for any story about terrorism regardless of relevance, repeatedly associating turbans, keffiyehs or beards have all added to this specific narrative. (A secondary fallout that is almost comical, if it were not so tragic, was a few Punjabi lives that were lost).

A peaceful, nomadic, poetry and art loving Bedouin overnight became a caricature for “ the desert Arab with a gun.”

In India, print media and films follow the same pattern. If mythology is filmed, the devas and the gods are all fair skinned and clean shaven while the Asuras or the demons are always dark skinned, hirsute and unkempt. The comics (the famous Amar Chitra Katha) were not far behind. They regularly depicted the demons as black skinned, clad in animal skins or rags and hirsute (either unruly hair or a ragged beard and a terrifying mustache) and the gods as fair skinned, well dressed and, if a male god, clean shaven. The films were the same. The hero in bespoke trousers, well manicured, with a dazzling shampoo-ad hair while the villain was always dark and with some physical deformities to boot, a mole, a scar, and if they are not enough some additional stains on his character too, like a womanizer or an alcoholic.

Hollywood has chipped in with its share.

For a long time, Hollywood was happy playing the “ white savior” to villages and towns in Africa.

(Hilariously detailed by Dipo Faloyin  in his masterpiece “ Africa is not a country”).

Post 9/11, the villains changed from a cold ruthless immoral communist from Russia or one of the Eastern European nations to a standard “ robed, bearded, keffiyeh wearing, brown Arab”

True Lies, Executive Decision, The Siege, Body of Lies, American Sniper…….the list can go on and on and on and on……..

And it is not completely one way as some might start to feel. The wronged groups start playing the victim game and flip the narratives. The section of the population waiting for a fact based counter narrative starts consuming another propaganda, once again falling into the same trap. Thus you start seeing Hamas sympathizers (who should just be anti-oppression logically speaking) who start parroting inanities such as “The Oct 7 did not occur in a vacuum”. Having engineered a counter narrative, the other end of the perpetrators ratchet up the game for tit for tat for tit for tat, repeated mindlessly over decades that one is unable to find out which was “tit” and which was “tat”. As, such an exercise would demand investing time and keeping biases out, the easiest way out is to attach the label to a faction that resonates with one’s bias or the prevailing popular opinion on a given day.

Same with caste. The caste atrocities are simplified to a lowest common denominator. A non-meat eating, practicing Hindu Brahmin landlord subjugating a Dalit. Films from the subcontinent reinforce this image so often, that this is the first image that comes to one’s mind when one speaks of caste. While annihilation of caste is a must, associating caste oppression to just one section of the society is a trap that most walk in to. If one starts pointing out that caste is more commonly practiced, as in non-Brahim “upper caste” vs a lower caste, or there exists caste hierarchy among Muslims where a “Ashraf” is superior to a “Arzal” both of whom sit above a “Pasmanda”, then you are blamed for being a nitpicking analyst whose intention is to cloud the pond to obscure obvious anomalies.

In his article “ The English language is in a bad way”, George Orwell lamented on the falling standards of the English language. One of his main complaints was people using ready made stock phrases. When you use idioms, proverbs, stock phrases, you are actually not thinking. You are mechanically picking up a string of words readily available from a shelf, like assembling a carburetor for your car. When words are used without thinking, the end result can’t be expected to be exceptional.

Let us look at our tool box or our kitchen. The compartments in the toolbox are labeled “ screws, nails, nuts, wires, screwdrivers, spanners” and the containers in the kitchen are labeled “Sugar, tea, coffee, flour, rice” because it is easy to pick, without thinking a lot about it. It works mostly fine. OK, once in a while your coffee is salty or your omelette is sweet, but generally these mishaps are rare. Even if they occur, the damage is limited and not life threatening. (unless you are the type who keep cyanide next to sugar in your kitchen, or acid next to turpentine in your art studio)

Labels have a place and a purpose. To label a thing is OK. But when we attach labels to people or a section of society, we do them a disservice and this shortcut is an insult to our intelligence.

 

Picture created by ChatGPT through a prompt.

  

Grief Is A Coiled Snake

 Grief is a coiled snake.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

“An individual who is killed by a gang is called a martyr” The Annihilation of Caste.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

It was 4 of May 1965.

Perumal had no idea that he would not live to see the end of the day when he woke up.

As a matter of fact, his life delivered no surprises. Only pain! Pain so endless and consistent, its presence was never felt. Perumal belonged to the Irular community, one of the lowest castes that one could find. The village he lived in was one of those countless villages where time stood still; majority of the village was of lower castes, and the village was ruled by one landlord, loaded with money and privileged to have hit the lottery of birth by being born in one of the upper castes. Perumal and the rest of the villagers toiled hard, did what was told, received what was offered, lived without raising their voice (or head), married, begot children, brought them into the same misery, grew up, and died.

None of them knew what work they would do on a given day. They would all - menfolk, womenfolk, children, everyone – assemble at the fields at 7 in the morning and the landlord, or his manager, would assign the job to them. It could be tilling the fields, harvesting the crops, cutting firewood, removing weeds, cutting vegetables, lighting a fire, tending a stove, plucking the fruits, digging a canal, drawing water from a well, take the sheep for grazing, milking the cows, collecting eggs from the pen, butchering a goat or a chicken, mending the broken cart, leveling the path, trimming the hedge, painting a wall (never the interior – one could not enter the Big House), tiling the roof, sharpening the sickle, honing the knives, washing the clothes, pounding the millets and make sure one did not lose a limb or a finger or leg in the process. The work continued irrespective of whether it rained, or the sun shone, hot or cold, whether one was sick or well. The day ended when the work ended. One ate when the manager was not looking.

The evenings and the nights were as predictable as the day. Drag yourself home (if those ramshackle shacks can be called home), stretch your legs, not for too long as the enervation would put you to sleep, attend to the cuts and bruises, cook, eat under the moonlight or by the feeble light of a flickering lamp, sleep, once in a while engage in an act of procreation, wake up, go to the fields to defecate, jump into the river to bathe, return to the fields at 7.

Rinse. Repeat.

The act of procreation engaged sporadically defied any sense or logic. Why would one bring another child to such a life? But then, what could one do? It was more an act of diversion than purpose. Those ten minutes made one forget all the pain and anguish. In those ten minutes, one could afford to forget the endless toil, the snake bites, the scorpion stings, senseless beating and continued insult. A child of seven years of age could treat them like a piece of rag, and often did. They grow up watching their parents and children are quick learners.

On the day in question, Perumal was directed to the fields. His job that day was to mend the fence. The purpose of the fence was to keep away small animals and workers from the neighboring farms. Poles, concertina wires, barbed wires drawn in a crisscross pattern between the wooden stakes comprised the fence. The tools were minimal. His clothing resembled that of the Father of the Nation. He resigned himself to more cuts during the day. His only hope was not to injure himself too badly because he would then return home late. The day ended when the work ended.

His wife Valli and his 7-year-old son were sent to the main house to sort and pack the cabbages that grew in the farm. This was a task that they hated. Hated more than the other jobs. One had to peel off the outer layer, in most cases, dry them with a towel, drop them into a sack, weigh them as close to 30-kg as possible, stitch the gunny bags, heave them to a side, start with the next one. The peeled outer layers were later shifted to the shed to feed to the cattle. God forbid should the supervisor (the 18-year-old son of the landlord) find few scraps of the cabbage peels in your possession. Most cabbages were never perfectly round, and they often slipped and fell on your toes, or your fingers got caught below a dropped one inside the bag. The big, pointed needle occasionally pricked your fingers or palm while trying to stitch the bag’s mouth. The mountain of cabbages looked daunting. The son of the landlord seated himself in the comfort of a shade, in a semi-reclining chair, reading something and listening to some music. Valli and her son could not see the device itself, but they saw the snaking wires of the headphones that crept across his torso and the big head hugging headphone itself.

Perumal looked at the short stretch that he had managed to erect with a mixture of pride and apprehension. The former came from his skill on display that he had not known he was in possession of, the latter came from not knowing if it would meet the approval of the landlord. His forearm was already a spiderweb of minor scratches from the unruly razor-sharp wire that he needed to straighten and wrap around the top of the barbed wire. One sudden uncoiling left a deep cut on his shoulder. He removed his vest and skillfully tied it around the cut. The cut throbbed a little and then did not disturb him anymore. Even injuries know the extent to which they can trouble their owners. The sun was merciless. There was not a cloud in sight. Blinded by the heat, his focus was on the fence, and he did not realize he had stepped on a small anthill. Those tiny red-headed monsters clambered up his leg. Some city dwellers would immediately sense a few crawling insects, however small, over their skin. Perumal’s skin was calloused and dry. Perumal came to know about the ants only when about thirty of them bit into his skin almost simultaneously. The pain was excruciating and Perumal dropped the plier he held in his hand, which comically fell on his other leg, point down, tearing a part of his skin, and he jumped back, in a contorted way, body bent with hands trying to brush off whatever it was that was crawling up his legs and backwards, more by instinct and also by the fact the front direction was barricaded by the fence he was in the process of erecting. He landed with the ant-bitten leg on the coil of concertina wire and the cut on his shoulder paled into insignificance when the edges sliced through his instep. He fell backwards, hit his head on a stone looking straight into the white-hot sky. He tore the towel that was wrapped around his waist, shredded them into narrow strips, wound them tightly over both his legs wherever he saw ruptured and sliced skin. The coil of wire reminded him what his father had told him when he was young.

“Perumaalu, grief is a coiled snake. Let it lie in a corner and do not ever wake it up. That is its purpose. To stay where it is. If you try to unwrap it, stir it, go near it, it will dart forward and bury its fangs, causing you more agony. And all you get by disturbing the coiled snake is only more discomfort. Once it had poisoned you with painful memories, it will go back to its coiled form. It will never go away.”

The remaining job to be completed did not give him the luxury to rest and recuperate and he resumed his fencing. The fence is important. Otherwise, animals and his fellowmen will transgress to claim what is not meant to be theirs.

Next time Valli looked up, she was surprised to find four other boys along with the landlord’s son. She did not see when they arrived. Each of them was exactly alike. Wiry, long unkempt hair, shorts, shoes, sunglasses, and the beginning of a mustache.

After packing nearly 70 bags, Valli realized that there were no bags left. The mountain of cabbages indicated that there are enough left for another fifty bags at least.

“Saami, the bags are over. I will need more bags, please”

The boy looked up from what he was reading and jerked his head towards the shed at the other end of yard. Valli slowly hauled herself from her seated position and walked towards the shed. The moment she entered the shed, one of the boys gave some money to Valli’s son and asked him to go buy himself something from the shop at the corner of the street.

The landlord’s son was the first inside the shed. Valli’s son came back to the yard, having eaten a sticky sweet, when the third boy left the shed and the fourth entered it. He knew not to speak to the upper caste people unless spoken to. Even though he was worried that he could not find his mother, he knew that the only option left to him was wait. After some time, the fifth boy entered the shed while the fourth boy had not exited. After a quick discussion among themselves the remaining three boys jumped up, laughed excitedly and now all five were inside the shed.

When Valli limped her way back to the yard, her saree had stains, her lip was swollen, she had some bruises on her neck, and she had a blackeye. The son noticed it all but knew better than to ask. Valli resumed picking the cabbage, peeling the layer, dropping them to the new bag. Her son’s job was to hold on to the bag while she dropped the cabbages one by one.  Her son would have told you later the only difference between her countenance before and after the adventure of the sticky sweet was that she was silently and continuously crying later.

Valli trusted the landlord. In all her life, not once had he mistreated her or her family. He was demanding, exploitative and ruthless but was never below the decorum expected of him. When the landlord arrived in the evening to the courtyard, she stood five feet away from him and explained to him what had happened. The landlord was furious. His son’s friends had already left. He slapped his son so hard, that he fell three feet away from where he was standing. He kicked him wherever his leg could land on him and ordered one of his henchmen to lock him away.

“Does your son know what happened?”

“No. He was sent away. Even though he returned before the ordeal was over, he is too young to understand what happened”

“That is good. Young ones should not be exposed to such tragedies in life”

He called one of his henchmen “Kumaresa, go drop the boy in his home.”

He told Valli “Please wait here in the yard. I will have Perumal brought here. This issue must be resolved. What happened is unacceptable”

He was still fuming, when Valli went back to the yard and rested her back against one of the bags that she had packed during the day.

Valli’s son went home and waited. He knew something unacceptable happened in that shed. He also knew that the landlord was kind as he promised to resolve whatever it was that happened.

The landlord in fact resolved it. That very night.

An unsuspecting Valli who was resting in the yard had her head bludgeoned with a hammer. Two of his men went to the field and told Perumal to come with them as the landlord wanted to meet him. One led the way, and one walked behind. There was a flash of movement in front his eye, a piece of rope was flung over his head from behind and pulled back tight, holding Perumal’s hands close to his body; the man in the front turned and shoved a big knife straight into his heart.

Both Valli and Perumal were lucky. Their deaths were instant.

Their bodies were never found.

The community embraces the unattended quickly without long drawn discussions. This community knew when someone did not return in the night, it meant only one thing. That the someone is never going to return. There are multiple possibilities but only one certain end. They have seen this played out so many times. No one died of old age. The lucky ones died of snakebites in the field. The unlucky ones failed to return.

When Perumal and Valli did not return, partly foretold by the early return of their son, ahead of time, alone, they knew what to expect. Somebody fed him, someone else took him under their wing, and soon Valli’s son started going out in the morning at 7 along with the rest to stand and wait for his allocation of the job for the day.

Two things were constant in his life. Each morning, he prayed that he would not be allocated a job in the yard, near that shed. Each evening, he sat outside his home (which is now the home of Murugan and Selvi) and faced the cat. He had many questions that he needed to ask. He was not sure of all the questions. Sometimes he did ask some of those questions. The cat had all the answers. And it never replied.

 

Picture - Created by ChatGPT with a prompt (based on a photograph I had recently taken while on holiday)

 

PS: As the narrator of the story, there are certain liberties I am allowed to take as the author. I took one at the start of the story. It started with a lie. The date was not 4 May 1965. It was yesterday.